Superman and Man: Part 4
by DarkMark
Dana was looking at him, and probably trying not to cry.
He couldn't even put out a hand to touch her. She was not his wife, but she was hurting, and he was empathic. Admittedly, he did try to solve too many people's problems. He knew that. Still...
She was nearly in despair, and it was probably because of him.
Both of them were just about to be driven to the dinner at which the actor whose body he wore was to speak. Dana looked fine in her formal outfit, and even he had been dressed in a suit. (It galled him that he couldn't even dress himself.) But still, there she was, sitting and looking at him and trying not to cry.
"Dana," he said. "Please. You're looking. At me. Why?"
She said, "You're not my husband, and I want my husband back. I don't know if you're amnesiac, or what. But I want...Chris...back."
"I know," he said. "I. Want him. Back, too."
She stopped. "You...I, I don't understand. Do you know...do you know he's another personality within you, or what?"
Superman hesitated. He had become convinced long ago that, whatever had happened to him, this woman was not a pawn of enemy forces. But how much could he tell her? How much would she understand? If he was snatched away from this body, how much would be safe for her to know?
"I'm not. Your husband," he said. "I hope. He gets back. Soon."
She stared at him. "Who the...what are you? Chris, what in heaven's name has happened to you?"
He sighed. Even that was an effort.
"Would it. Be easier. For me. To say I. May just. Be another. Personality?"
"God, Chris," she whispered. "It's been so hard. So hard, these last few years. Even though you've been so brave...and I have too, I won't play the modesty card...it's taken so much out of both of us."
He waited.
"But always, through it all, I had you. I had the man I loved, the man I married, the man who fathered my child. That...that much I could hang onto."
"I understand," he said. "I am. Sorry. If I can. Will bring him. Back."
She shook her head. "I want to cry, all right. But I just...can't let myself. There are people depending on us, Chris. You know about them. That's what the foundation is all about. You're their figurehead, their..."
"Their Superman."
"Oh, don't talk like that. Please, don't talk like that. He's only a role you played, a character in a, in a comic book. And I've got to put on a brave face and smile and shake hands and look after you and...and I want you to be Chris again."
"Want that. Too." He paused. "But I. Must speak."
"What'll you say?"
"You'll see. But think. This speech. Something I. Have to do. Have to. To bring. Chris back."
She looked at him, wordlessly.
"Now I. Know what it. Is to be. Him. He knows. What it's. To be. Me. Not sure. Who has. Easier role."
"What are you talking about?"
"Just rambling. I'm ready. Are you?"
Sadly, she said, "I have to be."
There was a knock on the door. "Come in," said Dana.
The doctor pulled the door half-open. "Everything all right in here? Most importantly, Chris, do you really think you want to go through with this?"
"Gantlet," he said. "Have to. Run it. Watch me."
The doctor looked at Dana, and she at him. Then he said, "All right. If you'll give me a hand, ma'am, I think we can get started."
-S-
It hurt.
He was not prepared for it to hurt.
The blast of green fire made his chest ache, made it hard for him to breathe for a number of seconds, sent him plummeting towards the streets like a passenger bailing out of an airplane without a chute.
Thoughts rushed through him like a speedburst of information. Since his childhood, he had not been in a fight. Sure, he'd taken a bit of a knocking around at times doing his own stunts, or in sports, and, of course, there was the Accident.
But he had never been called upon to fight a man who was out to kill him.
And now, here he was, dogfighting in nothing but a suit of long underwear.
(Pull up)
It was Luthor, it had to be Luthor, he resembled the character in the comic books, and that was the scariest thing of all.
(Pull up)
It was insane. What was expected of him? 24 hours ago, he had been paralytic. Now, in a new body, with more power than the mind of Man could imagine, he was supposed to fight a crazy bald scientist who wanted to kill him. And who evidently had the power to do it.
(Pull up before you crash on people)
A voice from below. "Look out! Superman's gonna crash!" That was what penetrated, from a babble of voices he heard below him. Apparently, super-hearing wasn't entirely a voluntary power. Or he was closer to the ground than he thought.
A being with greater body density than steel landing on even one person, let alone a crowd, at this speed...
(PULL UP)
He exerted his flight power with more effort than he expected, forced himself upward, looked down for an instant and saw he had been about 20 feet from the ground.
Now he was supposed to find Luthor? And fight him?
What he really wanted to do was fly back to his apartment and hide.
I'm not a super-hero, he thought. I am not Superman. I'm just wearing his body, for crying out loud. I don't fight super-villains and I don't save planets and I WANT TO GO BACK TO MY WIFE AND KIDS...
