(TSSFH) CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE: CLARK III

Getting a meeting with Carol Dallon turned out to be much harder than Clark first imagined.

The city’s mood was turning darker by the day. The PRT’s credibility had cracked heavily in the wake of Eidolon’s actions and subsequent death, and the sudden vacuum of public trust was being filled by the loudest, angriest voices. Fascist rhetoric wasn’t just on message boards anymore or in secret spaces, but was on street corners, in rallies, and in the eyes of the people Clark passed on the way to work, muttering about “taking the city back.”

And Carol was in the thick of it.

On the public side, she was working cases almost nonstop, trying to keep minority families from being evicted by suspiciously stubborn landlords, defending clients who suddenly found themselves facing trumped-up charges, and running interference in an endless chain of legal crises that kept landing on her desk.

Privately, the picture was no better. New Wave, once a prominent and respected independent hero team, had been reduced to a few active members. The loss of both Amy and Victoria had evaporated most of the group’s political influence, leaving their moral authority surviving mostly on old goodwill.

So when Clark put in a request for a private meeting, he wasn’t surprised when Carol’s assistant told him it might be a week before she could even think about fitting him in. 

He accepted it without protest. Patience was part of the job, after all.

Still, he had never been one to sit idle, so the week wasn’t wasted.

The new rumor started small, from a passing comment at the diner counter, to complaints overheard on the bus. Then it became harder to ignore: children crying in the embrace of their guardians; and missing posters affixed to telephone poles, over three others just like it.

Dogs were disappearing.

On its own, it might have been just the usual strays picked up by animal control, or pets slipping through back gates. But the numbers didn’t make sense. Entire litters had vanished from fenced yards, guard dogs gone from houses, repair shops, and even the city scrapyards. In one case, an old man swore his shepherd had been taken in broad daylight, while he was in the garage only twenty feet away.

It wasn’t the Anders case, but Clark’s instincts were tugging at him, the way they always had before a real lead. Maybe it was because of Krypto and because he’d seen firsthand what a dog could mean to someone. Or maybe it was that these animals were out there alone, probably scared, and missing their owners. 

So while the city kept talking about politics and elections, Clark Kent started asking questions about dogs.

. . . . .

Two nights later, he got lucky.

Patrolling high above the streets as Superman, he spotted a van trundling down Lord Street. It seemed ordinary at first glance, the kind of vehicle a contractor might send out for routine deliveries, and it even had the Medhall Corporation logo stencilled neatly on its side. But when he focused, past the suspension groaning under its heavy load, he was able to hear the overlapping panicked barks rattling through its padded walls. 

The driver was a man Clark recognized from photographs: a mid-level dockworker on Medhall Corporation’s payroll. The kind of man who kept his name out of the papers but was well known for drinking with Empire Eighty-Eight muscle.

Clark followed, high enough that even a watchful eye wouldn’t catch him.

The van rolled into a quiet residential block, and the driver backed into a driveway. Clark took the time to scan its interior. There were three cages in the back, five dogs in total, with two of them being old enough to have gray along their muzzles, and one barely more than a puppy. They were all crammed into spaces too small, and all were afraid.

But he didn’t intervene yet—doing so wouldn't allow him to actually put an end to this—watching the driver unload the cages into his garage, then disappear inside the house. Half an hour later, the man came back out in a leather jacket and headed back into the city. 

Clark trailed him again, but this time, the destination was a bar.

It was the kind of place Clark had never personally been in before. The lighting was dim, the air thick with smoke, and the music was old and loud enough to keep voices private. The clientele was uniform, mostly white males with the kind of hard-eyed faces that scanned newcomers with suspicion before deciding whether they belonged there or not.

Clark didn’t belong, and he didn’t even try to pretend otherwise. Instead, he stayed outside in his civilian clothes, leaning against a brick wall, and unfolded a newspaper. His eyes never left the page, but his hearing reached inside the building.

It didn’t take long.

The Medhall dockworker was buying a round of beers for his table, laughing, the sound loud and ugly. Clark tuned out the jukebox and the clink of glasses until he had their words alone.

“…Hookwolf’s got a big one lined up this week,” the man said. “Needs ‘em in good shape this time. Special crowd.”

“How many?” another voice asked.

“Enough to keep ‘em betting all night at the Docks warehouse. The dogs will fight until they drop, so we feed ’em good first.”

Clark’s jaw tightened.

Suddenly, the door swung open, spilling a wedge of light onto the sidewalk. A man stepped out, seemingly mid-thirties, and built like a linebacker with a shaved head, and a faded tattoo curling up one side of his neck. His gaze swept the street, landed on Clark, and stayed there a beat too long before narrowing.

“You lost, pal?” His gruff voice carried easily, even over the din inside.

Clark looked up from the paper, mild as ever. “Just reading.”

“Yeah?” The man took a step closer, the smell of beer heavy on his breath. “Then read somewhere else. We don’t like people hangin’ around here.”

“Didn’t realize a public sidewalk had rules,” 

The man’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “It does now.”

From the corner of his vision, Clark caught the movement of another man appearing in the doorway, arms folded, and wearing a heavy frown. The unspoken message was clear.

Clark sighed inwardly, folded the paper under one arm, and pushed off the wall. “Have a good night,” he said, leaving at a pace slow enough not to look chased, but fast enough to avoid testing their patience.

He didn’t glance back until he’d turned the corner, but his attention stayed fixed on the bar. 

There was more conversation, and it was mostly details about the schedule, security, payment, and how the animals would be moved from the driver’s garage to the warehouse. But it was enough for Clark to know exactly where and when this would happen.

It was also enough for Clark to know that one of Max Anders’ men was using Medhall’s resources to feed one of the most grotesque businesses in the city.

A plan was already forming in his head.

He would be there, not just to shut it down, but to follow every name, every payment, and every connection back to its source. Because if this was how Anders’ machine really worked, then this was where he’d start pulling the pieces apart.