And All Of Us Are Dying

Part 3

"Clark! Hey, little brother!"

The familiar voice called out across the length of the school yard and the small town teenager who was also Superboy, the Boy Of Steel, smiled widely and waved back enthusiastically, pleased and not afraid to show it. His fingers rose to loosen the perennial bow tie that encircled his neck. School was over for the day and Clark Kent was as relieved as any other youngster. Especially now that he had someone to spend time with after school. Someone he didn't have to hide from.

"Bob!" the young, unsuspected hero rejoined. "Be with you in just a second!"

Shyly, he gazed at Lana Lang and Pete Ross. His best friends. Pete was a rock. Always willing to help out in Kent's General Store or with a friendly smile. Sure Lana was a pain sometimes with her continual attempts to discover Superboy's secret identity and her never ending flirtations to attract his attention, but ... Well, she was the prettiest girl in Smallville and there were times he almost enjoyed making a game of avoiding her traps intended to expose him.

Now, if only she'd pay more attention to Clark Kent instead of Superboy ...

At the moment she wasn't quite managing not to frown and it was a struggle for her. Her slightly pug nose wrinkled in dismay, exposing the light dusting of freckles that went with her fair skin and bright red hair.

"I thought he was your cousin," the teenaged girl complained, a distinct note of accusation creeping into her high, girlish voice.

Clark shook himself out of his reverie. Oooops. He really didn't like deceiving them like this ... but what was the alternative? Admit that he was Superboy? And that "Bob" was Mon-El? Spend the rest of his life in the glare of publicity and public acclaim without the refuge, the opportunity, the relief of being ordinary, everyday Clark Kent of Smallville, Kansas? To be forced to be Superboy, and eventually someday Superman, all the time? Clark suppressed a shudder. The youth was suddenly overwhelmed with a vision of himself besieged by numberless hordes of faceless people, all demanding some small part of him. Women shouting, "I love you!" and clawing at him like groupies after the latest rock star. Men pleading, "Help me! Help me!" Small children, their eyes wide with hope and terror, begging for a release from their fate.

A great, bustling crowd of despairing humanity, all depending upon him to save them.

It was hellish.

"Um - well, he is my cousin," Clark supplied. "It's just that since he came to live with us, well, we've gotten to be really close. We're like brothers. I don't have any other relatives, you know." He tried very hard not to sound as wistful as he felt.

Lana reached out and took her school books back from Clark. The disappointment and the beginnings of burning anger he glimpsed briefly in her jade green eyes saddened him more than he expected. "Well," she snapped, "he sure acts like he owns you, Clark. Why, I hardly ever see you anymore without him lurking somewhere in the background. I hope you know people are starting to talk!"

"Lana!" admonished an unhappy Pete.

A look of puzzlement settled over Clark's startled features.

"Talk?" came his cautious inquiry.

Lana blushed, her high cheeks flaming. "W-Well ... " she temporized, apparently hesitant to continue, now. "You know how people are ... how they talk sometimes ... "

"No," returned Clark firmly, his eyes narrowing, "how do they talk, Lana?"

"Aww, c'mon, buddy," Pete waved a hand in casual dismissal, "it's just stupid gossip. You know? Don't pay it any attention." Lana cleared her throat and, despite Pete's stern, warning look of disapproval, the red head, true to her volatile nature, spoke again.

"And you just add fuel to the fire, Clark!"

"How's that, Lana?" the high school senior demanded.

"Well, Jesus, Clark! What do you expect? You're always with him ... I'm surprised he doesn't go to class with you, for God's sake! How long has he lived with you and your parents, anyway?"

"Almost two years, now. Why?"

Lana shifted her books to her other arm and tapped her foot on the sidewalk as if in impatience with Clark's obtuseness. She was not generally a patient person. Never had been in all the years Clark had known her. She wasn't about to change now, Clark suspected. As though to prove his point his friend and classmate addressed him once more.

"Good Lord, Clark! Most people here in Smallville can't even figure out what he does for a living!"

"Lana ... " began an almost angry Pete Ross.

