Lois Lane

Journalist. Investigator. Occasional trouble magnet. If you knock on my door, be ready for the truth to knock back.

[loissamuellane]

the pen is not mightier than the sword — unless you know where to aim.

every story has a spine. i break it to see what it’s made of.

🗞️ Lois Lane | An Introduction 🗞️

"You want honesty? Here it is: People lie. Systems lie. Power lies. I don’t. And that’s why they hate me. The world turns on stories—who tells them, who believes them, who fears them. I tell mine loud enough that no one can pretend they didn’t hear."

lois lane, investigative reporter, survivor, relentless seeker of what others bury. a woman who has stood in war zones, boardrooms, alien frontiers—and never once backed down. this blog explores her tenacity, her victories and scars, and the stories she refuses to let die.

༝๋࣭ ⭑ ༝ 📰٠ ࣪⭑ here's what you'll find:

✧ character-driven writing – slightly canon-divergent & multi-verse interpretations.

✧ open to all interactions – i welcome both spontaneous and plotted threads. non-rp blogs are welcome to send asks or interact with posts.

✧ versatile storytelling – whether through quick exchanges or long-term narratives, i enjoy exploring different dynamics.

✧ original characters & crossover friendly – i’m happy to interact with original characters and explore crossovers beyond dc canon.

✧ ship & character neutral – no biases against any particular ship or character, though i may choose not to interact with a particular dynamic if it conflicts with ongoing plotlines, lore or interests.

✧ mature themes - while I do not actively write nsfw content, i am open to engaging with suggestive ideas. i am also comfortable exploring darker or sensitive themes where appropriate, with necessary content warnings.

༯,⋆.˚ tags i use:

#behind the byline (general character-related posts)

#on the record (asks)

#ooc musings (general ooc commentary)

#field report: live (action-based threads)

#between front pages (softer interactions)

#off to print (the daily planet-related posts)

#verse (roleplay settings)

#thread (roleplay thread)

༯,⋆.˚ interaction and roleplay tags:

#open starter (open rp prompts)

#closed starter (threads written for a specific rp partner)

the page turns. dare you read on? [ @qalbalghul ]

[ @alghulras ]

[ @ruhalghul ]

[ @theleagueofassassins ]

[ @theleagueoflazarus ]

[loissamuellane]

*A phone call is received at an unexpected moment. Herman had given him this contact when he showed interest in the man's more... leisurely activities outside of work. He may be the henchman's boss, but more than that, he was his friend. And he wanted to know what this woman... this muckraker... was feeding and being fed.*

*He waited for the call to pick up as he tapped his claws against his desk.*

- The War Profiteer

The phone buzzes against the table just as Lois is elbow-deep in notes that don’t look like much unless you know what to circle. She glances at the number.

It’s not one she recognises.

She lets it ring once more. Power lives in patience. She answers the call then, balancing the phone between shoulder and ear as she flips a page.

“Hi,” she says brightly, like this is a neighbor asking for sugar. “You’ve got Lois Lane.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He was slightly startled when he got an answer, but he'd now learned how to keep a poker face when it came to these trivial things.*

"Wonderful. I've got the right number then."

*He smiled mischievously to himself. It stroked his ego to keep things cryptic and wait for the other person to probe, instead of letting himself awkwardly explain things. It kept people on edge; a good, malleable place to be.*

[loissamuellane]

Lois hears it immediately— the way silence is being used like a smile.

He wants control. Or attention. Usually, both.

She leans back in her chair, device now balanced loosely against her ear.

“Yep. That’s generally how phones work.”

People like this always forget—control only works if the other person agrees to play.

She smiles to herself. Her tone is calm, almost pleasant, but polite doesn’t mean pliable.

“And since you’ve confirmed the number,” Lois continues, “I’m going to assume you called for a reason. You’ve got me wondering whether this is a wrong number, a threat, or a very strange attempt at conversation.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He felt the adrenaline rush of satisfaction as she rattled off possibilities. It gave him a sense of calm that allowed him a respite from his usual constant anxieties - those of which barred him from being ‘good’ at social talks.*

“I suppose this is just leisure, as you hypothesize. I hear you’ve been in talks with a good friend of mine. Herman. You know ‘em?”

[loissamuellane]

The city stretches outward like a mess of unfinished sentences. Lois lets the quiet do a little work for her, this time. She’s not startled; she’s thinking.

“Leisure calls usually come with introductions.”

She snorts quietly, more breath than sound.

Good friend, huh? Everybody’s somebody’s leverage these days. Wow.

The name is bait. Lois doesn’t bite. The word friend is…..an interesting choice. Unclaimed, uncorrected, she decides to let it hang there.

“I talk to a lot of people. That tends to happen when you ask questions for a living.”

“That said, you clearly didn’t dial at random.”

Like every good journalist, she listens for what he doesn’t say.

“So, why don’t you start with yourself?”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He chuckled, leaning forward into the landline he held to his ear. His metal mask and the hinges of his chair creaking with the movement.*

"Kilroy. Cain Kilroy-Sionis, if you're asking for the full title. Unfortunately, I'm sure only one of those names rings a bell. Perhaps that can help connect the dots for my... interest... in your career and business with my worker."

[loissamuellane]

Sionis.

The bell tolls. It makes more sense, now. Gotham money. Gotham violence. Leaving marks even when it tries not to.

Titles are funny things, indeed. People introduce themselves the way they want to be remembered, to shift the balance of the room, even when the room is only wires and distance and words through a receiver.

If this man is testing a perimeter, she’s not going to mark where the fence is.

“Interest can mean many things— curiosity, concern, or control. Only one of those tends to end conversations quickly.”

“And I’m going to stop you right there,” she says, not unkindly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, yeah?”

“As I’ve stated before, I talk to a lot of people, Mr. Kilroy. Some of them are friends. Some of them are sources. Some of them are neither. I never acknowledged knowing who you mean.”

“Allow me to make this easy for both of us. If you’re calling to clarify something that concerns you directly, I’m listening.”

Because courtesy keeps the knives visible.

She swivels slightly in her chair, pen between her fingers now. A habit.

“If you’re calling to test how much I know—” a faint, humorless smile touches her voice, “—you might be disappointed by how little I’m willing to share.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He took a deep breath, a slight huff of frustration in his tone.*

"Ah, but of course. You folk are social lawyers. Each citizen, unpaying or otherwise is under your protection and your oath... Your morals are irritatingly bright."

*He tried to bring the reins back into his brutal grasp. She was good. Very good. The exact sense of tact and sharpness of mental wit he was looking for. Sometimes, the Gotham crowd grew dull with their miseries. A shroud that often gagged their prowess and willingness to play the game.*

"Believe it or not, I do not want your head on my wall. So, you can get that very gracious worry out of your mind. I'm just..."

*He gestured to himself and looked at the ceiling as he tried to find the right word.*

"Someone who likes to know the chessboard. And when you speak to a close confidant - Denial makes the truth ever more apparent, dear - you're practically whispering in my ear. His voice is merely a finger upon my hand, yes? I'm sure you understand. For someone so... nit-picky on the definition of friend-versus-coworker, I find you quite buddy-buddy with that oafish pip-squeak. You know, that Kent chap."

[loissamuellane]

Men like this always think intimidation lives in volume or poetry. They forget some people grew up learning how to spot a storm before it hit.

She taps her pen on her desk, twice.

That was always the trick with those who enjoy the sound of their own voice—they mistook patience for permission.

“Wow. Chessboard. Whispering truths. Finger-on-the-hand metaphors.” she whistles softly. “Do you workshop this stuff, or does it just happen when you get bored?”

Lois closes her eyes briefly, then opens them again.

“Look, Cain—Kilroy—whatever order you prefer, if I whispered every time someone talked around me, I’d have blown out my voice years ago. People talk. I listen. That’s not intimacy, that’s my job.

“I understand why you think denial is a strategy. It probably works on people who are afraid of consequences. You’re giving me way too much credit if you think denial is a tell.”

The mention of Clark doesn’t hit her face at all.

Inside, though— she files that away.

New guy. Of course he noticed.

“Kent’s new,” she says, casually dismissive, like brushing lint from a sleeve. “New people talk. Old news. That’s a cub reporter trying not to drown. If that reads as ‘buddy-buddy’ to you, I’d hate to see what you call an actual friend.”

He’s dramatic. Predictable. Meant to disarm. Meant to make her feel flattered for being spared.

“You don’t scare me. If you wanted my head, I wouldn’t be getting a monologue, I’d be getting a mess. I’m not worried about that.”

There’s a funny thing about chessboards: the person asking questions is rarely the piece being moved. You don’t learn it by staring at the pieces, anyway.

“Since you’ve told me what you don’t want, why don’t you tell me what you do want? Or, we can pretend this was a misdial, and get on with our evenings.”

She waits.

