After months of encrypted email exchange, careful assurances, and a few false starts, Clark had finally met the source in a greasy back-alley Chinese joint and was now riding the train back uptown. He had hours of recordings to review. Incredibly, the man had been willing to go on record exposing the CIA's black program on behavior modification - a combination of low dose psychoactive drugs administered secretly in a target's food; modulated subliminal messaging through infiltrated social media, internet, and communication channels; and repeated near-field microwave irradiation of the brain to induce states of mania and suggestibility.

The most damning testimony was that the program had been running a test phase on American citizens for the last 2 years - some of them highly placed business and social personalities like Elon and Ye - and was now entering the Phase 3 trial targeting mid-level US political representatives.

All his travels, all the tragedies he had prevented with his godlike powers, the depravity of humanity he had witnessed again and again as Superman - but it was this program, which he had patiently and painstakingly uncovered as investigative journalist Clark Kent, which horrified him beyond words. His mind wandered darkly as the rhythmic sounds of the train carried him home.

He almost didn't notice the tiny pinprick of a needle trying and failing to enter his upper thigh. By the time he looked up in surprise, his neighbor had stood, discreetly dropped something on the floor, and was making his way to the just-opened exit at 42nd street.

Clark gave no response, but he let his senses follow the man as he left the train and walked down the platform and into a narrow stairwell, losing himself in the crowd. A quick look showed the man carried a wallet whose ID read Michael Johnson, no cell phone - strange - but he had a small radio in his pocket connected to a collar mic. And a concealed gun holstered on his right hip. As the train started to pull away, Clark heard the man talk into his mic: "Negative contact, negative contact. Equipment failure. Return site bravo."

Clark stood and started making his way toward the back of the train, gently but insistently shoving his way through the packed cars. His mind was racing. His heart would be too, if it could. He came to the back of the train, miraculously empty, and with a silent apology he removed his glasses, looked up, and let the unquenchable energies boiling within him briefly escape out through his eyes, where they instantly vaporized a section of the train's ceiling. He had flown up and out before the whistling sound of the hole reached the nearest passenger.

He took a short ballistic arc back downtown, topping out at 3,000 feet and descending meteorically over Chinatown. He scanned a 5 block radius around the restaurant, then 10, then 15 - and that was when he saw the contact. He was lying prone on the street, his arms and legs uselessly splayed, and a crowd was gathering around him. Is there a doctor here? What's wrong with him? Oh god. Someone call 911. Even from the sky Clark could see the man would be dead in seconds.

He landed softly in the middle of the crowd - they immediately withdrew to give him space - knelt and draped his cape over the dying man's torso. He saw a telltale pinprick in the man's upper thigh. He saw the man's heart spasming with each beat, laboring with each pulse of precious lifeblood, failing, fading. He died.

Clark closed his eyes and allowed himself one deep breath, one silent moment. He felt the roar of the energies inside him, the stored sunlight pleading for a purpose, roiling, insisting. He gathered his cape and stood and turned to a woman in the crowd and said, "Please call an ambulance. This man is dead, but he deserves to be seen by a doctor."

As the woman took out her phone she asked, "What about you? What are you going to do?"

He looked at her: a middle aged woman, worn down by the world but not broken, accustomed to loss, saddened by what she'd just seen but not shocked. Well acquainted with tragedy.

Truth, he almost replied. And justice. But he made no response and instead ascended slowly and gently into the air so as not to disturb the cooling corpse, accelerating as he rose, breaking the sound barrier before he'd cleared the 10th story of the nearby buildings, and flew a line as straight and true as a ray of light toward the 42nd street train station.

"The Director will see you now."

Nodding to the receptionist, Agents Clinton and Bush rose from their seats and entered the top-floor corner office for the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. Beads of sweat rolled down their spine as they made their way into the drab-yet-oranately decorated room. Stood at the end was the Director. Staring out the window, his grey hair and broad shoulders imposed a long shadow over the desk.

