The Mirror

The Mirror (part 2 - dumped)

Brilliant white light invades the dark interior of the Beetle-jet as the rear ramp lowers.
The bluish tinted hologram of their face shields darkens automatically as summer's sunlight assault them
Without even a pair of cheap sunglasses, I can only squint as blinding overexposure envelops General Zod as he leads the way, disappearing before his path down the ramp can lower him out of sight 
The Big-Guy and Rifleman follow Zod with weapons at the ready
Having been told nothing outside of being woken up by Dex's 'Ready?' 
Curiosity mixes with uncertainty as I watch them leave
Faora solving my uncertainty with a finger nudge to my shoulder as she passes in a clear signal to follow her
Having lived in a gloomy-hole for what feels like a year-long-week, the overhead sunlight is worse than the glare of a setting sun reflecting off a lake
That I will trip, or bump into someone, keeps my attention divided between the ground of my next step and the distance to her back as we pass where Zod's soldiers have posted themselves on each side of the Beetle-jet's ramp
A few steps out into the heat are all I need for my squinting stare to expand pupils in incredulity at the size of the trap we have just walked into...
I stop.
Stop a stop that is the same moment of terror as if I had stepped in front of a speeding bus:
Sure,
All it is quiet, now
No one is shooting, yet
But there is no mistaking this heavily armored firing-squad for being the celebratory parade America is throwing for Zod's return to Earth 
Because
All of the guns are pointed at us
And this time, the military force which has shown-up is not the highly mobile reconnaissance unit that was America's fast-jab at General Zod in Smallville
No... This time America had time to get ready at a location of its choosing. 
It is as if the entire semi-circle of U.S. Military firepower is simply waiting on someone to yell:
Fire!
That everyone lined up against can start shooting without a single worry about hitting what is behind us is all anyone needs to see to know their plan is to start firing.
Heart stops as I consider the skirmish-line of soldiers centering the line some thirty yards distant...
Men who are standing behind a line of concrete highway crash barriers
Behind them
Further back in the End-Zone of this dry Salt Lake, turned shooting-range, a line of tanks and infantry fighting vehicles stand with all of their barrels pointed at us.
A greater distance away, behind the tanks, and all the way back, in the cheap seats of death's coliseum, grim silhouettes of Apache attack helicopters hover low on the horizon.
Thoughts do not need an iota of imagination to guess that, high above the helicopters, real warplanes are waiting to be called in; while, much, much further back, men in deep bunkers wait with their fingers on the launch buttons for the call to send unthinkably deadly things in our direction...
That ALL of it will start firing in just a few seconds leads thoughts to one screaming conclusion:
We are so fucking toast!
Anger looks for the idiot who led us into this slaughter...
And so, I see:
Zod doesn't care!
His fast military walking pace continues onward, unfazed by the size of the problem confronting him.
Panic in search of sanity looks for Faora
Seeing she has also not slowed her pace
Whereas Zod had turned left to make his straight line to the American lineup; Faora is still walking a straight line
I look away from what her cape is blocking to take a second look at Zod
Letting out the terrorized breath I was holding as soon as I see the difference in the group he approaching:
To Zod's front stands a mix of dark business-suits and uniforms with lots of shiny brass.
Relief exhales tension as I start to see this meeting is a negotiation.
A good idea until I think about why Zod does not have a rifle:
Maybe he is going to surrender?
Quick glance checks my theory with a second look at Faora who also does not have a rifle
Thoughts waiver as conflicting evidence arrives:
They sure are not walking like someone who feels defeated... Or even scared!
Panic turns to embarrassment as I think about who looks scared:
Me.
An embarrassing need to hide my panicked-face looks down as I resume walking
Going until the idea of not paying attention causes me to look up from cowardly feet just in time to catch sight of Faora's silhouette as she points a sharp finger down at the ground before changing her course in a crisply sharp pivot to turn in a seventy-degree angle turn so she may head for the far right of the US military formation.
I watch her walk as I go straight
Noticing the loose formation of soldiers have ignored Zod, and are keeping their focused on her
Which seems stupid because it is the guys behind me who brought their guns
Uneasy with being abandoned by Faora's maneuver, I slow down and watch helmeted soldiers shift their stances as she moves to take up a position near the end of their line; seeing instantly it a flanking maneuver designed to divide their attention; the usefulness of which is undone by the obvious fact she forgot her rifle.
I want to shout:
Fuck! 
At the stupidity Zod has led us into
I want to run over and tell her to go get a rifle
Because:
Although the chance of rain out on this dry salt lake may be: Zero
The chance of shooting is clearly: One Hundred Percent
The sight of her bulky armor reminds me of my own vulnerability
Suddenly I am conscious of my own weakness
I feel naked.