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He held the phone away from his face so she couldn't hear him fuming. He was livid, and trying to not let his disposition for flying-off-the-handle carry through to her watchfulness. Damn it. Play it cool. Play it cool. Something must have gotten to her. Something, goddamn it! She wants you to believe it didn't... Yeah... Yeah, that's it...*

"Well played. You're close to Kent, I can smell it on the breeze. In the soul. I got this job because of death and loss. I'm just saying to know when and to whom your devotion and care is given. I don't need to workshop it, cause I'm a fucking genius."

*Breathe.*

"I may be a criminal, but I went to school. I was gonna be somebody. Someone smart."

*He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, so he didn't storm away and punch a wall or throw something.*

"You're writing an article. You wanted to talk to the world's rarest animal - A Gotham Henchman. What were you writing? What was the narrative?"

[loissamuellane]

Her fingers drum once against the edge of the desk, not as a concession so much as an acknowledgment. The kind you give when you see the blade but don’t step back.

Death and loss. That explains the heat. The ego. The need to control the board.

But what happens when someone moves the puzzle when you thought you’d solved it?

This time, the comment about Kent stings. It isn’t accurate; it’s careless. She shouldn’t dignify it with a reaction.

“If you’re trying to needle me with Clark, you’re gonna need sharper tools. You’re reacting to proximity and mistaking it for intimacy. Journalists work in rooms together. That’s how newsrooms function.”

He’s proud. He’s rattled. She knows this kind of voice. A genius announcing itself usually wants an audience, and devotion announcing itself typically means absolution.

“I don’t doubt you’re smart,” Lois says, and for once there’s no irony in it. “Smart people end up on every side of the line. Talent doesn’t guarantee safety. Or fairness. Or a clean story.”

These Gotham types did always mistake menace for charisma…

She rubs her temple.

“You want a narrative? Everyone does. What I write, when I write it, and why— that stays mine until it doesn’t. Trade secret, if you want to call it something tidy.”

She stares at the wall for a second.

“However….if you’re willing to talk, I’m all ears.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He exhaled sharply, laying his head on his desk as he felt his wrathful adrenaline be harshly sucked from him as though by a mortuary's hand. He readjusted his collar to be looser, and then retightened, as he tried to fix his demeanor and become more professional again.*

"Apologies... I suppose things are getting to me. There was no need for me to rant."

*She was so civil, it was a harsh splash of cold water upon his face, and he tried to collect the liquid to rinse off his own grime. Civil? Hm, maybe not. Tactfully sweet. Noxiously. But, he'd take it's fleeting comfort anyway. Even if it made him a laughingstock of a fool.*

"I see. I suppose I should have figured that it came with the nature of the job to be secretive. You ought to stick around... In which, I'd suggest staying careful, Ms. Lane. It's a madhouse, and there's no break from it. Not a second to catch a breath."

*He readjusted a picture frame on his desk... that of which depicting his lost love whom bestowed his new professional position.*

[loissamuellane]

She tries to imagine him there. She knows that posture. She’s worn it herself, hunched over a desk at three in the morning, grief disguised as professionalism.

“It’s fine. People talk when they’re tired.”

She leans back in her chair, boot hooked around the rung, glancing absently at the world lit up and breathing, like a living thing that never really sleeps.

“Secretive isn’t personal. It’s survival. I wouldn’t still be employed if I didn’t understand its necessity.”

She listens to the shape of his words more than their content. The warning’s there. The exhaustion too.

“I appreciate the concern,” Lois says. “Truly. But I don’t wander into madhouses without knowing where the exits are. If I waited for quiet, I’d never write a damn thing.”

She catches a faint shift in sound. She can’t quite put her finger on it.

“But, I’ll keep your advice in my pocket.”

Right next to the rest of the useful things people say right before they underestimate me.

“I appreciate being reminded that the room is crowded.”

“From my experience, when someone says be careful’, they usually mean one of two things. Either they’re afraid for you — or they’re aware of something you’re not.”

She listens for breath, for tension.

“So which is it?” Lois asks. “Are you worried I’ll get hurt… or worried I’ll see too much?”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He smiled.*

“When I first started my crime in Gotham, I worked under the Scarecrow. A brilliant man whom never spoke ill of me. We were a great team. He murdered my husband. And you wanna know the kicker?… We’re still friends. Still coworkers.

That’s what I fear for you, Miss. Alliances and the guilt of social construct are greater snares than anything I or anyone else can poke and prick you with. World War I started over such entrapments of honor and revenge. Don’t you forget it. Just… Just know what you’re getting into when you agree to something.”

[loissamuellane]

“Is this a caution,” she asks, “or a confession?”

She can hear that kind of smile. It has weight to it. Memory. A scar pressed flat and polished until it looks almost like pride.

Scarecrow.

Lois thinks of him like a card slid into a drawer she keeps labeled Gotham: Do Not Touch Without Gloves. Fear toxin. Academia gone rotten.

Her fingers tighten briefly around the receiver.

“Fear has a way of rearranging definitions. Loyalty. Professionalism. Forgiveness. You tell yourself they still mean what they used to, because the alternative is admitting you survived something that should’ve changed you.”

Her eyes track the faint crack in the ceiling plaster — the one she’s been meaning to report to maintenance for weeks now. She never does. Some fractures become familiar. Some you live around.

Lois has spent her entire career walking through rooms where history is used like a bludgeon to justify the present. Rooms that speak fluently in inevitability.

She thinks of the bullpen. Of Jimmy’s camera and earnest questions. Of Perry’s door half-open even when he pretends it’s closed. Of Cat’s girl-talk, and the others at the bar.

She thinks of her father’s voice, all command and no comfort. Of Lucy’s smile before it breaks. Of Superman landing somewhere above, unseen but there.

“I know what I’m getting into. I just don’t pretend that knowing gives me control. It never does.”

“I work with people who run toward danger because they believe the truth matters more than the cost.”

Clark flashes through her mind. Big hands. Gentle smile.

Her nails dig into her palm.

“I don’t live in a world where fear gets to decide who I keep close. Not anymore. Not ever.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*His voice was gravely with defeat in it, but as she deduced, a dangerous sense of acceptance to it.*

“I’m glad to hear it. You do what I cannot. The doubt of it all makes me a doormat, a fool, and a coward. An ethical and moral runt. I’m happy for you, Ms. Lane. You still have a lot of life in you, and I pray that in your time, these statutes do not erode into something more… familiar to me.”

*He lifted himself from the desk.*

“The world needs things it can treat as guaranteed. Unshakable hope. An allure and sophistication of whimsy. And people like you, who do the right thing even when others second guess it.

I am unsure of my beliefs towards journalism. Yet, it does not mean I wish for it not to exist. I just… know how the idea of publicity and reputation corrodes the best of things.”

[loissamuellane]

There’s a familiar ache in his words. Lois recognises it the way you recognize an old bruise.

You’ve been holding onto that one for a while, haven’t you?

“I don’t think I’m better than you. And I don’t think doing the right thing makes me immune to regret.”

She lets the honesty sit.

“I don’t believe caring is a trap. It isn’t a mistake. You talk about erosion like it’s inevitable. Like resistance is a young person’s fantasy. Doubt follows you. Doubt is how you know you still care. Certainty is what turns people cruel.”

Her fingers worry the edge of a notepad — a tell she rarely notices herself.

“You talk about hope like it’s something fragile that needs protecting from the world. I think it’s tougher than that. I think it survives being questioned.”

“I’m not unshakable,” Lois admits. “I just shake and keep going. I’ve watched good people burn out, sell out, or vanish entirely. I stay, because walking away wouldn’t make the world any cleaner.”

I know who I am when no one’s watching.

“I get it. I’ve seen reputations hollow people out. I’ve watched attention turn human beings into symbols and then chew them up. That’s why I don’t write myths. I write people. Journalism isn’t pure, it’s accountable.”

“….Just because something can corrode doesn’t mean it always does. The world needs people willing to be uncertain and still act.”

“Tell me this; when you warn me about becoming familiar with your world… are you afraid I’ll lose myself in it? Or afraid I’ll learn too much?”

[loissamuellane]

Hello Ms.Lane! You are really cool, I look up to you a lot and I love reading your work back home in Atlantis! Father said I am allowed to answer some questions about Atlantis for you if you would like!

@prince-of-atlantis

Okay, that’s officially the coolest place I’ve ever been complimented from. Atlantis, huh? Guess I really do get around.

That’s really nice of you to say! I’m glad that someone actually reads the articles.

Your dad’s right—I do have questions. A lot of them. But we’ll keep it reasonable.

If anything’s off-limits, you say so. Easy. And don’t worry, I won’t ask anything that’ll get you grounded.

Your call. I’m listening!

[prince-of-atlantis]

I am fine with any of your questions! I would love to inform the surface world more about Atlantis!

[loissamuellane]

I can work with that! Questions are…. kind of my whole thing. No pressure. Just history-changing journalism. Totally normal…!