"Agents, take a seat." He said calmly, almost a whisper. If ice and stone had a voice, his was it.

He turned to face them, grey haired and balding with a unmistakable belly indicating years of fine wine, rich food and leisurely rounds of golf.

"Status report."

The Agents looked at each other, engaging in game of chicken to see who would speak first whilst making sure they collectively didn't take too long to respond. Bush broke first.

"Our last attempt was unsuccessful sir. Another stroke of unforeseen bad luck."

Agents Clinton and Bush had been having a lot of bad luck lately. Six months they had been trying to assassinate Clark Kent, a prominant journalist at the Daily Planet. Six attempts in six months, each failing more incredulously than the last.

The first attempt was simple. A lethal-yet-untraceable dose of Ricin slipped into Kent's coffee. They watched via video feed as Kent lifted the cup, a big goofy smile on his face. He lifted it to his mouth to drink, taking a big deep inhale to savour the scent. He then appeared to get distracted by something on his screen, placing the cup down awkwardly and spilling it in the process. The second attempt they tried the same again, this time Kent announced to the intern that he was taking a break from coffee, his boy-scout grin disarming as he waved a water flask apologetically.

"Kent's inauspicious switch to a healthier lifestyle is bad luck Agents, this is begining to feel like incompetence." he said, now turning around and fixing them both with the cold, dead eyed stare pre-requisite for a CIA Director.

Bush and Clinton shifted nervously in their chair. After the Ricin they moved the operation to Kent's home for their third attempt. They fixed minature bombs to his car breaks. Detonated remotely and leaving no trace, they were a favourite of the agency. Again they watched in disbelief as Kent climbed inside his car, and then a couple minutes later got out. Bush smashed his mug against the wall in frustration whilst Clinton stared in silence as they watched Kent hold his hand out to the warm sun, go inside the house, and return wearing walking shoes. He had taken public transport ever since.

"But Sir," Bush interjected, "there was no way we could have predicted the mugging failure."

Attempt number four involved a mugger, hired anonymously, to rob and kill Kent down an alleyway. Again, the sounds of broken stationary could be heard after the Agents watched Kent slowly back away with his hands up. The mugger slowly walked towards him, before suddenly slipping up on patch of... seemingly nothing at all, cracking his head on the ground knocking himself unconcious.

"Prior planning prevents piss poor performance Agent Bush. You should have prepared and hired a second mugger."

Agent Clinton let out a snort, realising too late his mistake. The director slammed his fist down hard on the table making even the seasoned Agents collectively and figuartively shit themselves.

"I don't see what you find so funny Agent Clinton. Last time I checked you seemed to have no problem handling a simple boshjob!"

A boshjob was the borrowed colloquial term for a push-and-run, from the UK 'bish bash bosh' job done. By attempt number five the Agents were getting desperate. Keen to finish the job, Agent Clinton studied Kent's subway route, finding a perfect time and location to subtly push him off the platform just before an arriving train. Making his approach, he made one last check to see if the coast was clear. Not that it mattered, his Covert-Issue Shimercamo suit rendered him invisible. As the train arrived, he pushed.

Only, to his surprise, Kent pivoted at the last second, patting his pockets as if he had forgotten something. Clinton's momentum meant he would have been the one kissing the train had Kent not caught him. Kent grabbing his arm had shortcircuited the suit, revealing nothing but the plain suit underneath.

"Gee almost didn't see you there! You okay sir?" Watching the man he had just tried to murder all flustered, fussing over him and patting the non-existent dirt off whilst asking repeatedly if he was alright... it was a feeling he would never forget.

The director went to his drinks cabinet, poured himself a glass of something strong and then took his seat. "Now, what happened with this latest cockup? I've read the report, I want to hear it from you."

