E8: Superman #6

[Spider-Man Beyond]

E8: Superman #6
The Return of Superman
Part 1 of 4:
You Ain't Superman

Written by Russell Burlingame (Borntorun)
Edited by Daniel Dyer (Spider-Man Beyond)

"Look,” someone shouts from below, “up in the sky!”

I have about two seconds to think of how silly that sounds before I crash down on top of the Special Crimes Unit's mobile command center, crumpling the top of the van and mangling their satellite dish.

Damn, I can't imagine what fighting Doomsday was like. A satellite dish in the small of my back is about the most painful experience I want to have, and it's my first day actually wearing the costume of--

“Superman!” Maggie Sawyer shouts as she tumbles out of the van, but when she sees me, her eyes harden and her voice gets more military in tone. “Who are you?”

“Ow,” I say as I sit up on top of the van, and then jump down. “I'm Kon-El. I guess you could call me the last grandson of Krypton.”

“You've got balls of steel to be wearing that ‘S’ in this town so soon after Doomsday.”

“I sympathize with you. Believe it or not, this wasn't really my idea. But can we argue later? I think--”

There's a deafening boom and when I spin around to face it again, the van is in pieces. Standing in the center of it is the same crazy bastard I was just fighting up in the air. Wearing a black costume with a bloody Superman-S on the chest of it, this long-haired, bearded crazy is calling himself Savior. Somehow he thinks I'm responsible for all of society's problems because I claim to be Superman, back from the dead, and he knows that's not possible.

Of course, I never claimed anything like that, but--

--my thought process is interrupted when he punches me in the mouth. I taste some blood. This lunatic is STRONG. I don't know what's giving him his powers, but I wish it would stop.

“Give it up, Pretender,” Savior rants as he winds up to punch me again. “I know the truth!”

“Me too,” I say, and catch his punch in my hand, then squeeze. I was hoping to maybe break his hand, break his concentration, but it doesn't work and instead he just swings with the other one and I end up having to use my tactile telekinesis to toss him on his head.

“Maggie, can you shoot this guy or something?” I ask as I plant my foot in his exposed gut.

“How do you know my name?” she demands.

“More things that can be discussed LATER. Come on!”

Savior throws me in the air, then jumps after me. Being isolated in midair is just the opportunity that the Special Crimes Unit needs, and the ones who aren't bleeding on the ground after the van collapse are now firing off shots at the guy. Focused on me, I don't think he expects it because he falls to the ground like a ton of bricks and by the time he's starting to reorient himself, they've slapped some kind of special handcuffs onto him that seem to keep him from using his powers.

“Alright,” Sawyer barks at me as she lights up a cigarette and steps away from the cruiser that her people are loading Savior into, “now speak up. How did you know who I am? Who are you? What the hell business do you think you have wearing that costume?”

Well. Pretty take-charge lady. If I were fifteen years older, I'd be all over that.

“Excuse me?” Sawyer says, and for a second I thought maybe I'd said that last bit aloud. No, she's just waiting on a response.

“I'm Kon-El,” I tell her. “I'm the new Superman. Unfortunately that's all I can tell you, except that the people who meant the most to Kal-El—to your Superman—they've asked me to take this responsibility on. I knew your name in the same way that I knew to track those people down—implanted memories. I don't know exactly where they came from—maybe they're actually Superman's or maybe they're some elaborate fiction created to keep me going, but...”

She's staring at me now. I think I've lost her.

“...Sorry. I just thought I knew you.” And I fly off.

In the distance, before I get far enough away, I hear her say, “I don't know who that kid is, but he's no Superman.”

***

[Spider-Man Beyond]

I need somewhere to go, to clear my head and get a little perspective. Back at the apartment on Clinton Street, I change into jeans and a T-shirt, and head out down the block for a walk. I'm lost in thought and it's been miles before I realize that I'm in Hobbs Bay, the area of the city that a lot of folks call Suicide Slum. I'm starting to get hungry, and like an oasis in front of me is The Ace o' Clubs, an Irish pub that advertises 25-cent hot wings on Trivia Night, which is Thursdays. That's tonight. Cool.