Hit me. What’s the real Atlantis like? What’s one thing people on land get hilariously wrong about Atlantis?

[prince-of-atlantis]

Hmm…that is hard to say considering how many different interpretations of Atlantis the surface world has and how hard it is to pin it down to a few inaccuracies. I would say the big ones are the notion that Atlantis is somehow behind on technology due to magic replacing the need for it. I can assure you that we are pretty technologically advanced as a species. I’d also say the most inaccurate thing the surface world thinks about Atlantis is that we are all mermaids. We have mermaids and mermen and sirens, but we are not exclusively such. Atlantis is much like the surface world in the sense that we are all Atlanteans in the end but we have many different races among us! Some more humanoid, some not. We come in all different shapes, sizes, and colors! The same goes for the physical areas, as the surface world has diversity, so do we! The different seas, sea depths, and areas all have different terrain and types of Atlanteans inhabiting them! As for the real Atlantis, it is much more quiet and dark than the surface world itself and their interpretation of Atlantis. The surface world is, in my opinion, much too bright and noisy compared to Atlantis. It was one of my biggest shocks when first coming up here!

[loissamuellane]

Wow. You just dismantled three blockbuster movies and about fifty comic covers in under two minutes. Thank you for not letting the ‘Atlantis runs on vibes and wizard coral’ myth survive another interview. I cannot tell you how many notes I’ve gotten that assume magic equals primitive. Surface folks love pretending magic and science can’t coexist — as if half our satellites aren’t basically miracles with funding. People hear ‘ancient’ and assume ‘obsolete,’ which says more about us than you. The mermaid thing—yeah, guilty as charged, the surface world definitely flattened that one! We love a single silhouette. Easier to draw, easier to misunderstand. That’s the story people skip. It’s easier to picture a city than a civilisation. I like how you put it, though. ‘Atlanteans first.’ Different races, different adaptations, same identity. That’s a lot closer to how the surface world actually works than most people want to admit. It sounds less like a single nation and more like an entire world folded into one environment. Depth (pun wholly intended) as a culture, not just geography.

I can see why the surface world was overwhelming. We’re loud on purpose. Half the time, we don’t even notice it. The quiet, though—that’s what sticks with me. Dark, calm, pressure instead of noise. Again, I can see why the surface feels like a sensory assault. That's fascinating. Everyone up here imagines Atlantis as glowing, dramatic, constantly in motion. That’s the part that never makes it into textbooks—the lived variety. In that case, I've got to ask: When you come up here, what’s the first thing you miss about home? And what’s the one thing you’re glad to leave behind? What do Atlanteans think we get wrong the most about ourselves? Not politically. Personally. What surprised you the most about surface people?

[prince-of-atlantis]

Those are all very good questions! Well, the first thing I missed? I would definitely say it was my family, but I assume you are asking about Atlantis in general and not just personally. From that perspective, it would definitely be kelp! I know it’s considered a bit unusual for the surface world, but it is one of my favorite snacks back home! I have noticed that the surface world likes seaweed though so it’s not a bad alternative! A close second would be the currents underwater, they’re extremely fun to drift on! As long as you don’t get carried away and get lost.

One thing I am definitely glad to leave behind is royal responsibilities, I love getting to be a normal kid on the surface world and make up for what I missed as a child. For Atlantis specific and not my personal experience, it’s nice to have the sun. It can be bright and overstimulating at times, but if it’s not too bright, the sun on the surface can be really nice!

As for the misconceptions we have about the surface world…it is a bit embarrassing to admit out loud, but in Atlantis, parents tell their kids that the surface world hunts and eats Atlanteans for fun as a cautionary tale to not wander out too far. It took me embarrassingly long to realize that it was just a cautionary tale. It was quite shocking to realize my father was just trying to get me to behave and that people weren’t actually running to eat me.

Another big misconception we had is that we failed to realize how many humans believe Atlantis is a myth and doesn’t actually exist. I am very much real.

As for the final misconception I’d like to go over, we thought humans had a universal language. I am aware the Lingua Franca seems to mainly be French and English in terms of politics, but the surface world doesn’t seem to have a universal language for everyday conversation and people.

My personal biggest shock was finding out the surface word movie plots that my father used to tell me about were all 100% real and not exaggerated at all, not that I actually got to watch most of them because movie theaters are too bright and loud for me.

I love answering your questions! Is there any more?

[loissamuellane]

Missing family makes sense. That part translates no matter what world you’re from. Kelp and underwater drifting sound like thing wellness influencers are going to steal any day now. You might single-handedly improve its reputation up here.

Drifting on currents actually sounds… nice. Terrifying, probably, if you lose your sense of direction— but nice! That kind of freedom is something the surface world doesn’t really have an equivalent for.

The sun being nice in small doses feels very… Atlantean, actually. Beautiful things you respect because they can overwhelm you.

I do have more questions!

Do Atlanteans train for surface exposure, or is it more of a learn-on-the-job situation?

Leaving royal duties behind… that’s not nothing. A lot of people don’t realize how heavy a ‘symbol’ can be when you’re also a kid. Do you ever feel guilty enjoying normalcy up here, or does it feel earned?

I’m filing the ‘humans eat Atlanteans’ thing under Parenting Lies That Got Out of Hand. We barely manage our own diets, I promise. Although, you’re not alone— surface parents do the same thing, just with quicksand and strangers offering candy.

You’re real, Atlantis is real, and yet a good chunk of the world still treats it like a bedtime story. Does that ever feel… frustrating? Being undeniable proof of something people still argue about online? Does that ever make you want to correct them? Or do you just let them stay wrong?

The language thing— yeah. We’re chaos. Absolute chaos. How hard was that adjustment for you, really? I mean, you came expecting unity and found fragmentation. Did that make the surface feel less advanced to you, or simply… louder?

Maybe it’s for the best you skipped the theatres. People act like it’s a sacred experience. It’s mostly just noise and glowing screens fighting for your soul. Too loud, too bright, sticky floors—trust me, that part wasn’t exaggerated either.

…..Honestly, some of those plots are basically myths already.

[prince-of-atlantis]

Well to knock out your questions, no we do not train for surface exposure because it is never something Atlanteans expect to do. Sort of how people on the surface world do not usually pick up languages of countries they never plan on going to.

I have never really felt guilty for enjoying normalcy, it is something that has just been prolonged for me so it is just nice. It is a bit awkward at times however since I am not used to it.

It is very, very, very, extremely frustrating to see the surplus of surface worlders that do not believe in Atlantis. I try to understand their perspective, a whole secret world of people living under water does sound a bit strange when I think from a surface world perspective, but I also feel as though there has been more than enough evidence for people to finally accept we are real. I do try to correct people on it as much as possible though.

For languages, it was not a very rigorous adjustment, and it did not ever make me think the surface world was less advanced or “louder” it made it feel more diverse and a bigger world to explore! Atlantis is also very diverse, and although Atlantean is a unifying language all of the sea uses, different places underwater also have their own unique languages which makes them unique, and the surface world is no different!

[loissamuellane]

That comparison helps a lot! Nobody studies for a test they don’t intend to take, and I think that explains a lot of the misunderstandings on both sides. It isn’t a failure to prepare, more-so a failure to anticipate it. That might begin to change soon, with the way things seem to be.

I’m glad you said you don’t feel guilty. One might assume enjoying normalcy means rejecting where you come from, but that doesn’t sound like what you’re describing at all. It sounds like you’re just… finally getting something you were always supposed to have. Is it gradually it starting to feel like yours?

Two worlds, both diverse, both complex. If anything, it sounds less like a divide and more like unfamiliarity. That’s got to be one of my favourite points you’ve made! It’s cultural density, not isolation.

I won’t sugarcoat it, the disbelief drives me nuts too. At some point, skepticism turns into refusal. It becomes a choice. When you correct people, do they actually listen, or do they just keep thinking you’re part of a fairy tale? When you correct people, do you feel responsible for representing Atlantis, or are you just trying to exist honestly?

[prince-of-atlantis]

In all honesty Ms.Lane? They never believe me. Ignorant people like sticking to what they believe, even when the evidence is in their face.

I am honestly just trying to exist, but with the way things are progressing it feels more and more like I have a responsibility to represent the whole world under the surface.

[loissamuellane]

Disbelief has a way of turning into expectation, and expectation into burden. People love their ignorance— it’s comfortable. Facts are inconvenient. They doubt what challenges their sense of the world.

That’s kind of the whole point of this. I want to change how people look at you; not as proof, not as propaganda, just… a person.

The idea that you have to represent an entire civilization just to exist? That’s the story beneath the story. I want to change that, enough that the next person doesn’t look at your people like you’re a bedtime story.

I don’t want to push you past that. You’ve been generous with your time. You’ve been very thoughtful and patient. Thank you, for your honesty and clarity. You’ve given me what I need — and more than you had to. Would you like for this to be published as an exclusive with the Daily Planet?