Their latest attempt had upped the ante with no result. Desperate, the Agents anonymously hired Intergang - the nationwide organised crime syndicate. Kent was attending a press conference at a banking expo. Intergang were hired to storm, rob, and take hostages. They could keep whatever they could get and would recieve support to escape with high value targets, ensuring they would recieve any ransom they demanded. The one condition was that they killed Kent to show that they were serious. However, Kent was nowhere to be found. Instead they found themselves all unconcious or incapacitated by Superman. Kent was in the bathroom and had missed the whole thing.

"Sir, may I ask.. is it necessary to remove Kent from the equation? We could simply hack his computer and delete all his research into our ties with the upcoming UK election coup."

A vein visably popped in the Directors forehead.

"Agents, in the event that the Democratic-Socialist party comes to power in the UK, do you know why we are staging a coup? It's the same reason why Kent has to die." The Agents had no answer. "If that commie bastard becomes leader it won't just start with Scandinavian-style "centrist policies". No. It's a slippery slope. You give the left an inch, they'll take a mile. First you allow higher taxes and better public services. Then they nationalise transport, utilities, energy. And then before you can say 'Karl Marx' the corporate class are behind bars or in exile, assets seized and hippy cooperatives running the whole goddamn show. The press outlets are worker owned and not the controlled opposition running the narratives that we want, not to mention what they'll do to the British military-industrial complex! Suddenly we've lost our special relationship to America's best simp-state in Europe. That, Agents, is why Clark Kent must die and why we at the CIA need to make sure those limey red fucks NEVER win an election. It's not just about power, it's about about principle... and sending a message."

"Thank you Director, that's all I needed to hear."

Glass shattered as the Directors tumbler hit the floor. The Agents turned around. Floating in the air a foot above the ground was Him. Superman. Their eyes caught the tail-end of their covert-issue Shimercamo flickering off, revealing the crossed arms of the nations most infamous Superhero.

"You have some fantastic gadetry here gentlemen I'll give you that. This CIA invisiblity tech you have here is incredible," he glanced at Agent Clinton, "along with the recording devices I placed in your pockets and the cameras dotted around the room." A pile of papers wooshed into the air as a blue-red blur collected the incriminating evidence. "You should really be careful when trying to murder one of the worlds finest investigative journalists, especially one that has me in his contact list."

"You've just made yourself an enemy of the American state you alien scum." The Director screamed. "What happened to truth, justice, and the American way?"

Superman smiled before melting the glass behind the director. He turned to see the Man of Steel now floating in the air outside above him.

"Who said CIA coups and assassinations were the American way? Think we better let the press and the American people decide that, don't you?"

And before the Director could reply he was gone, leaving nothing but a red-blue blur.

It was mid morning as the director came into the office. "Here's your coffee sir" said an intern holding out a Starbucks cup leaning forward almost in a half bow. Director Clement took the cup from him without a word and took a sip. "This has almond milk, I thought I told you nitwits I preferred coconut milk." "I am so sorry" said the, for all intents and purposes, nameless intern. The director brushed past him without another word coffee in hand and went into his office. He sat in his luxurious cushioned leather chair and looked at the small folder that read "TOP SECRET". He opened it; inside there was a small stack of messages. The first one read "I believe the mission is done. I followed the mark for a couple days to see his usual routine and on his way to work I stuck him with a cyanide coated pin on the end of an umbrella. I got the idea from some documentary a watched a while back, those crazy soviets were always doin wild stuff." The director grimaced and picked up the next note. "Alright turns out this cat is still showing up for work so I guess I gotta just stick to the basics. Every day he stops by a Starbucks and they just so happen to have a help wanted sign. I applied to the job and got it, all I gotta do is spike his coffee after Kevin here shows me the ropes." The director sighs and picked up the next message. "Alright alright this man is an unstoppable force of nature, I suppose I gotta step up violence. I've planted a nice little surprise in the garbage bins near his apartment. Kevin's a nice lad I think you'd like him. He's been showing me how to make little leafs on the coffee." The director frowned as he saw yet another message in the file. "I shit you not on this, he was right next to the explosion, and all he did was lost his clothes. While the man was certainly above average, I was thinking with how tough he was he'd have to coil it up in a jockstrap like one of them bubble gum tapes. I've still been giving him the spiked coffees, today I put a four leaf clover in it hoping for some better luck. This has been real stressful, Kevin says there's a lot of tension in my shoulders." The director took a large breath in and pinched the bridge of his nose as he looked at the last message in the file. "Y'know boss I think I'ma just stay working at this joint with Kevin and that this has been a message from God. I showed my mom a picture of the four leaf clover I put in his coffee today, she said she was proud of me and she was happy I turned my life around. Sorry about your coffee but you were the only person who knew my identity :/" the directors stomach churned.