Another blast, from above and behind. It made him cry out in pain.
He turned and saw Luthor, held aloft by some anti-gravity mechanism or something. The green and purple warsuit that he wore resembled that the actor saw in a few comics DC had given him to read, but it looked more advanced. Nastier. It gleamed with sickening power.
Luthor was grinning like Dr. Mengele receiving a new victim.
"This is for the pain you gave me," he said. "Feel it, Superman."
He tried to maneuver, tried to dodge, but he just didn't have the experience down to handle flight well enough. Luthor's third blast struck him in the head. His vision went green for a moment.
Falling, he pitched and angled his way towards a skyscraper, reached out his hand, and dug furrows in it with his fingers. He dropped down some feet, arrested his motion, hung there, and breathed hard.
He looked down. It was one hell of a drop. Vertigo threatened him.
He looked up. Luthor was jetting towards him, metal-gloved fist extended, still grinning.
It connected.
It hurt like hell.
It occurred to the actor that this entire thing might be an elaborate scheme of Luthor's. Dispossess Superman's mind from his body, replace it with another mind which was much less capable of handling the powers, and destroy him. But would that be logical? That would simply be defeating Superman's body, not defeating Superman.
Unless Luthor's plan was to leave Superman in a paralytic's body, unable even to move his finger, for the rest of his life.
This was a possibility, unlikely though it seemed. If Luthor would leave off trying to kill him, he was sure he could work out a better hypothesis. But his worthy opponent smashed down a chop to his neck, which he was only partly able to deflect.
"This is not my job," he said aloud. "I don't do this."
Luthor looked at him, uncomprehending. But he said nothing.
But what was his job?
If he had been thrown into this position, in which things with this powerful body must be done or the world suffered for it, was it not then his responsibility?
He did not want it.
But was that one of the choices he was offered?
"It's not fair!" he snapped.
"Of course it isn't," said Luthor, grabbing him by the hair and presenting his palm-blaster to send a Kryptonite blast into his face. "And that's the way I like it."
In between the triggering of that blast and Luthor's last word, the figure in blue and red gathered his strength, made a decision without realizing he had, and simply whacked Luthor in the chest with his arm.
The master villain was sent flying ass-over-teakettle in the sky, impacting on the side of a building across the street, causing a gaggle of workers in the office nearest the dent he made in it to run for the elevator. A few hardy souls chose the stairs. Luthor took no notice of any of them.
The actor was stunned. Not even that hard a blow, and it had knocked Luthor clear across the street. He had no idea what the real power of Superman was. No scale, at all.
But the warsuit protected his enemy, or at least the enemy of this body. Luthor was a bit shaken. He was preparing to strike again.
"Not on my time," muttered the actor, and launched himself forward with both legs.
He smashed into Luthor just as the latter sent a greenish burst over his head, and both of them crunched through the stone and metal of the opposite building. They upset several desks, a few computer terminals, and a water cooler which broke open and spilled all over them.
Neither one of them took much notice. They were too busy fighting.
*****
There had been some introductory speeches, short ones, at the dinner. Beforehand, he had said hello to a few people who apparently knew him well, but looked at him with real pity. He wondered if it was for his paralytic condition, or if the doctor had spread the word to the insiders about his "amnesia". He supposed it could be both.
What an onus not even to be able to shake a hand. Not to be able to stand and greet those who called the body of this man their friend.
Even in this state, it was the body of a very good man.
The dinner had been eaten. Of course, he could not participate, taking his nourishment through a tube. But no one expected him to do anything else.
If I live out my life in this body, he thought, I may never be able to taste a steak again, or potatoes, or chocolate cake, or any of the Kryptonian cuisine which Kara sometimes fixes for me when we get together. I will drink my meals or absorb them through a punctured vein. Unless a cure is found. And it has not been found yet.
In the setting of this rented hall, he was finally able to assess the popularity of this man, and the regard the others had for him. He knew fame; in his world, he was famous himself, in both his identities. He had also met the famous people of Earth, presidents, Congressmen, foreign rulers, religious leaders, artists, writers, singers, scientists. There were various reactions the faithful had to various forms of fame. The lust for a supermodel or rock star is not the same as the adoration of a Pope.
A movie star has his own form of adulation, of course. He knew that, and knew what kind it was; he had known enough actors in his time.
But the way this man was treated felt something more than just what a cinema actor got.
It was, he felt, the love not only for a man who had been in movies, but a man who had given his life to causes which were deemed worthy. A man who had done good, and who had been in a mishap that would have broken strong, strong men who suffered it. A man who not only would not let that mishap break him, but who would turn its effect into another, greater form of doing good.