But before he could utter more Clark cut him off abruptly, surprising both the tow-headed Ross and Lana. Clark was not usually so rude. One thing you had to admit about Clark, as exasperating as he sometimes was, he was a nice, polite guy. The kind of boy of whom other young people's parents declared, "Why can't you be more like that Kent boy, huh?" For the most part it did nothing to endear him to his fellows. But, apparently, something in Lana's unprovoked attack on his cousin Bob had sparked Clark's ire. Catching the fire of wrath blazing in the depths of Clark's usually mild and twinkling blue eyes, Pete decided that it might be a good thing that his friend was slow to anger.

"He's a traveling door to door brush salesman, Lana!" Clark cried. "You know that! You bought one of his brushes yourself!"

"Uh huh," Lana shook her fiery head. "Then how come he never travels? Tell me that, Clark Kent! He must have sold brushes of all kinds to pretty much everybody in Smallville, by now!"

Gathering himself, Clark looked away from his two uncomfortable friends. "I - have to go," he said quietly, turning his back and moving off.

Swiftly, he trotted across the busy street to join the other man still waiting patiently there. Clark forced himself not to look back. Only forward. God, it was so nice to have someone meet him after school. How many times had he secretly envied all those other boys and girls walking home with brothers and sisters, friends or other relatives while he made his usually solitary way home and then to Kent's General store? It was nice to have meek and mild Clark Kent as a refuge so that he wasn't forced to be Superboy all the time, yes ... but ... still ... Clark had his secrets to protect, after all. It was good to just be himself. With no secrets to be hidden, no heroics to perform. Just himself. Something as simple as have someone to talk to when he wanted. Really talk to. Someone who understood his strange and extraordinary life.

"Ready for our afternoon patrol?" smiled Mon-El, "Bob Cobb", slipping an arm around Superboy's shoulders.

"You bet!" Clark grinned in return. "Let's go check in with Ma and Pa and then we'll be ready. Race you! Last one home is a rotten egg!" Glancing about surreptitiously to make certain they were unobserved, the two youths took off at superspeed, faster than the human eye could follow.

"Land Sakes!" declared Martha Kent with a smile, watching her two super-sons gulp down their pre-patrol snack of fresh, hot oatmeal raisin cookies and a tall, cold glass of milk, "you two are a caution! It's a good thing I like to cook! Else-wise feeding you boys would be mite near impossible!" Grinning Mon-El wiped the remains of a milk mustache off his lip and reached for the last cookie. Clark beat him to it and the older boy snapped his fingers in good natured frustration. Chuckling, Martha Kent disappeared into the warmth of her kitchen and returned shortly with another plate of a half dozen gooey, piping hot sweets.

"Thanks!" chimed Mon-El, chewing appreciatively on one of the delicious confections. Turning to Clark, he settled a mournful, pixieish gaze upon the younger boy. "I'm going to have to be careful, little brother," he said, pushing himself away from the table and rubbing his flat tummy. "I think I've gained about ten pounds since I started eating Ma's cooking!"

"More for me, then!" exalted Clark in triumph. To Martha's patented delight several more cookies quickly disappeared. Wiping her hands on her apron, the wife of Jonathan Kent regarded her eldest son with deep affection.

"Bob Cobb!" she admonished in what struggled very valiantly but failed miserably to be a stern voice, "You'll turn my head with such flattery!" Clark laughed, politely covering his mouth with his hand.

"Oh, he's good at that, Ma," he informed his mother, "really good. He's broken half the female hearts in Smallville, didn't you know? Why, even old Mrs. Bascombe bought a hair brush from him ... and she's practically bald!"

Mon-El/Bob Cobb flushed bright red. "Well -uh - er - I've got to get the money together somehow," he mused, "if you and I are going off to college together this Fall. There's not much time left." Clark drank down the last of his milk and sat the glass aside.

"I still say you'd be better off taking that summer job with Mr. Paulsen down at the garage. It's steady work and the way you have with mechanical things you'd be extra good at it. And you'd enjoy it, too, I think."

The older boy wrinkled his nose. "I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe. Back on Daxam, I was the fastest mechanic in my sector. But after working on an interstellar matter/anti-matter warp drive, an internal combustion engine isn't much of a challenge."

Startled, Clark lifted an eyebrow in inquiry. "I thought you intended to study engineering at the Metropolis Institute of Technology campus of MU," he said. Mon-El nodded in affirmation.