Virginia 6:50 AM

This has to be it. We have been hunting him for weeks now with nothing to show for it. We have visual confirmation sir, it is him. That's great, we need to clean this mess as soon as possible. Ask delta to move in. Have beta on standby to engage only on delta's call. 

Istanbul 2:55 PM

Alright delta going in the building now. 

Virginia 7:30 AM

They're on the floor now sir, all exits sealed. Waiting for green light. 

Virginia 7:40 AM

Alright, go in now. We need this to be clean no loose ends. 

Istanbul 3:42 PM

Roger Alpha. going in now.

Istanbul 4:00 PM

We tried talking to Superman sir. He came out of nowhere, with the dust we lost sight of the target. There was nothing we could do. We had to pull out quickly. We got two laptops and some documents.

Virginia 8:30 AM

Mr. President, we have secured two laptops and some documents of the deal. But we cannot say if there were any copies. This has become an international incident now with Superman being involved. We had to pull out quickly to avoid media. 

Athens 6 PM, next day

This is Clark Kent, I am recording this because I am in immediate danger from some agencies, and it is important for this information to be public in case anything happens to me. I only have a few minutes. This is about the……….

The hit was simple.

A journalist by the name of Clark Kent.

Hired by some dirty cops to do some dirty work.

A couple days of planning and the trap was set. Clark had a knack for getting himself into trouble from what I gathered, so the plan would kill two birds with one stone. One, take out Clark Kent. Two, plant evidence leading cops to a rather nasty smuggling operation here in the city. (I left out the fact I had taken a job for them a few months back, less pay but a nice safehouse incase things went topsy turvy)

There was construction in a building across the way, a front for some old mafioso pals back in the day. Having remembered the service elevator in the back, I grabbed my bag and my suitcase and shipped off. Got to the site and field assembled ol'reliable, distance 100 meters, breeze? I lick my finger and stick in the air, none. I look through scope and through the window, favorite lunch spot with a window view, 4th time this week. Humans are creatures of habit. I load a round into the bolt chamber with a resounding clang, best sound In the world in my opinion.

I steady my breathing, account for bullet drop on the scope, and, just to be safe. I decided against the silencer on the rifle due to wanting them to find the evidence, but I upholster my 9mm and silence it instead, Incase things go that south.

I breathe out one long breath... and squeeze the trigger.

PING

...what

The bullet went through and landed on target, I'm sure of it. He fell down from his seat at the bench and then promptly got back up.

That... that hit, I'm positive

He looks at his coworkers, and assures them of his safety and then looks out the window.

Right at me

...yeah it's time to go

I begin packing up, leaving the "evidence" as I make my escape, fold up the rifle back into it's suitcase and back out. The 9mm in my back pocket ready to be drawn at a hai--

"Forgetting something?"

I spin around with the gun in my hand and fire at the voice

Ping

Superman

Godamn superman

That smug smile on his face is the last thing I see before waking up in the police department.

It used to be called Project:433-Kent.

These days we just call it Project Rasputin. You would too if you witnessed as much as we all have. The way that Clark Kent survives.

Human cockroach, the Unkillable, Metal Man, Clark Kent. All synonymous.

