Tuesday, May 19th, 2009, 7:51 PM
Metropolis Harbor District
James watched Superman hit the water for the third time, and this time he didn't come back up as fast.
When he finally broke the surface, there was blood running down his face from a gash above his left eye. Real blood. Clark was bleeding, which meant Clark was hurt, which meant Clark could die.
The thought made something cold and sharp twist in James's stomach.
Lobo stood on the pier, arms crossed, waiting like he had all the time in the world. "GETTING TIRED, BOY SCOUT? MAYBE YOU SHOULD CALL FOR BACKUP. OH WAIT—" He threw back his head and laughed. "THERE AIN'T NOBODY COMING TO SAVE YOU."
Superman rose out of the water, slower than before. His cape was torn, his suit scorched in places, and when he tried to hover, he wobbled slightly. Like a fighter who'd taken too many hits to the head.
"I don't need backup," Clark said, but his voice didn't carry the same confidence it had twenty minutes ago.
"SURE YOU DON'T." Lobo cracked his knuckles, and the sound echoed like gunshots. "TELL YOU WHAT, I'LL MAKE THIS QUICK. ONE GOOD HIT SHOULD DO IT."
He looked at his camera. Top of the line, worth about three thousand dollars. His pride and joy, the tool he'd used to tell a hundred important stories.
Then he looked at Clark, who was breathing hard and bleeding and about to get his skull caved in by a nine-foot alien psychopath.
"Fuck it," James muttered, and threw the camera as hard as he could.
It hit Lobo right in the back of the head with a satisfying crack. The alien turned around, confused, like he couldn't quite process what had just happened.
"HEY!" James yelled, grabbing a chunk of concrete from the rubble around him. "UGLY! YEAH, YOU, YOU CHALK-FACED FUCKFACE!"
He hurled the concrete. It bounced off Lobo's chest like he was made of steel, but it got his attention.
"YOU WANT TO FIGHT SOMEONE? FIGHT ME!"
Even as the words left his mouth, James knew this was the stupidest thing he'd ever done in his life. But Clark needed time to recover, and sometimes stupid was all you had.
Lobo stared at him for a long moment, then started laughing. Not the booming, theatrical laugh from before. Something quieter and infinitely more dangerous.
"Well, well. What do we have here?"
"Jimmy, no!" Clark's voice cracked like a whip across the harbor. "RUN!"
But James was already committed. He picked up another piece of rubble, this one with a jagged piece of rebar sticking out of it. "Come on, you pussy! You said you wanted a fight!"
Lobo's smile widened, showing way too many teeth. "JIMMY, is it?" He glanced back at Superman, who was struggling to get airborne again. "The big blue boy scout has friends. Interesting."
The alien started walking toward James, casual as you please. Like he was out for a Sunday stroll instead of about to murder someone.
"Jimmy!" Clark shouted again, and this time he managed to get in the air. But he was moving too slow, way too slow. "Get out of there!"
James threw the rebar-studded concrete as hard as he could. It shattered against Lobo's face without even making him blink.
"You know what I like about you humans?" Lobo said conversationally, still walking. "You're so deliciously fragile. But you got balls, more than most species in the universe. I'll give you that."
James was backing up now, looking for something else to throw, something heavier. His foot caught on a piece of twisted metal and he stumbled, going down hard on his ass.
Lobo was on him in an instant.
"But here's the thing about balls," the alien said, grabbing James by the front of his shirt and lifting him off the ground like he weighed nothing. "Sometimes they get you in trouble."
James swung at him, putting everything he had behind the punch. His fist connected with Lobo's jaw and it was like hitting a brick wall. Pain shot up his arm and he was pretty sure he'd broken at least two knuckles.
Lobo didn't even flinch.
"Aww, that's cute. He thinks he can hurt me." The alien looked back at Superman, who was flying toward them as fast as he could manage. "You really care about this little meat sack, don't you, Kryptonian?"
"Let him go," Clark said, and there was something in his voice James had never heard before. Pure, cold rage. "This is between us."
"Oh, but that's where you're wrong." Lobo's grip shifted, one massive hand grabbing James by the throat. "See, I been hunting you for months, trying to get your attention. Blowing up planets, starting wars, all sorts of fun stuff. But you never came looking for me."
James couldn't breathe. Lobo's fingers were like steel cables around his windpipe.
"But this?" Lobo gestured with his free hand at the destruction around them. "This got you here real quick. And now I know why."
The alien's other hand came up, and James saw the claws for the first time. Four inches long, curved like scythes, sharp enough to cut through steel.
"You want to know the secret to hunting Kryptonians?" Lobo asked, almost conversational. "You don't go after their enemies. You go after their friends."
"NO!" Clark was maybe ten seconds away, but ten seconds might as well have been ten years.
Lobo's claws moved faster than James could track. He felt them punch through his eyelids, felt something wet and warm running down his cheeks. The pain was—
Actually, there wasn't any pain. Just pressure, and wetness, and then a strange floating sensation as Lobo drew his hand back.
James tried to blink, tried to clear his vision, but there was nothing to clear. Just darkness. Complete, absolute darkness.
"There we go," Lobo said with satisfaction. "Now you can watch your friend die without being distracted by all that pesky sight."
Then James was flying. Not the gentle, controlled flight he'd seen Superman do a thousand times. This was violent and chaotic, his body tumbling through the air like a rag doll. He hit something hard, a brick wall, maybe, and felt ribs crack. Then he was sliding down into an alley, leaving what felt like half his blood on the bricks behind him.
He tried to move, tried to call out, but his body wasn't responding. Everything felt distant and disconnected, like he was underwater.
In the distance, he could hear Superman screaming. Not words, just raw, wordless fury. The sound of someone who'd lost everything that mattered.
James tried to smile, though he wasn't sure if his face was still working. At least Clark was angry. Angry meant fighting back. Angry meant maybe, just maybe, Superman would win.
The darkness was getting heavier now, pulling him down like a tide. His last conscious thought wasn't fear or pain or regret.
It was relief that he'd done something that mattered. That maybe, somehow, giving Clark that rage would be enough to save everyone else.
Then the darkness took him, and James Olsen stopped existing.
.....For now.