"Same as you intend to study journalism on the main campus," he responded and Clark's look of 'well, there you go!' caught him somewhat by surprise. Grinning to beat the band, the younger boy said, "Just think of all the improvements you could make! Consider it good practice!" When the other boy's bright blue eyes lit up with enthusiasm, Clark knew he had struck a nerve and his smile broadened. Martha Kent cleared her throat, capturing their attention.

"Now, you boys don't forget to drop by the store this evening," she reminded them. "Your Pa will need your help unloading and packing away that meat shipment due today." Her usually clear blue eyes darkened with concern. "I don't care what he says, that man hasn't fully recovered yet from that heart attack last Winter. And it's not the first one. Doc Whitney tried to warn him, way back when we still had the farm that he was working too hard! But would he listen? Nosirreee! Not a bit! He's still working too hard. Poor man kept me up half the night last night wheezing and coughing. Like to worried me to death."

Clark rose and embraced his mother tightly. "Don't worry, Ma," he pleaded, "we won't forget, will we, Mon?" Mon-El nodded rapidly, a reassuring look claiming his smooth features. "Pa won't have to lift a finger with that shipment, we promise," Clark continued and Mon-El was glad to see Martha relax a bit. Anything that saddened his foster-mother ripped and tore at him as few other things could. She kissed Clark's cheek and gazed at him warmly.

"You're such wonderful boys," she murmured. "The good Lord has been awfully kind to Jonathan and I to give us not one but two super-sons like the both of you. We're doubly blessed."

Mon-El rose gently squeezed the frail hand of the woman who had taken the place of his own departed mother when he came to Earth, a stranger, lost and alone. Not once had he regretted his decision to remain here. In a way, he owed it to the memory of Jor-El and Lara, Kal-El's biological parents, he felt.

Like a whisper, he could still recall the feel of Lara's lips on his cheek when she kissed him goodbye; recollect the affection in her soft voice as she whispered in his ear, "We're grown extremely fond of you in your short time with us here, Lar." His flesh still echoed with the tender touch of her slim hand as she hung the keepsake necklace around his neck. He wore it still. And the firmness of Jor-El's handshake as the Kryptonian scientist slipped the map into his hands. "This is the route my son will take to Earth, Lar. Quickly, you must go. The end approaches. He haven't much time."

Tearing himself away from them, leaving them to their fate and the fate of their doomed world had been almost killing for him. The death of his family of Daxam had left a large vacuum in his life. One that had been filled, if only for a short time, by the welcome he'd received on Krypton from the loving couple, willing to shelter and help a stranded stranger. And little Kal had been such a pleasant child, happy and lively, curious to investigate any and everything in the way of two-year-old children. He remembered playing with the little boy for hours, laughing, reading to him, and telling him stories. He was poignantly reminded of his small brother Del, gone now with the rest of his family.

Although he'd never spoken it aloud, Lar knew well what Jor-El was asking when the doomed scientist had given him the map and mentioned his plans for his son. "Watch over him," was the unuttered plea, "keep him safe. Don't let him forget us. Love him."

And so he had.

Martha Kent gathered the now empty plate and prepared to retreat to her kitchen once more, allowing her sons to go about their regular evening patrol of the tiny town of Smallville. Brushing a stray strand of silver white hair from off her forehead and returning it neatly to her prim bun, the housewife and mother gazed at the youth she regarded as her eldest son.

"Bob," she inquired in as stern a voice as she could manage, which was quite stern indeed when it pleased her, "did you remember to take your serum today?"

"Of course, he did, Ma!" exclaimed Clark, his tone almost injured. "Think I'd ever let him forget? Not likely!"

Mon-El managed a wan smile. "Yes, Ma," he replied easily, "I remembered. That serum is the only thing protecting me from a painful, lingering death from exposure to lead. We Daxamites learned the hard way about the dangers of traveling the Universe for us. Space knows enough Daxamite astronauts died for us to get the idea." The boy swallowed hard. "In-including my father. And the rest of my family on Daxam, too. The doctors say it was a miracle that I survived long enough for a cure to be developed."