The knowledge sobered Superman. He had to admit, for all the great things he had done, it humbled him.
But there was more than that. It was the knowledge that Dana had given him, that the actor had given concrete image to a being that, to them, was only a beloved concept. A man who had made them believe another man could fly.
A man who, for all those who had portrayed him before and after, had really seemed to make people believe...
...in Superman.
He looked out upon the crowd. What did this world need Superman for? They had no evil men in costumes planning world destruction. They had no alien invasion fleets hovering outside their orbital space. There were, apparently, no conquerors from other times or other dimensions here. The only super-villains were the tyrants like the ones on his world, the ones whom he would have loved to depose, but would not, for fear of trying to play God.
Why did they love Superman? A being they only knew from a movie, or a television show, or a comic book?
Perhaps, he thought, because to them, Superman is not only a powerful man, who can do many things that none of them can do...but because he is a good man.
Only a concept...but a concept that might spur one, or many, to do good in their own ways.
Like the man whose body he wore?
It would be arrogant to assume such, and he did not. But he knew he had a job to do, and he had never shirked a job in his life.
Despite the physical status he had been reduced to, despite the strange body he found himself in, despite his lack of knowledge of this world or the people around him...
This was a job for Superman.
The last introduction had been made. Dana gave him a look of concern, possibly of fright. He was wheeled to the place on the dais from which the speech would be made. A microphone was bent to his lips.
He spoke.
"Let me. Speak to you," he began.
"About Superman."
*****
The fight had made a ruin of the office suite and the two of them had smashed through into the one below, which, thankfully, had been evacuated. The actor was still on the defensive, most of the time, but at least he hadn't been killed yet. That was a definite plus.
How did one fight such a person as Luthor?
He did not wish to kill the man. He assumed that, when Superman struck a human foe, he pulled his punches. Not certain as to how much of his punch he could pull, he struck Luthor on the chest, which was protected by the metal of his warsuit. He hit him carefully.
It was like banging one's hand into a steel girder. He saw a spark of purple aura where he struck, briefly, before he jammed his hurt knuckles into his mouth and sucked on them.
Luthor lashed out with a backhand, his glove wreathed in green fire, which slammed the actor back into a wall. He found himself half-embedded in it, figured that it was best to take the fight outside, and, setting his heels, pushed himself out. The building wall groaned as a large chunk of it broke off to allow the caped man access to the outer air.
With a start, the actor realized that it wouldn't do for the chunk of granite and whatever else to land on the pedestrians many stories below. He dived after the falling masonry and succeeded in getting under it, grabbing it, and flying back up to the hole in the wall with it. The stone debris was gingerly shoved back through the hole, and he hoped the floor could bear its weight.
Two metal hands grabbed him from behind and channelled pure pain into his body.
Luthor was staring into his face, from just above him.
"You hurt me," the man was snarling. "You came into my cell and you broke my body. That was fourteen years ago, Superman. Fourteen years. You haven't heard from me in that long. How does it feel, Superman? Does it feel the way I felt when you told me to behave myself, and then assaulted me? Does it?"
"I," gasped the actor. "I, I don't know. What did I...what did I do to you?"
Luthor was apoplectic, but didn't stop his Kryptonite-ray assault. "You mean you don't know? You cause my wife's and son's death, estrange my family from me, destroy my experiment in life, and cause me multiple breaks and fractures that keep me in infirmary for two months, and you don't know?"
Something had to be done.
He estimated, with what part of his mind that wasn't fixed on pain, that his strength had been reduced enough by the Kryptonite bombardment (and if this was Kryptonite, he was glad the stuff in his first movie had just been a fake; the stuff hurt!) to make it possible for him to hit Luthor and pull less of his punch.
He sent one fist hurtling up and back over his head, smashing into the plexiglass that protected Luthor's head.
There was pain, and the crackling of the aura. But there was also the sound of plastic, cracking.
With another motion, he sent an elbow into Luthor's armored gut, and hoped the armor was strong enough there to keep his intestines in place. For once, the bad man emitted an audible groan. The actor twisted out of Luthor's grip.
The plexiglass helmet was spiderwebbed with cracks, though Luthor's face was clearly visible. His face showed some hurt, and one of his hands was clutching at his gut. Evidently the purple force-field, if that was what it was, wasn't as invulnerable as the actor had feared it would be.
Lex Luthor tried to trigger another K-ray burst through his free hand.
The actor grabbed it by the wrist, holding it firmly. The burst discharged upward, harmlessly. He ventured a tight smile, full in Luthor's face.
Luthor's belt buckle opened and extruded a power-blast that thrust the actor backwards. Unfortunately for Luthor, the actor didn't think to let go of his arm.