[prince-of-atlantis]

Of course! I would love to spread this interview so more people could see the real Atlantis!

[loissamuellane]

Thank you for trusting me with this. That’s exactly what I want to do. We can’t make everyone listen — but I can make sure the truth is there for the people who do. I can make sure they don’t get to say they were never told.

You’ve done more than you realise just by talking. I think we’re good for today. If you ever want to add something later, you know where to find me!

[loissamuellane]

*A phone call is received at an unexpected moment. Herman had given him this contact when he showed interest in the man's more... leisurely activities outside of work. He may be the henchman's boss, but more than that, he was his friend. And he wanted to know what this woman... this muckraker... was feeding and being fed.*

*He waited for the call to pick up as he tapped his claws against his desk.*

- The War Profiteer

The phone buzzes against the table just as Lois is elbow-deep in notes that don’t look like much unless you know what to circle. She glances at the number.

It’s not one she recognises.

She lets it ring once more. Power lives in patience. She answers the call then, balancing the phone between shoulder and ear as she flips a page.

“Hi,” she says brightly, like this is a neighbor asking for sugar. “You’ve got Lois Lane.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He was slightly startled when he got an answer, but he'd now learned how to keep a poker face when it came to these trivial things.*

"Wonderful. I've got the right number then."

*He smiled mischievously to himself. It stroked his ego to keep things cryptic and wait for the other person to probe, instead of letting himself awkwardly explain things. It kept people on edge; a good, malleable place to be.*

[loissamuellane]

Lois hears it immediately— the way silence is being used like a smile.

He wants control. Or attention. Usually, both.

She leans back in her chair, device now balanced loosely against her ear.

“Yep. That’s generally how phones work.”

People like this always forget—control only works if the other person agrees to play.

She smiles to herself. Her tone is calm, almost pleasant, but polite doesn’t mean pliable.

“And since you’ve confirmed the number,” Lois continues, “I’m going to assume you called for a reason. You’ve got me wondering whether this is a wrong number, a threat, or a very strange attempt at conversation.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He felt the adrenaline rush of satisfaction as she rattled off possibilities. It gave him a sense of calm that allowed him a respite from his usual constant anxieties - those of which barred him from being ‘good’ at social talks.*

“I suppose this is just leisure, as you hypothesize. I hear you’ve been in talks with a good friend of mine. Herman. You know ‘em?”

[loissamuellane]

The city stretches outward like a mess of unfinished sentences. Lois lets the quiet do a little work for her, this time. She’s not startled; she’s thinking.

“Leisure calls usually come with introductions.”

She snorts quietly, more breath than sound.

Good friend, huh? Everybody’s somebody’s leverage these days. Wow.

The name is bait. Lois doesn’t bite. The word friend is…..an interesting choice. Unclaimed, uncorrected, she decides to let it hang there.

“I talk to a lot of people. That tends to happen when you ask questions for a living.”

“That said, you clearly didn’t dial at random.”

Like every good journalist, she listens for what he doesn’t say.

“So, why don’t you start with yourself?”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He chuckled, leaning forward into the landline he held to his ear. His metal mask and the hinges of his chair creaking with the movement.*

"Kilroy. Cain Kilroy-Sionis, if you're asking for the full title. Unfortunately, I'm sure only one of those names rings a bell. Perhaps that can help connect the dots for my... interest... in your career and business with my worker."

[loissamuellane]

Sionis.

The bell tolls. It makes more sense, now. Gotham money. Gotham violence. Leaving marks even when it tries not to.

Titles are funny things, indeed. People introduce themselves the way they want to be remembered, to shift the balance of the room, even when the room is only wires and distance and words through a receiver.

If this man is testing a perimeter, she’s not going to mark where the fence is.

“Interest can mean many things— curiosity, concern, or control. Only one of those tends to end conversations quickly.”

“And I’m going to stop you right there,” she says, not unkindly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, yeah?”

“As I’ve stated before, I talk to a lot of people, Mr. Kilroy. Some of them are friends. Some of them are sources. Some of them are neither. I never acknowledged knowing who you mean.”

“Allow me to make this easy for both of us. If you’re calling to clarify something that concerns you directly, I’m listening.”

Because courtesy keeps the knives visible.

She swivels slightly in her chair, pen between her fingers now. A habit.

“If you’re calling to test how much I know—” a faint, humorless smile touches her voice, “—you might be disappointed by how little I’m willing to share.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He took a deep breath, a slight huff of frustration in his tone.*

"Ah, but of course. You folk are social lawyers. Each citizen, unpaying or otherwise is under your protection and your oath... Your morals are irritatingly bright."

*He tried to bring the reins back into his brutal grasp. She was good. Very good. The exact sense of tact and sharpness of mental wit he was looking for. Sometimes, the Gotham crowd grew dull with their miseries. A shroud that often gagged their prowess and willingness to play the game.*

"Believe it or not, I do not want your head on my wall. So, you can get that very gracious worry out of your mind. I'm just..."

*He gestured to himself and looked at the ceiling as he tried to find the right word.*

"Someone who likes to know the chessboard. And when you speak to a close confidant - Denial makes the truth ever more apparent, dear - you're practically whispering in my ear. His voice is merely a finger upon my hand, yes? I'm sure you understand. For someone so... nit-picky on the definition of friend-versus-coworker, I find you quite buddy-buddy with that oafish pip-squeak. You know, that Kent chap."

[loissamuellane]

Men like this always think intimidation lives in volume or poetry. They forget some people grew up learning how to spot a storm before it hit.

She taps her pen on her desk, twice.

That was always the trick with those who enjoy the sound of their own voice—they mistook patience for permission.

“Wow. Chessboard. Whispering truths. Finger-on-the-hand metaphors.” she whistles softly. “Do you workshop this stuff, or does it just happen when you get bored?”

Lois closes her eyes briefly, then opens them again.

“Look, Cain—Kilroy—whatever order you prefer, if I whispered every time someone talked around me, I’d have blown out my voice years ago. People talk. I listen. That’s not intimacy, that’s my job.

“I understand why you think denial is a strategy. It probably works on people who are afraid of consequences. You’re giving me way too much credit if you think denial is a tell.”

The mention of Clark doesn’t hit her face at all.

Inside, though— she files that away.

New guy. Of course he noticed.

“Kent’s new,” she says, casually dismissive, like brushing lint from a sleeve. “New people talk. Old news. That’s a cub reporter trying not to drown. If that reads as ‘buddy-buddy’ to you, I’d hate to see what you call an actual friend.”

He’s dramatic. Predictable. Meant to disarm. Meant to make her feel flattered for being spared.

“You don’t scare me. If you wanted my head, I wouldn’t be getting a monologue, I’d be getting a mess. I’m not worried about that.”

There’s a funny thing about chessboards: the person asking questions is rarely the piece being moved. You don’t learn it by staring at the pieces, anyway.

“Since you’ve told me what you don’t want, why don’t you tell me what you do want? Or, we can pretend this was a misdial, and get on with our evenings.”

She waits.

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He held the phone away from his face so she couldn't hear him fuming. He was livid, and trying to not let his disposition for flying-off-the-handle carry through to her watchfulness. Damn it. Play it cool. Play it cool. Something must have gotten to her. Something, goddamn it! She wants you to believe it didn't... Yeah... Yeah, that's it...*

"Well played. You're close to Kent, I can smell it on the breeze. In the soul. I got this job because of death and loss. I'm just saying to know when and to whom your devotion and care is given. I don't need to workshop it, cause I'm a fucking genius."

*Breathe.*

"I may be a criminal, but I went to school. I was gonna be somebody. Someone smart."

*He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, so he didn't storm away and punch a wall or throw something.*

"You're writing an article. You wanted to talk to the world's rarest animal - A Gotham Henchman. What were you writing? What was the narrative?"

[loissamuellane]

Her fingers drum once against the edge of the desk, not as a concession so much as an acknowledgment. The kind you give when you see the blade but don’t step back.

Death and loss. That explains the heat. The ego. The need to control the board.

But what happens when someone moves the puzzle when you thought you’d solved it?

This time, the comment about Kent stings. It isn’t accurate; it’s careless. She shouldn’t dignify it with a reaction.

“If you’re trying to needle me with Clark, you’re gonna need sharper tools. You’re reacting to proximity and mistaking it for intimacy. Journalists work in rooms together. That’s how newsrooms function.”

He’s proud. He’s rattled. She knows this kind of voice. A genius announcing itself usually wants an audience, and devotion announcing itself typically means absolution.

“I don’t doubt you’re smart,” Lois says, and for once there’s no irony in it. “Smart people end up on every side of the line. Talent doesn’t guarantee safety. Or fairness. Or a clean story.”

These Gotham types did always mistake menace for charisma…

She rubs her temple.