The same caught off-guard sense of public nudity one gets with the nightmare of showing up to class naked
But instead of pointing-fingers and howling laughter, today, in my nightmare, all of the cool-kids are pointing guns.
Tension makes fists in pockets as consciousness tries to remind self that I am not naked
I am wearing blue jeans.
A pair of work boots.
A belt!
Well dipshit, is that t-shirt of yours bulletproof? 
I mutter my thoughts on the situation as I remember that I was supposed to walk to a specific point:
'Damn it.'
Curse brings him into near-distance focus:
Seeing him, first, as the U.S. Military's sacrificial lamb
A dunce whose job is to stand out in front of everyone, just so the others will have time to act when they see him get killed, first.
Sunlight's glare off of the white bed of a dried salt lake, and a sense of doom's inevitability, push my gaze away from examining the guy who drew team-America's short-straw
With no where to run, panic is over overcome by the hopelessness of our situation
Hands stay in pockets as I shuffle onward.
Looking down.
Until I can feel myself getting close to a guy who I expect to see is my doppelgänger
As his boots arrive in my dejected downward gaze, I look up to see, who from my old-team, was unlucky enough to be out here with me...
I expect to see myself:
A loser who no one cares about because they are not actually useful to the team.
Instead...
I see the military rank insignia of a full-bird colonel.
A man who has advanced up the ranks to reach a point where the Brigade of soldiers behind him, are his  
Seeing his colonel-rank and commanding stature tells me instantly that he is not a pawn, but a hard-ass Patton-wannabe who thinks of himself as not just embodying America's first line of defense, but being America's first line of defense.
A part of me remembers my time in the Army
A part of me tries to remind self, that I should: walk briskly towards him; salute stiffly; speak a sharply spoken, report, by giving him a hearty:  "Good Day, Sir!"
But not only am I not in the Army anymore, I did not like being in the Army when I was in the Army
And not just because I was forced to trade three-years of military service to avoid going to jail for ninety days and losing my driver's license for three years.
That I now have to play soldier once again is an idea crushed by the fact that I have other things on my mind than our dumbass-army.
Luckily the conflicting emotions are quelled before the sternly resolute colonel turns his attention to me
In the instant our eyes make contact, his expression makes his verdict clear:
He doesn't like what he sees.
Not at all
Unwilling to step within handshake range, I come to a stop.
Not wanting to make small-talk, I look down into the empty space between us to collect my thoughts
As I do, I begin to feel the heat of summer's Sun thaw pain
Pain from aches I remember
Pains from aches I do not remember
It is as if I have woken up in a cheap motel with stolen kidneys
That I cannot remember how it happened is a sensation suddenly interrupted by an awareness of my overarching incompetence
A theme central to my character, now brought into sharp focus by the realization of the insolence occurring as I keep my hands in my pockets while standing in front of a senior military officer
An internal rebuke I feel, not because I give a shit about this guy, but because of how General Zod will see it, as me, disrespecting a fellow officer
What else will Zod not tolerate? 
Hands are pulled quickly out of pockets.
That I once wore a watch causes an old habit of distraction to fire:
I look at my left wrist
A left wrist on a left forearm that is now a permanent rash of unnatural divots
Pockmarks left by an alien-bug's quills
An ugly rash of still open sores, now covered in bruises
At first glance the bruising on my forearms could be the ringed bruising from the grip of an abusive parent
But the bruising is too wide to be just a single incident of abuse
That the bruises are also matched on legs as well as torso makes the event a mystery
A mystery, which will not go unnoticed...
Someone will call child services!
The deep scar on my face pulls skin tight as the inside joke triggers a chuckle.
Humor is swatted away as I catch the Air Force Colonel's alarmed look.
His own alarm signaled by a tense posture amplified by his pressing the inside of his arm against the holster of his pistol; as if he knows he needs to be quick on the draw, but also knows he doesn't dare reach for the pistol's handle
For:
In old Western movies, to touch your pistol, during a Mexican Stand-off, is to say you are making your move
Therefore,
If you are drawing your gun, then the other gunslinger gets to draw his gun
Shooting your opponent becomes an act of self-defense.
Murder becomes an acceptable reaction.
I think of the two guys behind me:
Two alien soldiers, in alien armor, holding alien rifles.