He howled in pain, and hoped the arm wasn't dislocated.
***** "How many. Of you," said Superman, "first knew. Superman. Through comic books?"
There was a great deal of looking-around among the attendees. It was obvious that comics were still considered declasse` among the people of this world. They weren't held in much better repute on his Earth, though many were "true crime" ones depicting adventures of himself and other Justice League heroes. Still, a few tentative hands were put up. Then they were joined by others, and more beyond that, until well over half had their hands in the air. He heard some laughter in the crowd, a few murmured jokes. Some of the faces looked sheepish.
"All right. How many. Knew him. First. Through TV?"
Several other hands went up, this time more enthusiastically. From one corner, he heard somebody saying something like "strange visitor from another planet". The person he was saying it to was cracking up.
"Now. Sorry, but. How many. Through the movie?"
There weren't many who had been Superman virgins by the time of the movie's appearance, he guessed. But there were a few hands that went up proudly, and the audience broke into spontaneous applause.
"Well," he said. "Guess I. Can be thankful. For that. At least." More laughter.
"When I. Played him. I thought a lot. About being Superman. Man who had. Great powers. Man who did. Great deeds. Wore a costume. Flew. We all know. About that.
"That's not Superman. I want to. Talk about. Today.
"He's just fiction. To you. But I had. To make that. Fiction real. Had to think. About what Superman. Really was.
"How many of you. Came to America. From other countries?"
A few hands went up.
"And how many. Have ancestors. Who came here. From other lands?"
All the rest of the hands went up.
"Me too," he said. "All Americans. Came from. Somewhere else.
"But not. From Krypton.
"Superman was. The ultimate. Immigrant. Came from. Billions of miles. Away. To this world. To America. Just like. All Americans. Well, maybe not." More laughter.
"But consider. If Superman's rocket. Hadn't landed. In America. If he'd come. To Russia, in. Time of. Communism. Or to. Other dictatorships. Around world. Or even. Been in time. To land. In Nazi Germany. What would he. Have been? What influences. Would have. Molded him? Would he. Have protected freedom? Or destroyed it?
"I think. He was grateful. For landing in. America. Very grateful.
"I know. He was grateful. For finding. The people who. Adopted him. The Kents. You didn't. See much of. Them in movie. But they're. They were. Most important. People in world. To him.
"But let's imagine. Something else. Not like movie. Superman didn't. Come here. As baby. Came to Earth. As three-year-old. Had known Krypton. Known father. Jor-El. Mother, Lara. Even dog, Krypto." Some laughter.
"Don't laugh. He loved. That dog."
Dana looked at him with near horror. The way he was speaking...was Chris starting to think of Superman as a reality? Worse yet...could he be thinking that he could be...
No. She refused to go there. And she kept her hands buried in her lap, tying a knot in the napkin.
"He made. A voyage. Across space. In a tiny. Cramped rocket. Across billions of. Miles. He was aware. Of what was. Transpiring. He knew it.
"He knew. His world, Krypton. Was destroyed. He did not know. Where he was. Going.
"At that time. The mighty Superman. Was only a. Very lost. Very frightened. Child.
"He was terrified."
The audience was agape. Presumably, the actor was just improvising upon a dramatic situation for their benefit. It was interesting, true enough, to consider this perspective on a cardboard hero. But, still...he made it sound so damned real.
There was no sound from them as he continued.
"Imagine. The fear you felt. As children. When you rode. A fast ride. At the carnival. When you screamed. That was his fear. That was his. Until he screamed. Himself out. And simply. Went to sleep.
"The rocket landed. On Earth. Near small town. The boy, Kal-El. Was found. By two people. The Kents. Jonathan. And Martha. Imagine if he. Had been found. By two criminals. Or two wealth-seekers. Or politicians. Or people who. Just didn't care. Would leave him. To fend. For himself.
"But that wasn't. What the Kents were. They were frightened. Saw the rocket. Saw the alien. From another planet. But they saw. Something else. They saw a child. A child, crying. And that was. What they were. Supposed to see. Even if. From another planet. He was. A child.
"They took him. In. Raised him. As their own. Could have. Used his powers. For their own. Benefit. Could have. Become richest. Most powerful. People on Earth. They didn't. Could have. Told him. Never to use. His powers. For good, or evil. To pretend. All the time. He was just. An Earth man. They didn't.
"The Kents. Just farm couple. But maybe. The wisest. People on Earth."
One of the listeners whispered, "So what the hell were their names? Mary and Joseph?" "Jonathan and Martha," said his partner. "Now shut up."