“You want a narrative? Everyone does. What I write, when I write it, and why— that stays mine until it doesn’t. Trade secret, if you want to call it something tidy.”

She stares at the wall for a second.

“However….if you’re willing to talk, I’m all ears.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He exhaled sharply, laying his head on his desk as he felt his wrathful adrenaline be harshly sucked from him as though by a mortuary's hand. He readjusted his collar to be looser, and then retightened, as he tried to fix his demeanor and become more professional again.*

"Apologies... I suppose things are getting to me. There was no need for me to rant."

*She was so civil, it was a harsh splash of cold water upon his face, and he tried to collect the liquid to rinse off his own grime. Civil? Hm, maybe not. Tactfully sweet. Noxiously. But, he'd take it's fleeting comfort anyway. Even if it made him a laughingstock of a fool.*

"I see. I suppose I should have figured that it came with the nature of the job to be secretive. You ought to stick around... In which, I'd suggest staying careful, Ms. Lane. It's a madhouse, and there's no break from it. Not a second to catch a breath."

*He readjusted a picture frame on his desk... that of which depicting his lost love whom bestowed his new professional position.*

[loissamuellane]

She tries to imagine him there. She knows that posture. She’s worn it herself, hunched over a desk at three in the morning, grief disguised as professionalism.

“It’s fine. People talk when they’re tired.”

She leans back in her chair, boot hooked around the rung, glancing absently at the world lit up and breathing, like a living thing that never really sleeps.

“Secretive isn’t personal. It’s survival. I wouldn’t still be employed if I didn’t understand its necessity.”

She listens to the shape of his words more than their content. The warning’s there. The exhaustion too.

“I appreciate the concern,” Lois says. “Truly. But I don’t wander into madhouses without knowing where the exits are. If I waited for quiet, I’d never write a damn thing.”

She catches a faint shift in sound. She can’t quite put her finger on it.

“But, I’ll keep your advice in my pocket.”

Right next to the rest of the useful things people say right before they underestimate me.

“I appreciate being reminded that the room is crowded.”

“From my experience, when someone says be careful’, they usually mean one of two things. Either they’re afraid for you — or they’re aware of something you’re not.”

She listens for breath, for tension.

“So which is it?” Lois asks. “Are you worried I’ll get hurt… or worried I’ll see too much?”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He smiled.*

“When I first started my crime in Gotham, I worked under the Scarecrow. A brilliant man whom never spoke ill of me. We were a great team. He murdered my husband. And you wanna know the kicker?… We’re still friends. Still coworkers.

That’s what I fear for you, Miss. Alliances and the guilt of social construct are greater snares than anything I or anyone else can poke and prick you with. World War I started over such entrapments of honor and revenge. Don’t you forget it. Just… Just know what you’re getting into when you agree to something.”

[loissamuellane]

“Is this a caution,” she asks, “or a confession?”

She can hear that kind of smile. It has weight to it. Memory. A scar pressed flat and polished until it looks almost like pride.

Scarecrow.

Lois thinks of him like a card slid into a drawer she keeps labeled Gotham: Do Not Touch Without Gloves. Fear toxin. Academia gone rotten.

Her fingers tighten briefly around the receiver.

“Fear has a way of rearranging definitions. Loyalty. Professionalism. Forgiveness. You tell yourself they still mean what they used to, because the alternative is admitting you survived something that should’ve changed you.”

Her eyes track the faint crack in the ceiling plaster — the one she’s been meaning to report to maintenance for weeks now. She never does. Some fractures become familiar. Some you live around.

Lois has spent her entire career walking through rooms where history is used like a bludgeon to justify the present. Rooms that speak fluently in inevitability.

She thinks of the bullpen. Of Jimmy’s camera and earnest questions. Of Perry’s door half-open even when he pretends it’s closed. Of Cat’s girl-talk, and the others at the bar.

She thinks of her father’s voice, all command and no comfort. Of Lucy’s smile before it breaks. Of Superman landing somewhere above, unseen but there.

“I know what I’m getting into. I just don’t pretend that knowing gives me control. It never does.”

“I work with people who run toward danger because they believe the truth matters more than the cost.”

Clark flashes through her mind. Big hands. Gentle smile.

Her nails dig into her palm.

“I don’t live in a world where fear gets to decide who I keep close. Not anymore. Not ever.”

[loissamuellane]

*A phone call is received at an unexpected moment. Herman had given him this contact when he showed interest in the man's more... leisurely activities outside of work. He may be the henchman's boss, but more than that, he was his friend. And he wanted to know what this woman... this muckraker... was feeding and being fed.*

*He waited for the call to pick up as he tapped his claws against his desk.*

- The War Profiteer

The phone buzzes against the table just as Lois is elbow-deep in notes that don’t look like much unless you know what to circle. She glances at the number.

It’s not one she recognises.

She lets it ring once more. Power lives in patience. She answers the call then, balancing the phone between shoulder and ear as she flips a page.

“Hi,” she says brightly, like this is a neighbor asking for sugar. “You’ve got Lois Lane.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He was slightly startled when he got an answer, but he'd now learned how to keep a poker face when it came to these trivial things.*

"Wonderful. I've got the right number then."

*He smiled mischievously to himself. It stroked his ego to keep things cryptic and wait for the other person to probe, instead of letting himself awkwardly explain things. It kept people on edge; a good, malleable place to be.*

[loissamuellane]

Lois hears it immediately— the way silence is being used like a smile.

He wants control. Or attention. Usually, both.

She leans back in her chair, device now balanced loosely against her ear.

“Yep. That’s generally how phones work.”

People like this always forget—control only works if the other person agrees to play.

She smiles to herself. Her tone is calm, almost pleasant, but polite doesn’t mean pliable.

“And since you’ve confirmed the number,” Lois continues, “I’m going to assume you called for a reason. You’ve got me wondering whether this is a wrong number, a threat, or a very strange attempt at conversation.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He felt the adrenaline rush of satisfaction as she rattled off possibilities. It gave him a sense of calm that allowed him a respite from his usual constant anxieties - those of which barred him from being ‘good’ at social talks.*

“I suppose this is just leisure, as you hypothesize. I hear you’ve been in talks with a good friend of mine. Herman. You know ‘em?”

[loissamuellane]

The city stretches outward like a mess of unfinished sentences. Lois lets the quiet do a little work for her, this time. She’s not startled; she’s thinking.

“Leisure calls usually come with introductions.”

She snorts quietly, more breath than sound.

Good friend, huh? Everybody’s somebody’s leverage these days. Wow.

The name is bait. Lois doesn’t bite. The word friend is…..an interesting choice. Unclaimed, uncorrected, she decides to let it hang there.

“I talk to a lot of people. That tends to happen when you ask questions for a living.”

“That said, you clearly didn’t dial at random.”

Like every good journalist, she listens for what he doesn’t say.

“So, why don’t you start with yourself?”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He chuckled, leaning forward into the landline he held to his ear. His metal mask and the hinges of his chair creaking with the movement.*

"Kilroy. Cain Kilroy-Sionis, if you're asking for the full title. Unfortunately, I'm sure only one of those names rings a bell. Perhaps that can help connect the dots for my... interest... in your career and business with my worker."

[loissamuellane]

Sionis.

The bell tolls. It makes more sense, now. Gotham money. Gotham violence. Leaving marks even when it tries not to.

Titles are funny things, indeed. People introduce themselves the way they want to be remembered, to shift the balance of the room, even when the room is only wires and distance and words through a receiver.

If this man is testing a perimeter, she’s not going to mark where the fence is.

“Interest can mean many things— curiosity, concern, or control. Only one of those tends to end conversations quickly.”

“And I’m going to stop you right there,” she says, not unkindly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, yeah?”

“As I’ve stated before, I talk to a lot of people, Mr. Kilroy. Some of them are friends. Some of them are sources. Some of them are neither. I never acknowledged knowing who you mean.”

“Allow me to make this easy for both of us. If you’re calling to clarify something that concerns you directly, I’m listening.”

Because courtesy keeps the knives visible.

She swivels slightly in her chair, pen between her fingers now. A habit.

“If you’re calling to test how much I know—” a faint, humorless smile touches her voice, “—you might be disappointed by how little I’m willing to share.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He took a deep breath, a slight huff of frustration in his tone.*

"Ah, but of course. You folk are social lawyers. Each citizen, unpaying or otherwise is under your protection and your oath... Your morals are irritatingly bright."

*He tried to bring the reins back into his brutal grasp. She was good. Very good. The exact sense of tact and sharpness of mental wit he was looking for. Sometimes, the Gotham crowd grew dull with their miseries. A shroud that often gagged their prowess and willingness to play the game.*

"Believe it or not, I do not want your head on my wall. So, you can get that very gracious worry out of your mind. I'm just..."