See the reason colonel has brought his personal toy:
Not his regular military 9mm pistol
But
Dirty-Harry's .44-Magnum
A toy he knew he needed because he did not come out here to shoot humans
He did not need more bullets
He needed BIGGER bullets
Instantly I also know who it was that gave him the idea on his hip
It is a revelation telling me I was one wrong move from him drawing to shoot the punk who pulled unlucky hands out of empty pockets...
And what would child services have said about that, Inspector Callahan?
The unexpected joke strikes a funny bone at the wrong time
Not wanting Faora to hear me laughing, I turn to throw the laugh into the wind
The wind coming from Zod's direction
And see an instantly sobering sight as I do:
For all the way, on what is my left of the American line, General Zod stands stiffly against a semi-circle of VIPs who seem to want to surround him
And out of all of them
One VIP stands apart from all the others: 
Even from here I can recognize the uniform
But his uniform is not colored in matte Kryptonian gray, but richly hued red and blue
Not bright, like the American flag, but close enough for the fact to be clear to everyone who sees him:
He is a guy who wants to be thought of as being on team-America
Not really taller than Zod, but much broader in the shoulders
He is a man who is, in stature, between Zod and Zod's giant soldier; a soldier I refer to as Big-Guy, because no one, but Jax and Faora will talk to me
Instinctively I know who Mr. Red-n-Blue is: 
He is the criminal Zod crossed an ocean of stars to capture...
Kal-El is his name.
His cape waves slightly as the wind pushes on my face
They look serious.
But not so serious that a fist-fight is about to start!
The good news allows me to take a second look at his colors
I let a second, mirthless, chuckle depart my mouth as I think about how vulnerable he must feel
After all
I am no one.
But that guy is a wanted man.
An outlaw who showed up to the party wearing only his pajamas
Even outnumbered and without a gun, Zod and everyone else on his side is wearing armor
I project my own feeling of being caught in only a t-shirt and jeans onto Kal-El...
My thought is as clear as the blue sky above us:
I bet he feels naked standing there, in his underwear, without a suit of armor or a rifle! 
Wind waves his cape like the flag as the wind picks up.
Pity for the bandit who is about to be arrested is pushed away as a gust of wind buffets my eardrums
The dull whistle of air traveling across the dry lakebed is nature's cone of silence
A buffeting noise covering-up whatever is being said 30 feet from where I stand.
The muffling sound carries away the thought of trying to pay attention:
This is not about you.
It is an idea that makes me feel like an eavesdropper
A useless gawker
A farm hand wearing a t-shirt and jeans.
Comparison is the final insult, which turns me back into the colonel's glaring contempt:
Caught during a measuring examination of me, the colonel's eyes leap from the bruised divots on my arm, stopping for an instant on the big scar on my face, before re-centering to throw his unexplainable, but obvious, dislike for me, directly into my face.
The frown he gets is for the soreness I feel as I think of what I should do...
You should say, Hi
But he hasn't said, Hi
Hell, he hasn't even asked me if I am okay
Or, if they treated me well
Which obviously they haven't...
So, you know, "fuck you" for not asking!
Surprised blink strikes as I wonder if I actually said anything...
Realizing as I accept the fact, I have kept silent, that I don't want to talk to Colonel Dirty Harry who brought his big-pistol out here to shoot at Faora.
And so, not wanting to deal with Colonel Magnum-Force's contempt makes the solution to him a simple one:
I turn away from the man whose lineage may trace a direct line all the way back to some forever-nameless Roman Legionnaire
Spinning as I do to face the eyes I felt on my back:
Back to where the Big-Guy and Rifleman are staring their own confrontation right back at me   
Or past me...
I guess.
To the colonel and his pack of heavily armed soldiers who form a skirmish formation as well as the tanks behind them
Desire for confrontation avoidance keeps me turning
Until
With my back to the colonel
Stare stops at the beauty that is an empty horizon
The perfectly flat cone of vision between where the Beetle-jet is parked and where Faora is standing
Vision pulls my mind into the wedge of serenity
The serenity of a dry lakebed of flat salt as it expands into a blank expanse of white until it disappears into a shimmering horizon
Dark mountains point peaks out of that same shimmer to stand boldly under the desert sun
From a distance, the lakebed looks perfectly flat
But at my feet, the salt lakebed is extra-course grit sandpaper in bleached white
TV memories recalls videos of racers who set world speed records on lakebeds like this
Pained body easily imagines the greater pain of racers crashing a long skidding wreck on a surface I now know is a lot more abrasive than it appears on TV
I look up and away from the imagination of speed's pain
Clear blue sky lets the sun's heat land unfiltered
Sun's heat begins to feel strong as I face it
Staring into the sun until it swirls in my vision
Bathing in its warmth, a disjointed memory drops into my thoughts:
Her eyes don't follow the knife as she drags it down my neck; they remain locked into mine; her smile is that of a toying cat as she withdraws the razor right before it cuts the tiny mole at the base of my neck as if she has already mapped every inch of me...