"The boy," said Superman. "Clark Kent. Had to grow up. To learn about. Being normal boy. As all boys do. But also. To learn about. Being a Superboy. And never letting. Anyone know. Till the time. Was ripe. Till he knew. How to use. The powers. How to use them. For good.
"It's just fiction. To you. But apparently. It's one of. Most powerful fictions. Of this century.
"Is it because. We all imagine. What we would do. With those mighty powers? How we would. Be famous? Be known to. Entire world? Be loved? Perhaps get. Whatever we. Really wanted?
"Or is it. Because. With all those powers. Flight. Super-speed. Super-strength. X-ray vision. All the rest. With all of that. He had to be. Had to be. A good man?"
There was silence.
"Don't mean. To make him. A Christ figure," said Superman. "He is not. That. But what if. The key to. This fantasy. If you will. Is not the power. But the power. We all have? The power. To do good?
"Does this. Seem simple? Perhaps it is. Simple enough. For a child. And children. Are the ones. Who read comics. But who are. The ones. Who go to movies? The children who. Grew up. Who read Superman. The ones who. Still believed. As adults. That maybe a. Man could. Fly.
"The man who. Occupied this body," said Superman. "Was an actor. He tried. To do good things. Simple enough, again. But he used. The powers he had. Of fame. Of public attention. To do what he could. And I can tell you. With authority."
"Oh, God," whispered Dana.
"That that. Is what Superman. Did himself.
"And that. Is what we all. Can do. Perhaps what. Superman. Would want us. To do. Not to leap. Buildings. Or outrun. Trains. But to use. What we have. To do good."
The strain was showing on Chris's face, Dana could see. Sweat was beading his brow. The doctor, noticing it, mopped it away with a cloth. But it was as though Chris hadn't noticed it, plowing through his stop-motion, improvised speech as though he were General Patton.
Or...
No. She was not going to go there.
"Now," he said. "Want you to. Imagine. Something else. Imagine if Superman. Was stricken. With the injury. That is the. Basis of. Our concern. Imagine there. Was a power. Great enough. To injure. Superman's spine. Not a very. Great injury. Just a break. You could barely. See light through.
"Imagine. A man who. Could grind mountains. Into dust. Who could move. Faster than light. Who could span. Vast reaches of space. Who could not. Be hurt. By anything besides. Kryptonite. Magic. And something. As powerful. Or more so. Than himself."
"Magic?" whispered another person. "They didn't use magic in any of those four movies he was in."
"They did in that Helen Slater movie," said another. "You know, the one about the girl."
"Oh. Okay," said the first.
"Imagine that man. In a body. That would no longer. Respond to him.
"Imagine his thoughts.
"Would they be. Any different. Than those of. Any normal human. Cheated of. Their body's use. By fate. Or accident? Any human. Who suddenly finds. His body. To be a prison?
"Probably. They would be. Very similar.
"It could happen. To any one of us. You may thank God. That it didn't. Happen to you. But to the others. Of us. Who were not. So fortunate. As to miss. This experience. There would only. Be one thing. That Superman. Could ask you. To do."
He was conscious of the fatigue of his body. Conscious that the labor of forming and speaking his words was like the construction of an Egyptian temple by a weary brick-making slave. But still, the job must be finished. Even if it was the last job for Superman.
"He would ask you. To use your powers. To do good. To help find. A cure for this. Condition. Even if. The only Superman. We have here. In this world. Is in a comic book. Or a TV screen. Or in. The movies. Or lying. Within each. And every one of us.
"And the last place. I have mentioned. Is the most likely. Place. Where you can find. A Superman. Please. Use his powers. And thank you. Thank you all. Very much."
He sighed, in exhaustion. His tongue was moistened by another. He closed his eyes and was certain that he would fall asleep in the mobile chair where he sat on the dais.
But there was silence for only a few seconds, until, it seemed, that it began to sink in that he had finished speaking.
Then somebody, a man from the sound that the hands made, began clapping. Long, loud, rhythmically.
Three claps had not been made before they were joined by another pair of hands. And another. And another.
Like a waterfall of echoing, pounding, twin-struck surfaces, the applause spread epidemically, and not a person in the hall, save the speaker himself, was failing to give up the audible sign of approval. There were cheers, even from those who prided themselves on a more dignified show in public. There were tears, though they could not be seen by the speaker, whose eyes were closed.
Dana wanted to tell him to open his eyes. The room was filled with the populance of a standing ovation. Not that he'd never had one before; they were common enough, especially these days. But somehow...the flavor of this one was a bit different.
She decided against it.
After all, he was, by this time, asleep.
to be concluded...