Painful memories, long suppressed, stirred to life. First his father ... then his mother. He sat for hours at his mother's bedside, holding her hand, watching her sink further and further into the embrace of death. When she died he'd cried for the first time since he was a small child. But, he supposed that if he were being completely honest with himself it was Del's death that had hurt him the most. Barely ten years old, Del didn't understand what was happening to him. And most of all he didn't understand why the pain wouldn't go away.

"Make it stop, Lar!" the little boy wept, his small body wracked with spasms, "please make it stop!"

And he'd been helpless. There was nothing he could do but hold him.

In the end, it was almost a relief when he stumbled into the Medi-Center emergency room, lost and alone, vomiting and doubled over with pain, to hear the doctors sad pronouncement.

Incredible to think that all that pain and tragedy befell because of a small piece of rock ... a souvenir of one of Kel Gand's exploration missions out among the stars ...

Superboy lay a gentle hand on his friend's muscular shoulder in comfort.

"Hey, buddy," he said softly, "it's fine. Don't be sad, okay? Everything going to be all right, I promise. You're here with us. We're your family, now." Smiling much more brightly at this, Mon-El eagerly followed the younger youth down into the sub cellar beneath the Kent basement and out the hidden tunnel leading into Smallville Woods to begin their nightly patrol.

Their first clandestine stop was Kent's General Store. Jonathan Kent greeted his sons warmly and watched in awe as they had the meat shipment packed away almost literally in the blink of an eye. He was never going to get used to that, he thought. Never. As promised, the storekeeper lifted nary a finger. He waved happily as his adopted sons departed, smiling when they waved back.

The night was quiet and they joked and roughhoused as they scooted across the sky. But between them they kept a close telescopic eye on their town and its environs. Police Chief George Parker thanked them heartily when they checked in with him. "Crooks are getting smarter," he remarked with a grin and a wave good-bye as they departed. "You boys are going to have expand your operations if you want to catch any bad guys these days. One Superboy in Smallville was hard enough on law breakers; the 'Super Twins' are purely more than they can handle!"

They dropped in for a brief visit with the Director of the Smallville Reformatory for Wayward Boys. "Young Luthor is still here," he informed them almost proudly. "Yesterday we caught him cobbling together some weird piece of electronic gadgetry. Damn thing punched a hole right through the outer wall! But we grabbed him before he could escape." Superboy looked sad but Mon-El congratulated the Director and his efficient staff.

They examined the Smallville dam, inspecting it carefully and, using their heat vision in coordination with super friction from their hands, repaired a small leak before it could become a larger problem. The Smallville River flowed serenely toward the giant Mississippi, the Father of Waters, traffic along its course unimpeded by wreckage or debris once they removed the sunken remains of a freighter boat lurking just beneath the surface.

Shortly after midnight they flew to the Moon for a lively game of catch using small asteroids as baseballs.

"Swing batta, swing batta," chanted Mon-El, crouching in a catcher's stance to receive his younger brother's "fastball special". Clark burned one in over the "plate", a minuscule lunar crater left ages ago by a striking meteorite. The game broke up when they ran out of convenient asteroids. "See you at breakfast, little brother!" Mon-El called merrily as he zoomed off. Superboy watched with a smile as Mon dove into the frigid waters of the north Atlantic and disappeared. Their mer-friend Lori Lemaris of undersea Tritonis would be having a guest tonight unless he was mistaken.

Returning home Clark made one last leisurely, peremptory circuit of Smallville and, finding the peace undisturbed, returned home via his underground tunnel into the Kent sub-basement, checked on his foster-parents, and retired to his bed.

There he slept for almost an hour before rising to do his homework at superspeed before school as was his habit. Mon's bed was still empty, he noted. For a moment he missed the sight of his elder brother, waking sleepy eyed, yawning and stretching to greet the morning with a smile. Sternly he warned himself not to be jealous. He had Lana. Mon had Lori. It was only fair, after all. Besides, he knew Mon would be there for breakfast as he had promised.

And he was.