I jolt back from the memory with a gasp.
Air pants in and out of me as it fades away
Hot desert air dries my throat
I swallow dryness as I look down from the sun
Faora has approached to within a step of me
Her helmet's darkened visor almost hiding her smile
A knowing smile telling me, that maybe, she can imagine where my mind has gone.
Congratulatory voices are indistinct as they try to make headway against the wind's quiet whistling
I pivot to follow the nod of her nose as she shifts her gaze to focus on the VIPs
See the historical moment as it happens:
Zod is shaking hands with Kal-El! 
The significance of the moment is underscored with bold ink as all of the other VIPs are warned away from trying to grab their own handshake by Zod's curtly formal nod:
One at a time Zod fires his nod to the suits and polished brass who appear intent of shaking his hand
It is a gesture cautioning the suits and brass to keep a respectful distance.
With the glad-handlers fought to a stalemate, Zod turns slowly to impassively scan the phalanx of soldiers and military equipment that is here to ensure the conversation remained polite
His scan completed, Zod turns and walks a line straight back towards his Beetle-Jet
Saying it as he crosses the point at which his straight line arrives as close as it will to the point Faora and I are standing
Zod's voice is reserved satisfaction:
'Commander, the field is yours.'
She's looking at me as I return my attention to her
Her expression is absent as she says it:
'Kneel.'
Without any apparent connection to either side I had started to feel invisible
Irrelevant
Perhaps so irrelevant that the military may even forget I was here when they left.
Which is fine with me...
Because I have other plans
Needs
Like the need to ask Faora for her phone number
Or
Make dinner plans.
But now, even though I doubt the air has carried her voice past my ear, an unexpected problem as occurred...
In a previous life, I could have sought safety in the thought her command was actually said quietly, because, nobody would think the request was reasonable enough to speak
Much less obey it
But
That was a different life
And so, I have already lowered to one knee even before I can wonder, why she is asking
Not that she would answer you!
With me down on one knee, she squares her shoulders as she stares at the colonel:
The darkened hologram of her helmet drops away leaving her face uncovered
She closes her eyes and grits as an unseen force smashes into her
Her fists clench and the strength of her legs seem to want to give out
She could be Atlas holding up an invisible world.
Fists rise as her biceps flex under the armor's plates
Alarm arrives with the realization that she is fighting something
I am about to call a warning to her when she opens her eyes with a deep exhale
A fast breath follows within her
The tension building in her flexing arms drops away and she steadies herself with a second deeper breath
Her smile says the unseen enemy is no more.
None of the victory leaves her as she looks down on me:
'Take off your shirt!'
Where 'kneel' was a whisper, the force in her voice now suggests she may be telling everyone to take off their shirts
I feel their uncertainty without feeling it within me
Swaying slowly to up to one knee I raise both hands to lift the cleaned, but increasingly threadbare t-shirt off by its crewneck
Head and back bend as I pull it over my head and let it fall down with only a solitary hand holding it
With my back to them I know the purpose of her instruction no longer needs an explanation for the pattern of her armor's breastplate is scarred into my back at the angle of a fireman's carry.
I look up to her, careful to keep my back straight
She seems particularly interested in the Air Force Colonel right behind me:
'Do you understand?'
The increased force of her voice shocks me into looking down before she finishes:
'Whose Human this is?'
She wants me!
My heart pounds at the idea
Colonel Dirty Harry takes up the gauntlet she has thrown down with a confidence only Gothamites seem to know:
'This is the land of the free.'
She steps past me.
Feeling the fight about to start I let go of the shirt and stand as she passes
The ranks of the soldiers stiffen
Weapons are raised, but not to the point of being aimed
Their regular infantry rifles replaced by heavier rifles that I do not recognize as being American; a few even sport guns that look like they fire grenades
This is about Smallville!
It is though the female politician that fires first.
I recognize the bluntness of her Texas accent from a campaign stop she made during the Kansas primary:
'We have an agreement!'
She is a former Governor who came close to winning at the start of the primaries only to run out of steam in the middle of the race and be forced to accept the number two slot on the winning presidential ticket
With her opponent's white hair accenting a smoker's scratchy illusion of harshness, it is clear Faora dislikes Zod's agreement just as much as she dislikes the idea of what America calls a leader
Faora's retort is to show how harsh is really done:
'Guard your agreement closely!'
