(TSSFH) CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR - CLARK II

Clark Kent had once uncovered a multinational weapons ring that funneled stolen alien tech to warlords in South America. He’d written exposés on the dangerous amount of lead pipes in Metropolis's water infrastructure, uncovered the mob trafficking drugs over said city’s air space, and walked through fire—sometimes literally—to get to the truth.

Now he dried plates in a diner off Lord Street.

His apron still clung to his jeans as he sat at the back corner booth of that same diner, sleeves rolled up, a worn notepad in front of him and a pen he kept spinning absently between his fingers. Around him, waitresses shouted across the kitchen window, another dishwasher (Philip) cursed under his breath, and someone argued about condiments three tables down. None of it reached him.

His eyes were fixed on a single name scrawled across the top of the page in block letters:

MAX ANDERS

The man of the hour.

The smiling face on every television screen, promising change.

The polished billionaire waving to crowds with his campaign slogan half-lit behind him. 

Superman could lift mountains, see into atoms, and hear a lie form in someone’s throat before it was even spoken. But this? This required something even harder than all that combined: credibility.

Because in this world, in this city, he wasn’t an award-winning journalist from The Daily Planet. He was a man whose resume began and ended with dish duty, a nobody with no byline, no press credentials, or even an amateur article to his name.

No one in Brockton Bay’s media sphere would take him seriously.

Which meant the investigation couldn’t start with a front-page story or a thunderous call for justice. It had to start quietly with someone willing to listen. 

Clark tapped the pen against the paper. The name at the top didn’t move, but it felt like it loomed larger every time he read it.

Medhall Corporation. Anders’ empire, and a legitimate machine built on economic recovery initiatives and job creation that also happened to be the laundering engine for Empire Eighty-Eight’s dirty money.

But to take down someone that powerful, he needed ledgers: wire transfers; off-the-books property acquisitions; donation records that didn’t match reported income, going to causes no one could verify; and bribes disguised as consulting fees.

He needed a case, not conjecture, even if Superman had seen enough on patrol to confirm it was true.

And that led to a bigger problem.

Jurisdiction.

He couldn’t go to the PRT because of the unwritten rules, and there were no incidents that would draw the PRT’s attention, at least not officially. What Anders was doing fell under white-collar crime, which meant it belonged to the Brockton Bay Police Department.

But Clark had been in the city long enough to know the truth everyone whispered: The BBPD was compromised. Not all of it, no, but enough that a report filed under Anders’ name might vanish before it made it to a prosecutor’s desk. Or worse, make its way to Anders and come back to bite him or someone else.

Both the PRT and the police were out.

So he needed someone who sat between the systems. Someone who could navigate the legal framework of both parahuman and civilian law, who had the skills, reputation, independence to act without tipping off Anders or his people, and—most importantly—the reputation to make people listen.

He needed Carol Dallon.

Publicly, she was Brandish, one of New Wave’s founders. A woman known for her strict ethics and no-nonsense attitude toward law, crime, and capes alike. But more importantly, behind the cape and powers, she was an experienced and skilled lawyer. One who knew how to operate between the courts, the PRT, and civilian government without being tethered to any of them.

Especially since, with Panacea missing and Glory Girl having joined the Wards, New Wave was all but disbanded. 

But getting her on board wouldn’t be easy.

Clark would have to convince her that Max Anders wasn’t just laundering money or stacking a corrupt police force, but laying the groundwork for something more sinister. Something that could rot the city from within just as it tried to rebuild.

And that would take more than a hunch.

He would need to show her proof of the paper trail, or at least the suggestion of one. Anything to open the door.

He tore a page from the notepad and wrote down three bullet points:

• Medhall → Civic projects → Unlicensed subcontractors?
  
  

• Anders political donations → Shell corporations?
  
  

• Empire Eighty-Eight members → Medhall employment records?

Then, at the bottom, he underlined his next step in black ink:

Approach Carol Dallon as Clark. Be honest, but careful.

Because this wasn’t about toppling a corrupt CEO or stopping a fascist from becoming the mayor. It wasn’t about him swooping in to save the day as Clark Kent in some misguided attempt to prove he wasn't useless.

This was about protecting the vulnerable and the unaware. It was about doing what was right, no matter how dangerous it was to do so.

Because if Max Anders became mayor, it wouldn’t just be a bad politician taking office. It would be a system rotting from the inside out, birthing a new Empire clothed in legitimacy.

Superman could fight villains and Endbringers, but this was Clark’s war.

And he would need allies to win it.