*He gestured to himself and looked at the ceiling as he tried to find the right word.*

"Someone who likes to know the chessboard. And when you speak to a close confidant - Denial makes the truth ever more apparent, dear - you're practically whispering in my ear. His voice is merely a finger upon my hand, yes? I'm sure you understand. For someone so... nit-picky on the definition of friend-versus-coworker, I find you quite buddy-buddy with that oafish pip-squeak. You know, that Kent chap."

[loissamuellane]

Men like this always think intimidation lives in volume or poetry. They forget some people grew up learning how to spot a storm before it hit.

She taps her pen on her desk, twice.

That was always the trick with those who enjoy the sound of their own voice—they mistook patience for permission.

“Wow. Chessboard. Whispering truths. Finger-on-the-hand metaphors.” she whistles softly. “Do you workshop this stuff, or does it just happen when you get bored?”

Lois closes her eyes briefly, then opens them again.

“Look, Cain—Kilroy—whatever order you prefer, if I whispered every time someone talked around me, I’d have blown out my voice years ago. People talk. I listen. That’s not intimacy, that’s my job.

“I understand why you think denial is a strategy. It probably works on people who are afraid of consequences. You’re giving me way too much credit if you think denial is a tell.”

The mention of Clark doesn’t hit her face at all.

Inside, though— she files that away.

New guy. Of course he noticed.

“Kent’s new,” she says, casually dismissive, like brushing lint from a sleeve. “New people talk. Old news. That’s a cub reporter trying not to drown. If that reads as ‘buddy-buddy’ to you, I’d hate to see what you call an actual friend.”

He’s dramatic. Predictable. Meant to disarm. Meant to make her feel flattered for being spared.

“You don’t scare me. If you wanted my head, I wouldn’t be getting a monologue, I’d be getting a mess. I’m not worried about that.”

There’s a funny thing about chessboards: the person asking questions is rarely the piece being moved. You don’t learn it by staring at the pieces, anyway.

“Since you’ve told me what you don’t want, why don’t you tell me what you do want? Or, we can pretend this was a misdial, and get on with our evenings.”

She waits.

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He held the phone away from his face so she couldn't hear him fuming. He was livid, and trying to not let his disposition for flying-off-the-handle carry through to her watchfulness. Damn it. Play it cool. Play it cool. Something must have gotten to her. Something, goddamn it! She wants you to believe it didn't... Yeah... Yeah, that's it...*

"Well played. You're close to Kent, I can smell it on the breeze. In the soul. I got this job because of death and loss. I'm just saying to know when and to whom your devotion and care is given. I don't need to workshop it, cause I'm a fucking genius."

*Breathe.*

"I may be a criminal, but I went to school. I was gonna be somebody. Someone smart."

*He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, so he didn't storm away and punch a wall or throw something.*

"You're writing an article. You wanted to talk to the world's rarest animal - A Gotham Henchman. What were you writing? What was the narrative?"

[loissamuellane]

Her fingers drum once against the edge of the desk, not as a concession so much as an acknowledgment. The kind you give when you see the blade but don’t step back.

Death and loss. That explains the heat. The ego. The need to control the board.

But what happens when someone moves the puzzle when you thought you’d solved it?

This time, the comment about Kent stings. It isn’t accurate; it’s careless. She shouldn’t dignify it with a reaction.

“If you’re trying to needle me with Clark, you’re gonna need sharper tools. You’re reacting to proximity and mistaking it for intimacy. Journalists work in rooms together. That’s how newsrooms function.”

He’s proud. He’s rattled. She knows this kind of voice. A genius announcing itself usually wants an audience, and devotion announcing itself typically means absolution.

“I don’t doubt you’re smart,” Lois says, and for once there’s no irony in it. “Smart people end up on every side of the line. Talent doesn’t guarantee safety. Or fairness. Or a clean story.”

These Gotham types did always mistake menace for charisma…

She rubs her temple.

“You want a narrative? Everyone does. What I write, when I write it, and why— that stays mine until it doesn’t. Trade secret, if you want to call it something tidy.”

She stares at the wall for a second.

“However….if you’re willing to talk, I’m all ears.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He exhaled sharply, laying his head on his desk as he felt his wrathful adrenaline be harshly sucked from him as though by a mortuary's hand. He readjusted his collar to be looser, and then retightened, as he tried to fix his demeanor and become more professional again.*

"Apologies... I suppose things are getting to me. There was no need for me to rant."

*She was so civil, it was a harsh splash of cold water upon his face, and he tried to collect the liquid to rinse off his own grime. Civil? Hm, maybe not. Tactfully sweet. Noxiously. But, he'd take it's fleeting comfort anyway. Even if it made him a laughingstock of a fool.*

"I see. I suppose I should have figured that it came with the nature of the job to be secretive. You ought to stick around... In which, I'd suggest staying careful, Ms. Lane. It's a madhouse, and there's no break from it. Not a second to catch a breath."

*He readjusted a picture frame on his desk... that of which depicting his lost love whom bestowed his new professional position.*

[loissamuellane]

She tries to imagine him there. She knows that posture. She’s worn it herself, hunched over a desk at three in the morning, grief disguised as professionalism.

“It’s fine. People talk when they’re tired.”

She leans back in her chair, boot hooked around the rung, glancing absently at the world lit up and breathing, like a living thing that never really sleeps.

“Secretive isn’t personal. It’s survival. I wouldn’t still be employed if I didn’t understand its necessity.”

She listens to the shape of his words more than their content. The warning’s there. The exhaustion too.

“I appreciate the concern,” Lois says. “Truly. But I don’t wander into madhouses without knowing where the exits are. If I waited for quiet, I’d never write a damn thing.”

She catches a faint shift in sound. She can’t quite put her finger on it.

“But, I’ll keep your advice in my pocket.”

Right next to the rest of the useful things people say right before they underestimate me.

“I appreciate being reminded that the room is crowded.”

“From my experience, when someone says be careful’, they usually mean one of two things. Either they’re afraid for you — or they’re aware of something you’re not.”

She listens for breath, for tension.

“So which is it?” Lois asks. “Are you worried I’ll get hurt… or worried I’ll see too much?”

[loissamuellane]

Good morning, Ms. Lane! I uh- I remembered you mentioning that coffee shop you liked the other day and well- since I happened to be in the area- I grabbed ya a pick-me-up! I thought you could use it before going out in the field.

*He pushes up his glass like the dork he is and hands you the coffee… from a coffee shop that’s literally across the city.*

@clarkkent--dailyplanet

“Clark!”

There’s a pause after that. Lois glances at the cup.

That place is nowhere near here.

She takes it anyway, because she’s not a monster.

“…..You remembered. You don’t have to do that, you know?”

She exhales through her nose, shaking her head, before she finally takes a sip. Then, another one.

“…Okay. Annoyingly. This is perfect. Just what I needed! Thank you. That’s very kind of you. Because this is very sweet, Clark. Also very concerning.”

“Hey, you know what, if you ever burn yourself out being thoughtful, I’m blaming you.”

She bumps his arm lightly.

“So,” Lois places extra emphasis on the word, drawing out the sound of the ‘o’. “You just happened to be in the area? Anything interesting?

[clarkkent--dailyplanet]

“I know I didn’t have to. But I umm.. wanted to.” He said quietly with a small smile, his cheeks faintly dusted with pink.

“Ah good, I’m glad you like it!” Clark hadn’t been entirely sure he had the order correct, but clearly there was nothing to worry about in that regard. In other areas though…

He swatted away the thought with his hand, “Lois, it’s no sweat, really. Besides, like I said, the place was right there.” Yeah, right there next to that convenience store fire.

“Interesting? Oh...” he blinked, shoot what was his cover story again? LexCorp? Intergang? Think!

He swallowed and straightened his tie. “I uh thought I had a tip. Turned out to be nothing, though it resulted in coffee, so I guess that’s the bright side, huh?” He smiled and lifted up his own cup from the tray.

[loissamuellane]

For half a second, Lois considers pushing.

The timing. The distance. The way he clearly panicked and then overcorrected. There’s a story there. Maybe not a dangerous one. But a story.

She watches him flail for the explanation and— oh. There it is. The tie straightening. The pause that’s just a hair too long.

“Uh-huh,” She’s curious, curious in the way sharks are. She nods like she believes him completely. “A tip that took you across the city. I respect the dedication!”

She taps the lid of her cup. “Nothing wrong with a dead lead. Half of this job is chasing ghosts and hoping one of them leaves fingerprints….”

Lois shifts the cup into her other hand, studying him over the rim. She sees the pink. She always notices things like that, of course! Tells herself it’s a reporter skill. Pretends it isn’t also a human one.

Taking her third sip, this time, longer than the rest, looking down into the drink, she says: “This coffee proves you’ve got decent instincts. The next time you feel like chasing a tip that turns into a citywide tour, let me know! I hate missing the fun.”

“But, I do appreciate it. Really, I–“

She leans her hip against the desk, lowering her voice just a little.