Faora's attention drifts to the commandingly tall general who has worn his field uniform to ensure the troops know he is not some Pentagon-Brass bureaucrat, but a soldier, first and foremost.
A fact he has demonstrated by showing a pair of brass-balls big enough to dare to come-up and close-ranks with his fight-picking second-in-command, even though he isn't even packing a pistol.
Faora says she will show no mercy to the unarmed as she fires at him in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear her intentions:
'For I shall search diligently for violations within not only the letter of it, but also the spirit!'
Her stare leaves the general and passes over the Vice President so she may deliver her threat to the real audience
She fires at Kal-El with the simmering voice of a bloodlust unrequited: 
'And if I find even the thought of betrayal, I will return with something more useful than an instrument of creation.'
Kal-El tenses but refuses to let himself drawn-out by her threats.
Seeing his stoicism, she turns her back on them all, glancing down at the fist I have made with my right hand with an amused smile.
It is a smile which triggers the fight raging inside my mind:
What happened last night?
Fists relax
Her smile widens as my eyes dart back and forth across her face
The idea just spills out of me:
'I don't remember...'
Her smile reveals teeth
Her chin dips as she says it:
'Good'
An alarm bell rings
Panic fires a stammering bullet:
'No, no, not good!'
Her coy smile disappears under a clenching jaw
Head stays tilted as she raises a warning eyebrow
Her chin dips more slowly as her voice tries to warn me to not make a scene:
'Good.'
Panic hammers my heart lain on a cold anvil, I step closer to release it point-blank:
'You're not coming back, are you?'
Her shoulders square to what appears to be the start of an attack; yet, the uptick in the corner of her mouth says the question may please her
Her voice is amused caution:
'Is this your wish?'
I start saying it before she can finish:
'Damn right it is!'
Emphasis produces a knowing smile as she offers me an out:
'Are you sure?'
A hand reaches for hers then halts, but the truth fires conviction:
'Yes!'
Her smile beams as bright as her eyes flash their electric blue
My mind screams it:
Now or never!
I lean in to kiss her
Teeth flash as she springs trap of her smile
The shield of her helmet raises. 
Raised eyebrow and a side toss of her chin tell me she is a cat playing with a mouse:
'Good.'
Her smile is a taunt as she walks past
An incongruent memory strikes from nowhere:
Cough clears the airway; shotgun blast of blood catches her at close range... 
She is already ten feet away before the memory flash ends 
Her stride more forceful than her stature should allow
I shout my verdict as the determined movement of her cape carries her away:
'Not fair!'
She does not look back.
Not fair? 
A mean-spirited chuckle resonates within me:
Can you fucking hear yourself?
Zod's two soldiers have already gone back inside the ship.
Wanting to see her turn around and look back keeps my eyes glued on her back
I watch breathlessly as her stride finishes conquering the distance.
Not even blinking until the ramp lifts behind her
Eyes stay shut as the beetle-jet blows the hot dust of the lakebed on me as a goodbye-kiss.
The heat of the sun reminds me I am half-naked, right before thoughts point out my next problem:
You about to learn, what else is not fair!
That my business is mine is the thought that reaches down to snatch up the gray pocket-T with a fluid motion
Throwing an arm through vacant sleeves, experienced wiggle puts thin frame in, so the t-shirt may slide down on its own
Re-clothed, I turn to look back at the person closest to me:
The colonel's smirking smile on top of what was obviously his personal hostility for Faora, presses my own nuclear-launch button:
I draw and fire a smartass-bullet, buried deep in dismissive Southern drawl, directly into his face:
'I'm gonna need a ride back into town.'
His face braces as the verbal slap lands.
And
Right then
In the surrounding silence of unrequited death
I feel the fatality of my mistake land on me as hard as the train landed on my truck.
The silence becomes deafening. 
A deafening silence manifesting as the scream of wrath wanting to come out of the Colonel's seething face of rage
A face that says there is much, much more that needs to be said before I go anywhere
And so
With my back to the proverbial wall, I do what I always do when there is no other option but:
Fight!
Fight as a smartass who has no other weapon but his mouth
I re-cock and fire as we stare each other down:
'And I'd rather it not be with you.'
He looks at my nose as he thinks of smashing it in 
Knowing there is no going back from my mistake, I smile a smile that is really a dare for him to do all he is thinking
It is though the general who decides he gets first crack at the smart-ass-punk who is picking a fight with the US Military 
That his South Metropolis voice is laced with a big dose of deep-South patience, lets me know that he is also a man who did not come here to take shit from anybody
Especially not a nobody like me
Having been raised in the South, I am not fooled by his parentally smooth:  
'It is not going to be that simple, son.'