The years passed. Gradually, Superboy grew to become Superman. Mon-El remained Mon-El. Clark Kent became an ace reporter for the Daily Planet, a great metropolitan newspaper. His talents as an investigative reporter won him a Pulitzer prize He became an Edgar award winning mystery novelist, also, for his book "Under A Yellow Sun". "Bob Cobb" became an engineering marvel. When the United Nations sanctioned the building of the Gibraltar Bridge, linking the continents of Europe and Africa, so that it became possible to drive an automobile from southern Spain to Northern Africa, Bob Cobb was the architectural engineer who designed and oversaw the building of the great edifice.

Superman and Mon-El became the Guardians of their new home of Metropolis and of the world.

Until the coming of Doomsday.

Afterwards, it proved impossible to discover anything about the terrible creature. No one ever knew where he came from or what his purpose was. Or even if he had a purpose. Bestial, virtually mindless, and incredibly powerful, the alien lashed out, destroying everything within its path. Within hours, the battle had devastated the heartland of America; laid waste the breadbasket of a great nation. At great risk to themselves, the so called 'Super Twins' lead the creature away from populated areas Massive destruction of property ensued but relatively little loss of life. But eventually despite their best efforts, Doomsday fought his way to a great city.

Metropolis.

After the battle had lasted for more than a day, the two super heroes began to tire. Doomsday's blows began to draw blood. Bloody and battered, they fought him in the streets of their city. Buildings tumbled, the very force of their blows shattering the steel and concrete canyons of the populous city. Later estimates of the damage and destruction would soar in the billions of dollars. And the death toll reached as many as a quarter of a million people.

And, inevitably perhaps, someone made a mistake.

Reeling from the staggering blow, Superman fell to his knees, shaking his spinning head to clear it. Exhausted and bleeding, the Kryptonian hero did not see Doomsday's rocky, spiked fist descending again ... not in time to avoid the blow.

Mon-El's sharp blue eyes widened in panic.

"Kal!" he shouted and flew at the kneeling, swaying figure, knocking him aside. With an audible "oomph!" of escaping air, Superman tumbled away from the killing blow. He scrambled to unsteady feet and wiped the blood from his eyes just in time to see Mon fall limp to the ground. Even without the benefit of his superhearing, he could hear the distinct crack of splintering bone.

With all his remaining strength, Superman grabbed the alien monster and tossed him away from Mon-El. Doomsday slammed hard into a tottering building and lay still, not even moving when the building collapsed atop him. Superman would likely not have noticed even if he had moved. Crashing to his knees, the Man of Steel put forth a single trembling hand to touch his fallen brother.

"M-Mon? Mon?!" His voice shook. Slowly, painfully, as though he feared to cause Mon-El more pain, Superman gathered him carefully in his arms. Gently, he brushed a stray lock of space dark hair off the Daxamite hero's bruised forehead. When he buried his face in the broad chest, sobbing like a child, indeed as he had so seldom done as a child, his ears brought him no sign of the beating of a brave heart. No breath stirred.

"Noooooooo!"

His long wail of agonized grief shattered glass for miles around in every direction. His hands trembled as he tenderly wiped the blood from the familiar face, so still, now ... so very, very still and quiet. For one ragged, eternal moment, he thought that Mon-El might be sleeping. He looked so calm and peaceful. In days to come he would find himself growing increasingly weary of hearing, "He must have died instantly, Superman. You can be thankful, at least, that he didn't suffer."

The city fathers of Metropolis wanted to bury the fallen hero in an elaborate tomb in Centennial Park. There were plans for the President and First Lady to appear and speak. Heroes the world over prepared themselves for the solemn occasion. Foreign dignitaries around the globe awaited the summons eagerly. A statue was commissioned.

All in vain.

In the end, Superman would allow none of it. He buried Mon-El in a quiet corner of the botanical gardens in their Fortress of Solitude, the arctic retreat they built with their own hands. Wearing his scarlet and blue uniform, surrounded by lush green growing things of surpassing beauty, Mon-El was laid to rest amidst the splendor and arboreal beauty of a hundred worlds.

In his sadness and consuming grief, Superman remained at his Fortress of Solitude, alone now, and was not seen for more than ten years.

In the wake of the Metropolis Disaster, people clamored for protection. Stringent laws were passed. People's attitudes toward their heroes began to change as they demanded more and more pro-active, even ruthless behavior from their superpowered guardians. Leaderless now, without their moral center, following Superman's example many of the older heroes retired.