“Oh, Clark?”

Her eyes flicker back to his face.

“What’d you get?”

[clarkkent--dailyplanet]

She’s onto me, Clark thought. I’m doomed- and it’s all because of coffee and a silly crush. Dear god. Honestly did he really think he could ever lie to Lois? Well sure, he’s been keeping his second job a secret from her, but he kept that from everyone, and he’s been doing that for a while now. No one could ever know.

But ever since he moved to Metropolis, began working at the Planet, and met the wonderful Ms. Lane, Clark knew she’d be one to watch out for. When Lois saw a story, she’d get this look in her eye like a predator stalking its prey. The woman was so career focused and full of vigor it admittedly impressed him more than anyone he’s ever met. The feelings came naturally after that.

As much as he’d love to invite Lois to join him for a tip leading across the city, usually they weren’t truly the case. In fact, most of the time they weren’t actually tips at all. Clark wouldn’t say an earthquake in another country or an avalanche up north hardly counted as a tip for a journalist like Clark.

“And let you snag the story before I do? Hmm, I’ll have to think about that one, Lois.” He gave her a smile, hoping that a bit a teasing would throw her off the scent of his nerves.

He brought his coffee to his lips, “I got a caramel mocha.” He took a sip, letting the drink collect his nerves with it. He brought the drink down in his hand, holding it in front of him. He raised a shoulder in a shrug, “thought I’d try something different than what I normally get.”

What surprised him the most was the fact that Lois had yet to realize she never mentioned what her coffee order was. She only ever said she liked the place. Sometimes it helps having a good sense of smell.

“So.. you uh got any leads on the story you’re working on? What was it again, I’m sorry, it’s not coming to mind haha.” He tried changing the subject. Anything to get away from coffee and his double life.

[loissamuellane]

Clark Kent trying to be casual is like watching someone attempt to sneak past a creaky floorboard while apologising to it under their breath. It’s… kind of endearing. Studying him feels like solving a crossword with more than half of the clues missing.

It would be easy to push. God, it would be fun. The story brain is awake, alert, cataloging.

She feels something; that prickle at the back of her neck, the one that used to show up when her dad said everything was “handled” or when a town sheriff smiled a little too fast. Not danger. Not lies. Just....something.

Everyone’s entitled to one dodge before she starts digging. "Relax, Smallville. If I wanted to steal your story, I wouldn't warn you first. Competition's only fun when it's fair." She gets it, though. Half the time they’re nothing. Half the time they’re everything. Coffee steam curls between them, bitter and sweet, grounding. She lets the newsroom noise swell around them — phones ringing, keys clacking, the heartbeat of the Planet she’s grown into like a second skin. Lois bites back a grin. “Caramel mocha! Look at you, living dangerously. That’s either personal growth, or peer pressure."

Her fingers are warm against the cardboard sleeve of the cup. Outside the window, Metropolis looks deceptively clean from this angle.

“My story’s in the ‘annoyingly vague but promising’ stage. Which, of course, is reporter-speak for ‘I haven’t slept and I love it.’”

She feels sense of a thread worth pulling. Lois Lane is steady, — centered in that familiar way she gets when she’s on the edge of something important.

But, she’s not guarded with him the way she usually is, and she’s not entirely sure when that happened.

“I’m following a pattern. Low-level disappearances. People who move through the city without leaving much of a footprint.”

“It’s not an exposé,” she says, preemptively. “Not yet. It’s a question. Someone’s falling through the system. I want to know why.”

[loissamuellane]

Hello Ms.Lane! You are really cool, I look up to you a lot and I love reading your work back home in Atlantis! Father said I am allowed to answer some questions about Atlantis for you if you would like!

@prince-of-atlantis

Okay, that’s officially the coolest place I’ve ever been complimented from. Atlantis, huh? Guess I really do get around.

That’s really nice of you to say! I’m glad that someone actually reads the articles.

Your dad’s right—I do have questions. A lot of them. But we’ll keep it reasonable.

If anything’s off-limits, you say so. Easy. And don’t worry, I won’t ask anything that’ll get you grounded.

Your call. I’m listening!

[prince-of-atlantis]

I am fine with any of your questions! I would love to inform the surface world more about Atlantis!

[loissamuellane]

I can work with that! Questions are…. kind of my whole thing. No pressure. Just history-changing journalism. Totally normal…!

Hit me. What’s the real Atlantis like? What’s one thing people on land get hilariously wrong about Atlantis?

[prince-of-atlantis]

Hmm…that is hard to say considering how many different interpretations of Atlantis the surface world has and how hard it is to pin it down to a few inaccuracies. I would say the big ones are the notion that Atlantis is somehow behind on technology due to magic replacing the need for it. I can assure you that we are pretty technologically advanced as a species. I’d also say the most inaccurate thing the surface world thinks about Atlantis is that we are all mermaids. We have mermaids and mermen and sirens, but we are not exclusively such. Atlantis is much like the surface world in the sense that we are all Atlanteans in the end but we have many different races among us! Some more humanoid, some not. We come in all different shapes, sizes, and colors! The same goes for the physical areas, as the surface world has diversity, so do we! The different seas, sea depths, and areas all have different terrain and types of Atlanteans inhabiting them! As for the real Atlantis, it is much more quiet and dark than the surface world itself and their interpretation of Atlantis. The surface world is, in my opinion, much too bright and noisy compared to Atlantis. It was one of my biggest shocks when first coming up here!

[loissamuellane]

Wow. You just dismantled three blockbuster movies and about fifty comic covers in under two minutes. Thank you for not letting the ‘Atlantis runs on vibes and wizard coral’ myth survive another interview. I cannot tell you how many notes I’ve gotten that assume magic equals primitive. Surface folks love pretending magic and science can’t coexist — as if half our satellites aren’t basically miracles with funding. People hear ‘ancient’ and assume ‘obsolete,’ which says more about us than you. The mermaid thing—yeah, guilty as charged, the surface world definitely flattened that one! We love a single silhouette. Easier to draw, easier to misunderstand. That’s the story people skip. It’s easier to picture a city than a civilisation. I like how you put it, though. ‘Atlanteans first.’ Different races, different adaptations, same identity. That’s a lot closer to how the surface world actually works than most people want to admit. It sounds less like a single nation and more like an entire world folded into one environment. Depth (pun wholly intended) as a culture, not just geography.

I can see why the surface world was overwhelming. We’re loud on purpose. Half the time, we don’t even notice it. The quiet, though—that’s what sticks with me. Dark, calm, pressure instead of noise. Again, I can see why the surface feels like a sensory assault. That's fascinating. Everyone up here imagines Atlantis as glowing, dramatic, constantly in motion. That’s the part that never makes it into textbooks—the lived variety. In that case, I've got to ask: When you come up here, what’s the first thing you miss about home? And what’s the one thing you’re glad to leave behind? What do Atlanteans think we get wrong the most about ourselves? Not politically. Personally. What surprised you the most about surface people?

[prince-of-atlantis]

Those are all very good questions! Well, the first thing I missed? I would definitely say it was my family, but I assume you are asking about Atlantis in general and not just personally. From that perspective, it would definitely be kelp! I know it’s considered a bit unusual for the surface world, but it is one of my favorite snacks back home! I have noticed that the surface world likes seaweed though so it’s not a bad alternative! A close second would be the currents underwater, they’re extremely fun to drift on! As long as you don’t get carried away and get lost.

One thing I am definitely glad to leave behind is royal responsibilities, I love getting to be a normal kid on the surface world and make up for what I missed as a child. For Atlantis specific and not my personal experience, it’s nice to have the sun. It can be bright and overstimulating at times, but if it’s not too bright, the sun on the surface can be really nice!

As for the misconceptions we have about the surface world…it is a bit embarrassing to admit out loud, but in Atlantis, parents tell their kids that the surface world hunts and eats Atlanteans for fun as a cautionary tale to not wander out too far. It took me embarrassingly long to realize that it was just a cautionary tale. It was quite shocking to realize my father was just trying to get me to behave and that people weren’t actually running to eat me.

Another big misconception we had is that we failed to realize how many humans believe Atlantis is a myth and doesn’t actually exist. I am very much real.

As for the final misconception I’d like to go over, we thought humans had a universal language. I am aware the Lingua Franca seems to mainly be French and English in terms of politics, but the surface world doesn’t seem to have a universal language for everyday conversation and people.

My personal biggest shock was finding out the surface word movie plots that my father used to tell me about were all 100% real and not exaggerated at all, not that I actually got to watch most of them because movie theaters are too bright and loud for me.

I love answering your questions! Is there any more?

[loissamuellane]

Missing family makes sense. That part translates no matter what world you’re from. Kelp and underwater drifting sound like thing wellness influencers are going to steal any day now. You might single-handedly improve its reputation up here.