The song of his certainty allows me to see America's three-star general as a man, who, if he were white, would have, a generation ago, been happy to chase me with coon hounds, if I escaped his jail.
He is also a man who must be nearing mandatory retirement age
Weathered by years of out maneuvering less qualified officers with the strategic patience marking the most successful men of his age and race; he has delivered his threat with calm self-assuredness
But as he assesses me, I can see General Swanwick begin to see something, in me, his life experiences have sheltered him from 
He is visibly disturbed by my unrepentant attitude as well as the fresh markings that have been inflicted upon me
He hesitates as he tries to calculate how, I got to be, me
In the gap of our silence:
A lanky buffalo-soldier, who decided a .50 caliber sniper rifle without the scope was the best thing he could bring to the party, fires his voice in a way to suggest it is also how he will fire his rifle...
His sniper bullet lands with the accuracy of a perfectly mimicked accent
An accent familiar to anyone who has ever watched late night cable TV:
'Lucy, you got some splanin to do.'
His comedic timing hits me right between the eyes.
I want to let myself laugh
I want to go over there and introduce myself
But I cannot even afford to let myself look twice at the unexpectedly skilled adversary
An adversary who appears willing to throw all of his future promotions away just so he may seize the day and strike at his enemy in the exact same manner in which his enemy is striking at his team 
Only the fact that I am able to hear his joke, as a threat, allows me to keep a straight face
A straight face made straighter by the idea that it may simply be his Call-Sign
A death card spoken to the terror-suspects world-wide
That the Colonel isn't laughing tells me I was right not to laugh
Maybe the colonel has already heard it too many times, himself?  
With his General so close, the Colonel does not delay as he grabs the reins of his men as our stare re-locks:
'At-Ease!'
He steps forward to hand-deliver the threat his eyes have been alluding to
And in so doing, finds himself rebuked by none other than Albert Einstein's son:
'Colonel Hardy!'
The old man's voice is dire enough to stop the Colonel in his tracts
He also gets my attention, not with the tone of his voice but with the worried stare he is directing at the red divots my t-shirt is failing to conceal:
'Do not get too close!'
The Colonel looks at him as if to point out the obvious discrepancy in our fighting capabilities, but then stops as he too catches the reason of the old man's concern.
Einstein tries to explain his fear first by pointing as he ignores his own advice and approaches
Maybe to get a better look at what needs diagnosing:
'He appears to be infected with something'
He pulls his pointing hand back; and has the colonel hesitates, I realize I need to talk to this guy:
'Hey, you a doctor?'
Rifles point at me as I reach, too quickly for my wallet.
I close my eyes with an almost silent:
'Jeez...'
Then open the wallet and slowly pull out a credit card:
'Their guy said to give a doctor this.'
The look on his face says he won't take it from me.
And I cannot tell if it because he thinks the credit card has germs, or if he just knows an over the limit account when he sees one...
With doubt as to which it is, I take matters into my own hands by pointing the corner of the credit card to the divots in my arm as I hold it between two fingers:
'These were like poison darts from a bug that attacked me'
The old man's eyes meet mine as he tries to follow me:
'Neurotoxin or...'
He looks at the card
'Something... I don't know, but that was two days ago'
His eyes flash back up to me with a question forming as I decide I am not sure of the actual timeframe:
'Maybe...'  
The professor's head is already shaking an alarmed, no
'Colonel, we need to quarantine him, right now!'
That's the last thing I want to happen!
'Hey now...'
I ignore the Colonel's worried stare and look to him as I point to my right arm:
'Their machine healed this broken arm, yesterday.'
The admission raises the Colonel's eyebrows but I can see the doctor thinks it irrelevant as I try to finish my point:
'So, you should know those guys ain't one let things stay broken'
Finally, I can see the idea break into the doctor's train of thought
So, I give him a little push in what I think is the right direction:
'And I don't they would let me hang out with them if I had a cold.'
I have never been more wrong about measuring my progress in convincing someone
His voice as only grown more alarmed as he looks at the colonel:
'Colonel, we must also treat the chip in that card as a new Trojan horse.'
The Colonel steps back as he starts to see me as a biological and cyber-weapon delivery system.
I decide to give-up in style by throwing up an exaggerated shrug of surrender:
'Can we at least hit a McDonalds on the way back?'
It is an idea that crosses the General's threshold for stupidity:
'You need to start taking this seriously!'
They all take the voice behind me very seriously:
'Professor Hamilton.'