I enter and belly up to the bar. Having very little in the way of information that's not strategic or superhero-y in nature, I figured that trivia night was probably not for me. Chicken wings, though...?

The man behind the bar has an underbite and cauliflower ears. He looks like some withered, aging prizefighter, with a big build that's mostly given way to flab from the chest down. He's wearing a hat and a sweatshirt with a Superman logo on it. But I'll forgive him that last part—if he can get me fed.

“Hey, bartender?” I call over.

“Yeah, kid, what's up?”

“You got coffee in this place? I want to get some wings, but need something to drink with it.”

“Sure, sure. Be right witcha.”

Half an hour later, and nothing worth mentioning has really happened until the bartender—he calls himself Bibbo and “owns da place”--returns, finally with my wings. By now, I'm really starting to get hungry, so I'm not in the mood for much conversation. But trivia is winding down and all he's got left in the place are the heavy drinkers, so he's pretty determined to chat. Especially when I come on the news—even with the sound down to accommodate the trivia folks, Bibbo keys in on the image of the Superman logo on the news report.

“Willya lookit that?” he says, slapping my shoulder. “That ain't Sooperman! Sooperman, he was my friend. My hero!” He pulls out his wallet and out of it, produces a tattered photograph of Superman here at the bar, apparently playing at armwrestling with Bibbo.

“We didn't really armwrestle,” he says as if it needed to be explained, “but I usedta be a prizefighter. That's somethin' I do sometimes with the regulars. I never lost a match, though!”

“Sure you did,” mumbles one of the drunks, hanging half-off the barstool next to me. “That reporter lady, Lois Lane. She took ya.”

Bibbo turns red, out of either anger or embarrassment. It's hard to tell because he turns to face the other guy. “That was luck!” Bibbo demands, and the drunk reminds him that he apparently lost “best out of seven,” so it would have had to be a lot of luck. Somehow, though, it wouldn't surprise me at all if Lois was going to best a prizefighter in a physical challenge. If there was one girl I'd put money on to pull it off, it's her. I guess I should probably call her back sooner or later.

I get a sudden and severe headache—it's like nothing I've ever felt before. Halfway through a chicken wing, I fall off my chair and onto the floor, my nose bleeding. It's only for a second, but the pain is blinding, and when I get back on my feet, Bibbo has his arm around my waist.

“Jeez, kid, what was that? I ain't never had nobody collapse in here without drinkin' first.”

Even though I can now see, hear and perceive the world around me, I can't quite make a sentence. My tongue is moving along without permission from my brain.

“Dunno,” I say, “Pain... headache... Superman?”

Bibbo sits me down in a booth on the outside wall of the bar. “Sit here, I'll getcha some water. You sound like you need a doctor. You got insurance?”

“Naw,” I tell him, finally in control of my faculties again. “No work.”

“Oh yeah?” Bibbo brightens up for a minute, brings me a cup of water and tells me, “Get a drink, get to the Doctor, get some sleep. Come back next Thursday and ya can get some work.”

“What?” I ask, thinking I might be hallucinating again.

“Yeah, Andrea—the hottie over there doing the trivia? She's moving ta Virginia next week. You can come be our question-asker. Ya get free food and no drinking allowed until after the contest.”

“Sounds, eh, actually kinda good. Do I make the questions up or do you...?”

“Well, usually Andrea brings 'em. But she made me up a special set for next week while I wuz lookin' for a new trivia gal. It's an all-Sooperman special!”

“Of course it is.”

It's just then that I look back up at the news and see a headline scrolling across the bottom of the television: “Superman's body discovered stolen!”

“Of course it is,” I repeat, close my eyes and stand up to investigate.

Continued...