Like any of us, one eventually knows too much; gets too close. Even if he didn’t work for us, he couldn’t leave well enough alone when it came to Lex Luthor. It’s a shame, really, I would have liked to see that guy finally get what’s coming to him. Even so, you can’t punch up the system without getting put out. Not with how Mr. Luthor owns half the city, at least.

That’s why we all thought it’d be easy. Get in, get rid of the issue, get out. Have the local police turn a blind eye. We didn’t account for Clark to be the goddamn beast he actually is. The man eats bullets for breakfast, I swear to God. Then he gets up, goes to work, and doesn’t notice until lunchtime that there’s a hole in his shirt.

I wish I could tell you what color he bleeds, but we haven’t got that far. Not yet. Maybe he’ll kill us all before we get the chance. Then again it’s like he doesn’t even notice us; he probably thinks we’re annoying at best.

Bullets, poison, bits of metal in his food, all unnoticed and ineffective. Made no progress with explosives. Poisonous gas leak? No dice.

That being said…

Advice?

To: Director of Operations

From: Director of Science and Technology

Date: Mar. 12, 2016

Subject: Kent

It has been discovered that Mr. Kent has obtained documents related to the ongoing project Two Spoon. This is seen as a threat to the security and future of the project if such documentation where released into the public domain. I strongly recommend action be taken to correct this issue as outlined by PBSUCCESS, section 23, subparagraph 7.

​

* * *

​

To: Director of Science and Operations

From: Director of Operations

Date: Apr. 22, 2016

Subject: Kent/Pillow Talk

Operation Pillow Talk has been initiated. Team designation is Tripod. Notification upon completion will be transmitted however all documentation and communication during operation will be internal to the Directorate of Operations. Available only on authorized request.

​

* * *

​

To: Director of Operations

From: Office of Requisitions

Date: May 3, 2016

Subject: PKG 1023/Pillow Talk

Please attach authorization. Tripod Actual has requested standard EP Pkg with redundancies that flagged this for divisional authorization. Thank you.

* * *

To: Director of Operations

From: Office of Requisitions

Date: May 29, 2016

Subject: PKG 572, PKG 327a/Pillow Talk

Please attach authorization. Tripod Actual has requested P-EP Pkg 572 with additional sub pkg 327 (kit alpha) for ongoing operation Pillow Talk. Please note that all further requests from Tripod are now flagged with review notation under internal document Hephaestus (section 3, subsection 1.3.8, paragraph 12). In addition to this notation, fiscal review of operational budget allowance for Tripod may be requested per the Office of Requisitions under that notation.

* * *

To: Director of Operations

From: Office of Requisitions

Date: June 13, 2016

Subject: PKG 52, PKG 73, PKG 110/Pillow Talk

Please be advised. Fiscal review of Operation Pillow Talk has been scheduled for June 20, 2016 0900 before the Operational council.

ATTENTION: PKG 73 is a type 5 P countermeasure, designation flamebird

Please attach authorization. Current payload is ready for deployment.

* * *

To: Director of Science and Technology

From: Director of Operations

Date: June 20, 2016

Subject: Pillow Talk

For reasons outlined in Operational Council Meeting this date: Operation Pillow Talk is suspended until further notice. Please take internal measures to minimize potential damage related to exposure of documentation on project: two spoon

Please audit attached audio file. Contents are last intercepted message received from Tripod Actual.

* * *

[excerpt 12]

"What? Say again Tripod 2, say again."

"Tripod Actual, bogey inbound bogey inbound! Confirmed: Superman...I repeat, its Superman!"

"WHAT!!! You got to be $#!^ me!! He just showed up again!!!"

“Affirmative, I have a shot.” An agent whispers into a headset, standing on the mile tall building besides the Daily Planet, the most popular news organization in Metropolis. The man wore an ordinary T-Shirt, designed by the head agents of this operation to look particularly ordinary. “The fuck are you doing, Regis? Take it!” The New Yorker accent of head agent James Jackson replies. Regis could hear the cigar being tapped on an ashtray through the transmission. Regis, with no hesitation, shoots the man.