He is not walking.
He's just floating as he moves closer
I flinch a surprised step back at the sight
He ignores me to speak to the Professor:
'In addition to the traumas, a nano-fiber network has been inserted into his brain.'
This is a question I want an answer to.
I unconsciously reclaim my step as I ask it:
'General Zod tell ya about it?'
Saying the name brings the caped-guy's attention to me
His head shakes a brief, no, before he speaks with a familiar voice; a voice so familiar you might think he is a guy you could bump into at the grocery store 
But to look at him, is to see an NFL quarterback with a move-star's good looks
Instantly I realize why she laughed at the idea of a good-by kiss:
She thinks he's hot!
And that bullshit threat she made was just her way of letting this asshole know, she is interested in him!  
An unfamiliar heat of instant-mix hate tightens in my chest
Kal-El doesn't know what to make of my expression, because he can't feel the jealousy being fertilized within me
He hesitates as I stare through him as I think of Faora; and so he catches me off-guard as he speaks with genuine concern:
'Are you okay?'
It is real compassion.
And I am completely unprepared for it
Conflicting thoughts crash together
Divergent ideas in a collision that brings my attention back to him as I try to reconcile what Zod implied with the first impression he is making...
Then, as I stare at him, I see it:
His eyes
Not his perfectly coifed hair
Not his strong chin
Nor his perfectly sculpted body
But his eyes are what tell his truth
Purely distilled intensity that remain coiled even as his posture projects calm.
In high school I knew guys who wrestled
Any other time of the year, they were normal guys, but when wrestling season came around
They changed
And they kept changing
And if any one of them were on the way to making state finals, you knew to stay away
Not even crossing their path in the school's hallway
But even those guys would be afraid to enter ring with this guy
I take a step back without thinking about why I need to
For
To stand before Zod was to be filled with the need to show respect.
To stand around one his soldiers was to look down until the potential bully passed.
But Kal-El's eyes press a very different button...
A button no man has ever pressed this hard:
For this fear is of someone who does not know their own strength, and so may kill you in a small error of judgement
His eyes narrow as I unconsciously hold my breath as I weigh the idea of just running away
As fast as I can.
It is the colonel who stops me from taking another step:
'What's it for?'
The colonel's blandly spoken question is reality's wake-up slap to see what cannot be seen
I turn to the colonel to see if he is afraid to be this close to the criminal Zod was hunting
Like the colonel should be! 
The Colonel's stern face is laser focused on me
The angle of my problem forms instantly:
These two guys are already friends!
A third idea crashes into my thoughts
An idea I voiced to Dex:
'Am I doing the wrong thing?'
Caught by it, I answer honestly as a way of throwing the colonel a bone to see if I have guessed wrong:
'It hits like a Taser.'
Concern and the need to read me better than he has, brings the colonel a step closer
His face grimaces as he asks a clarifying question:  
'They use it?'
I start nodding
'More than once'
My hand is unconsciously searching for it in my head
Looking down I pay more attention to how Kal-El's feet remain a few inches off the ground
The doctor speaks meekly to everyone's indecision:
'What else does it do?'
But I am back to thinking about General Zod's original message to the world and look up to his overly muscled frame
Realizing that even if he was not wrapped in America's brightest colors, he would still stand out from all of us 
His eyes meet mine has disbelief becomes bravery's substitute:  
'So, you're the same as them?'
I call bullshit on the entire idea of
Them
As soon as he nods his, yes
'You're telling me she can fly?!'
The helicopters starting in the near distance says madam vice president has chosen to do just that.
My question kick-starts his own question
Kal-El voices it with a mix of disgust and curious interest:
'Do you think of her as your...'
His voice just trails off as he tries to wrap his mind around an idea he cannot accept.
Jealousy pangs my heart as I realize I am meeting the guy who is an even worse version of the same good-looking jock who makes it a point to show up at the Homecoming Dance, Stag, just so he can have fun cutting in on your dance
The conclusion for Faora's aloof departure is succinct:
You have literally just been dumped, and this guy is the reason why!
It is an idea side-swiping me harder than Candice's little VW tried to do in Smallville
The expression comes out as a heartfelt plea to the universe to get one more chance at Faora before she meets anyone else
Especially this Kal-El douche!
'Why can't a guy have hope?'
He reacts as if I was a frail woman who has slapped him with her purse as she screamed 'mugger' just because he was a black-guy who got too close.
He forces himself to show nothing more than a twitch in his jaw muscle
And so, I see only one explanation for why the blow landed with such strength:
This asshole wants her, too! 