Alan Scott, Green Lantern, devoted himself to distant matters. His vast Emerald City, the creation of his power ring, hung over the Earth guarding it from alien invasion that never came.

"I wield power beyond imagination," murmured the first Emerald Gladiator. "I'm married to that power by a ring of green. It haunts me like a jealous lover." Unconsciously, his fingers caressed the softly glowing lantern shaped ring encircling the index finger of his left hand, the one nearest his heart.

"I want a divorce," he hissed.

The Flash merged with the Speed Force and when he emerged once more he was more than simply Wally West, the Fastest Man Alive. Indeed, the Fastest Man There Had Ever Been. He carried with him the spirits of several of his predecessors. His speed was such that , even standing stock still, he vibrated, leaving only a blur to mark his presence. Central City became one of the safest places on earth to live ... but its grateful people never saw their busy guardian. Neither did his family. A scarlet blur and a whistling wind were as close as most ever came. Living between the ticks of a second, the Flash saved many, many lives, but no longer understood the people he served with such tireless devotion.

The ruthless Hawk Avatar absorbed his paladin and when Katar Hol, the Hawkman fought his way to freedom once more he was alone without his wife, the Hawkwoman. Alone ... and greatly changed. No longer able to even speak with a human tongue, this new Hawkman staked out his territory in the lush Pacific northwest of America and became an eco-terrorist. Loggers and miners there grew to fear the sharpness of his raking talons.

The Batman retreated to the still hidden redoubt of his crumbling, untended Batcave. There, commanding his army of robotic BatKnights, he brought his city under control. Crime was almost unknown in Gotham City. So was freedom of choice ... and everyone feared the night ...

With the retirement of so many, a new generation of heroes arose. The meta-human population boomed, then exploded until the skies were filled with them, crowded to overflowing. Aimless, without purpose or example, violent, and often more destructive than the 'villains' they presumed to fight, these 'heroes' were nevertheless cheered on by the human populace. In the beginning. By the time concerns were voiced and people learned to be afraid of these so called 'heroes' ... it was far too late.

One of the most violent of them all, the vigilante called Magog, became the symbol of this new 'heroic' age.

And in the peace and shelter of his Fortress of Solitude, far away from the growing crisis, Superman tended the holographic image of the tiny Smallville farm that had nurtured him as a boy and every day visited a well cared for grave, bringing flowers and the secrets of his lonely heart to share with his brother Mon-El.

As he always had.

Until Kansas disappeared in the pre-morning radiance of a nuclear blast.

The hero known as Captain Atom was dead; torn open by the desperately escaping frail remnants, the pale ghost, of the once powerful villain known as the Parasite; his internal nuclear energies escaping, exploding outward, to devastating effect.

Tying his black and silver hair back in a neat pony tail, Superman flew down from the roof of the barn. Those new shingles should hold well. Plain, sturdy overalls replaced his colorful red, blue and gold costume, once so familiar to the entire world. Effortlessly he hefted the two and a half ton John Deere tractor above his head and carried it into the barn. Yipping, a medium sized white dog of indeterminate breed cavorted about his feet, demanding to be petted. Smiling, he knelt to do that and the happy animal licked enthusiastically at his silver bearded cheek. An orange tabby with a curious lightning shaped stripe flashing down its side, hissed jealously, arching its back. A silver white stallion, snorted, whinnied, and pawed the earth with one hoof.

"Settle down you guys," the 'farmer' murmured. "What's got you so spooked? What's the matter -?"

~Kal-El ... Superman ... you are needed ... ~

The voice, a strong, deep, yet feminine contralto, resounded in the labyrinth of his mind. Startled, the ex-superhero turned tiller of the soil, glanced up. There were three of them. Two men and a woman. Floating serenely in the air high above his head they looked almost grim as they gazed down upon him. The woman, clad in a red and white tunic and pants and sporting Saturn shaped ear rings, pushed a strand of her long blond hair behind one ear and regarded him calmly.

~I'm Saturn Woman,~ she spoke once more in his mind. She pointed to the tall red haired man hovering at her side. ~This is my husband Lightning Man.~ At her other side a bearded dark haired man wearing a tight purplish costume with several prominent metal discs on the chest, frowned.