The man, as if nothing happened, turned around to investigate the noise. Regis could hear screams as people saw the bullet on the ground. “The fuck?” Regis mutters. He quickly scopes the man in and shoots again. “What’s wrong, Regis?” Regis shoots again. “The bullets, sir. They’re… bouncing off of him.” James’ tone changed almost instantly.

“Regis, run!” Regis immediately started running towards the door to the building. “What’s wrong, sir?” James swings the door open. “The fuckers a meta human!” He bolted down the stairs, until he reached a hallway encasing a set of hotel rooms. Regis could hear something being thrown at the wall through the transmission. “Fuck! Did he see you, Regis?” Regis shakes his head, then realizes James isn’t looking at him. “No, sir. He was looking at the window, not me.” There was a sigh heard through the transmission. “Okay, good.” A few clicks are heard. “Standby, Regis, a chopper’s headed your way.” Regis nodded his head, laughing as he again realized nobody could see him. “Thank you, sir.” Regis could hear the helicopter in the distance. He slowly walked back up the stairs. Once he met the door, he opened it, to be met with a huge S. Superman was at the door, and he had questions.

Part 1

"Gentlemen" , spoke the Director. A wide wooden table was host to a small group of men in suits. With the folders each one carried and their elegance, it would probably fool the untrained eye into thinking it was a normal corporate meeting by executives. However, the people sitting were among the deadliest in the country, and the contents in their folders would probably make a tinfoil maniac out of the average Joe.

"It has fallen into my attention" , he continued, "that a metropolitan journalist who goes by Clark Kent has been stumbling disruptively close to many of the people present in this room's more sensitive projects. How should this situation be approached?".

"This man is currently aware of classified information that no person outside of the Agency has managed to manipulate without having their lives in jeopardy. Clark Kent has to be dealt with as swiftly as possible." , said Jasper Thompson, a high-ranking expert on assasinations.

"Yes, Thompson, it is being worked on unsuccessfully as we speak. Mr. Kent has unwittingly rejected food and office drinks laced with the deadliest toxins on this planet, survived any attempted traffic accidents, and all direct physical attempts carried out in Metropolis have been stopped by his red and blue buddy. So, any ideas?" replied the Director.

The room fell silent. Seconds later, a low, yet indistinct chatter began. Whispers were exchanged, archives shown around, and the possibility of metahuman killers was thrown around, until the low-ranking intern who had entered to take away their finished coffees decided to speak:

"Have you tried fishing him out of the city?"

"As unauthorized as you might be to stay within this meeting, I plead you to elaborate.".

"Here's the thing: If you try to do anything actually certain to him in Metropolis, such as setting up a sniper, the boy scout will simply scoop down and save him. But what about cities outside of the big S' territory? What about a shithole like Gotham, where we could bet for having half the town on our payroll and on him?".

The Director stood silent for a few seconds, as he slowly processed the available courses of action. Quickly after, he got up from his chair, and started the familiar order barking everyone was looking forward to. "You've got a point. Richard, elaborate a distraction story to draw Kent into Gotham. Gerry, delay all possible transport so as to buy us time for the set up. Jasper, arrange an agreement with Oswald Cobblepot and Roman Sionis, we do not need their organized crime rings to breathe on our necks. I will talk to Amanda Waller a few days after this meeting, and we will see if her goon squad can handle the mess ol' Smallville is getting himself into".

I am tied up with something but have a thought… by mistake an intended attack on Clark Kent misses or a bullet ricochets and it appears to be an assassination attempt on a politician (maybe incorporate real history here). Under increasing scrutiny, the CIA is forced to wind down their assassination program, at least as far as Clark Kent is concerned. To his handlers, shooter insists he struck Kent but that’s impossible, the politician was hit and nobody caught the hole in Clarks clothing. Shooter and ends up in an insane asylum… where he is subjected to a procedure that transforms him into a nemesis with special abilities, who only has it out for Clark Kent, not (knowingly) for Superman.

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