A gun cocks and fires into my own heart as emotion rages out from a dark pit, I thought was sealed shut...
His eyes dart down to my heart as raging jealousy cries out like a hungry newborn baby, then back up to meet my stare, then down to the hard scar tissue hidden under my t-shirt; as inside of me, the same memory from school fires again as I see his strong chin as an anchor for his masculine perfection
In that memory, I see him as he is:
The pinnacle of an old problem
A guy so good looking that I know there is only one conclusion about what has just happened to me:
I am nothing more than the nerd a cheerleader will make-out with just so she can get the attention of the football team's captain! 
And so, Kal-El becomes the same guy who beat up my friends just for trying to kiss a pretty girl.
He looks at me as my fist forms
Alarmed by emotion spiraling out of control, but not understanding it, Kal-El is quick on the draw; firing the unexpectedly soft bullet of compassion: 
'Did she inflict these wounds?'
A horrible idea becomes a growing counterweight:
He is horrified by the idea of this cruelty
The idea puts a damper on the flame wanting to boil my anger
Mind falls back into neutral.
Uncertain of my own thoughts, I look at his chest:
See the clever trick he is playing by wearing America's colors and not Zod's
Knowing instantly, he is simply playing nice, because he needs Earth's help in keeping Zod from trying again to arrest him, again
I look up
Thinking it as I stare into his eyes:
Zod should have kicked your ass today just for not acting right in Smallville!
It is a wish that immediately discounts his compassion by dismissing it for what his compassion really is:
An attempt to use me to find out about her...
So, he can slide into the ice I may have broken!
Denial tries to kick-start a reflex:
'N...'
It stops hard in my throat, as another voice lets loose an internal contrarian:  
Why the fuck are you going to lie to this guy?
Trouble is:
Desire has already hired a legion of lawyers:
So, are you just going to talk about her behind her back?
Huh?
What's next?
You gonna tell him she likes to have her feet rubbed so he knows to do it when they have their first date?
Huh?
Is that what you are going to fucking do?
After several kicks, it fires:
A lie so ridiculous it's not only the official slogan of domestic abuse victims who do not want to make the next assault worse by sending the abuser to jail for just a few days; but also the dismissive wave-off used by everyone who has gotten beat up while making a new friend, the price of which is, sometimes, needing to see a doctor.
That he is not a doctor fires the reflex of slapping the hand of his faux friendship away so loud that everyone who can hear it, hears it for the fuck-off that it is:
'Nah, I just fell down some stairs.'
Right then
In our moment of establishing mutual dislike
I feel his own heat being born within him as I see the dismissive insult hit his spirit in the exact spot I needed to hit him in, if what I wanted to do, was make him my enemy.
His face is freezes as our eyes lock in mutual realization that this instant is a point of no-return
My stare is fixed.
His eyes move like a humming bird's wings:
Looking into mine at the same time they move over me, stopping at heart, fists, the tightness of my jaw muscles as they pull on an ugly scar... All of it letting him know:
I got close to someone up there
Nose to nose, close
And I am still standing on their side
So how about you be the one who takes a fucking step back!
His eyes leave mine as they shift left
Left over to the colonel who is ignoring the professor's warning against getting closer
As his eyes dart back
Seeing me unconcerned movement to my right
Our eyes lock again as our thoughts merge as one:
Good guy or not, I will fight you!
It is our moment of clarity.
A moment lasting no longer than the time a hummingbird needs to pump its wings
He clenches his jaw for me as the Colonel's smashing right-hook lands
The lights go out.
In darkness, I fall like a cut down tree.
Wallet and credit card fall straight down as the unconscious hand lets-go.
The lakebed's dust is kicked in my face as I try to recover
The air booms high above us
Lying on the course sandpaper of salt, I look up with a spinning head
He's moving upwards like a launched rocket
Dust in my eyes grits the vision of the cone of air trailing behind him
High in the sky
Marking his progress as it leaves a clear thought in my mind:
There's nothing you can do to stop that guy from taking whatever he wants.
My summation is succinct:
'Shit.'
The general's resolve is firmer:
'Stand down, Colonel!'
The colonel is left with only a glare to throw at me
The pain in my jaw stops me from telling him where he can go as well
He starts to smile as voices shout:
'Make way!'
Without the ability to stand-up quickly, I look over
The Hazmat suits are bright blue sealed tightly around white gasmasks and gloves
The stretcher they surround is plain stainless steel
The Colonel's smile grows bigger as the look of concern arrives in my expression
His smile drops it as I point-out his problem
'What are you laughing about?  You ain't wearing a mask!'