"Imra, you've confused him," the man said gently.

"HA!" barked the other, auburn haired man. "Confuse Superman? Not likely, Cos! Get real, Rokk!"

Taking to the air, the Kryptonian rose to join them in the holographic blue of the sky. "Who ARE you?" he demanded. "How did you get in here?" Silence reined for several tense moments. Anger boiled in Superman's blue eyes as he turned to the blond woman. "And don't call me Kal," he growled. "Only one person ever called me Kal ... and you're not him."

The dark haired man took the reins of leadership firmly in his able hands as naturally as breathing. "That's not important now, Superman. I'm Cosmic Man. Imra - Saturn Woman - has already introduced her husband Garth Ranzz, Lightning Man. Please, there isn't much time ... You have to help us."

All the life and animation seemed to drain from Superman's face like a rapidly emptying cup, leaving him pale and still beneath his golden tan. "No," he said. "I don't do that anymore. Just go and leave me in peace, whoever you are. I have chores to do."

"No!" cried Saturn Woman, speaking aloud in her agitation and urgency. "You have to help us! You have to! The whole future depends on it!"

"I ... don't understand."

As one, the four of them landed and Superman tried to turn his back on the three mysterious strangers but found that he could not. "What do you mean 'the whole future depends on it'?" he asked, his voice a quiet whisper. Even as the question left his lips he was certain that he did not want to know the answer.

"We're from the future," Cosmic Man began. "The thirtieth century to be exact. We've all admired you for years. Ever since we were teenagers, in fact. We even formed a 'Super-Hero Club' to emulate your selfless dedication to helping others. You were our inspiration. Over the years our 'Club' grew and expanded, becoming a sort of interstellar crime fighting/peace keeping organization for the United Planets. It's hard to believe but there are over thirty past and present members of the Legion of Super-Heroes, these days. We're all grown up, now. But unless you listen to us all that will change. Our future will never be."

Calmer now, Imra, Saturn Woman, attempted to explain. "With the destruction of Kansas, the status of meta-humans on earth is at a crisis point," she said. Superman paled.

"De-destruction of Kansas?"

"Yeah, that's right, buddy," replied an acerbic Lightning Man. "What's the matter? Don't you follow the news?"

"Garth!" his alarmed wife reproved him, sternly.

"No," came the succinct retort from the Man of Steel. "I don't follow the news."

"Bad times are coming, Superman," pleaded Cosmic Man. "And only you can stop them. You've got to go back out into the world, rally the remaining heroes, stop the madness."

Superman turned his gaze unconsciously in the direction of the botanical gardens and the grave there. "Why me?" he whispered, his face twisting in pain. "Why does it have to be me? Why does it always have to be me? They don't want me. They rejected me and all I stand for. Part of me is dead ... and they spat on the only thing I had left."

Saturn Woman brushed his cheek in a tender caress. "I know," she said softly. "But they didn't kill him, Superman ... You can stop punishing them for that, now. And you can stop punishing yourself, too." He swallowed hard and his eyes closed in painful reflex. Could he do it? It had been so long since he'd reached out to another person. So very, very long.

"I'm not Superman or Kal-El any more," he said sadly. "Just a man named Clark."

Saturn Woman squeezed his hand. "It's that very humanity they need, Clark."

"Speaking of which ... I have a gift for you," the telepath told him. "A gift from the future ... and from the past. Something to help you see better." Wordlessly, she pressed the plain wooden box into his chill hand and waited. Opening the oblong box, he carefully plucked the rounded wire framed spectacles resting there from their bed of plush red velvet. With a small, wry smile of pleasure, he slipped them on, fitting the ear pieces behind his ears, and gazed out at the world once more.

"Tell me what I have to do," he requested in a strong voice, a determined voice.

The voice of a hero.

This site is dedicated to the memory of Dannell Lites, who died unceremoniously on 16 September, 2002, in Kansas City, MO. Other than characters, place names, etc., which are ©DC Comics, Marvel Comics, Warner Bros., WGBS or any other television/movie owner, or Wizard Magazine, all content is ©2002 Dannell Lites. Background set ©2002 by SleepyHead. Please do not use without her permission. Site url= http://dannfan.50megs.com/