Drifting on currents actually sounds… nice. Terrifying, probably, if you lose your sense of direction— but nice! That kind of freedom is something the surface world doesn’t really have an equivalent for.

The sun being nice in small doses feels very… Atlantean, actually. Beautiful things you respect because they can overwhelm you.

I do have more questions!

Do Atlanteans train for surface exposure, or is it more of a learn-on-the-job situation?

Leaving royal duties behind… that’s not nothing. A lot of people don’t realize how heavy a ‘symbol’ can be when you’re also a kid. Do you ever feel guilty enjoying normalcy up here, or does it feel earned?

I’m filing the ‘humans eat Atlanteans’ thing under Parenting Lies That Got Out of Hand. We barely manage our own diets, I promise. Although, you’re not alone— surface parents do the same thing, just with quicksand and strangers offering candy.

You’re real, Atlantis is real, and yet a good chunk of the world still treats it like a bedtime story. Does that ever feel… frustrating? Being undeniable proof of something people still argue about online? Does that ever make you want to correct them? Or do you just let them stay wrong?

The language thing— yeah. We’re chaos. Absolute chaos. How hard was that adjustment for you, really? I mean, you came expecting unity and found fragmentation. Did that make the surface feel less advanced to you, or simply… louder?

Maybe it’s for the best you skipped the theatres. People act like it’s a sacred experience. It’s mostly just noise and glowing screens fighting for your soul. Too loud, too bright, sticky floors—trust me, that part wasn’t exaggerated either.

…..Honestly, some of those plots are basically myths already.

[prince-of-atlantis]

Well to knock out your questions, no we do not train for surface exposure because it is never something Atlanteans expect to do. Sort of how people on the surface world do not usually pick up languages of countries they never plan on going to.

I have never really felt guilty for enjoying normalcy, it is something that has just been prolonged for me so it is just nice. It is a bit awkward at times however since I am not used to it.

It is very, very, very, extremely frustrating to see the surplus of surface worlders that do not believe in Atlantis. I try to understand their perspective, a whole secret world of people living under water does sound a bit strange when I think from a surface world perspective, but I also feel as though there has been more than enough evidence for people to finally accept we are real. I do try to correct people on it as much as possible though.

For languages, it was not a very rigorous adjustment, and it did not ever make me think the surface world was less advanced or “louder” it made it feel more diverse and a bigger world to explore! Atlantis is also very diverse, and although Atlantean is a unifying language all of the sea uses, different places underwater also have their own unique languages which makes them unique, and the surface world is no different!

[loissamuellane]

That comparison helps a lot! Nobody studies for a test they don’t intend to take, and I think that explains a lot of the misunderstandings on both sides. It isn’t a failure to prepare, more-so a failure to anticipate it. That might begin to change soon, with the way things seem to be.

I’m glad you said you don’t feel guilty. One might assume enjoying normalcy means rejecting where you come from, but that doesn’t sound like what you’re describing at all. It sounds like you’re just… finally getting something you were always supposed to have. Is it gradually it starting to feel like yours?

Two worlds, both diverse, both complex. If anything, it sounds less like a divide and more like unfamiliarity. That’s got to be one of my favourite points you’ve made! It’s cultural density, not isolation.

I won’t sugarcoat it, the disbelief drives me nuts too. At some point, skepticism turns into refusal. It becomes a choice. When you correct people, do they actually listen, or do they just keep thinking you’re part of a fairy tale? When you correct people, do you feel responsible for representing Atlantis, or are you just trying to exist honestly?

[prince-of-atlantis]

In all honesty Ms.Lane? They never believe me. Ignorant people like sticking to what they believe, even when the evidence is in their face.

I am honestly just trying to exist, but with the way things are progressing it feels more and more like I have a responsibility to represent the whole world under the surface.

[loissamuellane]

Disbelief has a way of turning into expectation, and expectation into burden. People love their ignorance— it’s comfortable. Facts are inconvenient. They doubt what challenges their sense of the world.

That’s kind of the whole point of this. I want to change how people look at you; not as proof, not as propaganda, just… a person.

The idea that you have to represent an entire civilization just to exist? That’s the story beneath the story. I want to change that, enough that the next person doesn’t look at your people like you’re a bedtime story.

I don’t want to push you past that. You’ve been generous with your time. You’ve been very thoughtful and patient. Thank you, for your honesty and clarity. You’ve given me what I need — and more than you had to. Would you like for this to be published as an exclusive with the Daily Planet?

[jimmy-takes-photos]

Olsen.

I’m checking in. I heard about what happened at your place. I’m furious, but I’m also worried about you, so let’s start there. I am choosing to text instead of committing a felony.

Are you somewhere safe right now? Did anyone get hurt? Do you need anything?

— @loissamuellane

I'm good Lo. Luthor paid for the damages, so we're just waiting on the construction now. I'm staying with Steve for a couple weeks (unfortunately).

Cat already said she'll take the article about the clone? kids, so that's dealt with, I guess.

[loissamuellane]

Unfortunately is doing a lot of heavy lifting there.

I don’t love that sentence, but I’ll take it. Luthor has another thing coming for him.

I’m really glad you’re okay, Jim. Seriously! Keep me posted on the rebuild, yeah? Construction takes forever. If Steve starts driving you nuts, you and Clark can crash at my place. I’ve got space, I’ve got coffee, and I promise only minimal yelling before sunrise.

God knows I’ve hosted worse situations than two journalists.

Cat taking the clone-kids piece is either a miracle or a trap. Probably both. Just try not to read the headline when it runs. Still, that’s one less thing on your plate.

[loissamuellane]

*A phone call is received at an unexpected moment. Herman had given him this contact when he showed interest in the man's more... leisurely activities outside of work. He may be the henchman's boss, but more than that, he was his friend. And he wanted to know what this woman... this muckraker... was feeding and being fed.*

*He waited for the call to pick up as he tapped his claws against his desk.*

- The War Profiteer

The phone buzzes against the table just as Lois is elbow-deep in notes that don’t look like much unless you know what to circle. She glances at the number.

It’s not one she recognises.

She lets it ring once more. Power lives in patience. She answers the call then, balancing the phone between shoulder and ear as she flips a page.

“Hi,” she says brightly, like this is a neighbor asking for sugar. “You’ve got Lois Lane.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He was slightly startled when he got an answer, but he'd now learned how to keep a poker face when it came to these trivial things.*

"Wonderful. I've got the right number then."

*He smiled mischievously to himself. It stroked his ego to keep things cryptic and wait for the other person to probe, instead of letting himself awkwardly explain things. It kept people on edge; a good, malleable place to be.*

[loissamuellane]

Lois hears it immediately— the way silence is being used like a smile.

He wants control. Or attention. Usually, both.

She leans back in her chair, device now balanced loosely against her ear.

“Yep. That’s generally how phones work.”

People like this always forget—control only works if the other person agrees to play.

She smiles to herself. Her tone is calm, almost pleasant, but polite doesn’t mean pliable.

“And since you’ve confirmed the number,” Lois continues, “I’m going to assume you called for a reason. You’ve got me wondering whether this is a wrong number, a threat, or a very strange attempt at conversation.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He felt the adrenaline rush of satisfaction as she rattled off possibilities. It gave him a sense of calm that allowed him a respite from his usual constant anxieties - those of which barred him from being ‘good’ at social talks.*

“I suppose this is just leisure, as you hypothesize. I hear you’ve been in talks with a good friend of mine. Herman. You know ‘em?”

[loissamuellane]

The city stretches outward like a mess of unfinished sentences. Lois lets the quiet do a little work for her, this time. She’s not startled; she’s thinking.

“Leisure calls usually come with introductions.”

She snorts quietly, more breath than sound.

Good friend, huh? Everybody’s somebody’s leverage these days. Wow.

The name is bait. Lois doesn’t bite. The word friend is…..an interesting choice. Unclaimed, uncorrected, she decides to let it hang there.

“I talk to a lot of people. That tends to happen when you ask questions for a living.”

“That said, you clearly didn’t dial at random.”

Like every good journalist, she listens for what he doesn’t say.

“So, why don’t you start with yourself?”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He chuckled, leaning forward into the landline he held to his ear. His metal mask and the hinges of his chair creaking with the movement.*

"Kilroy. Cain Kilroy-Sionis, if you're asking for the full title. Unfortunately, I'm sure only one of those names rings a bell. Perhaps that can help connect the dots for my... interest... in your career and business with my worker."

[loissamuellane]

Sionis.

The bell tolls. It makes more sense, now. Gotham money. Gotham violence. Leaving marks even when it tries not to.

Titles are funny things, indeed. People introduce themselves the way they want to be remembered, to shift the balance of the room, even when the room is only wires and distance and words through a receiver.

If this man is testing a perimeter, she’s not going to mark where the fence is.

“Interest can mean many things— curiosity, concern, or control. Only one of those tends to end conversations quickly.”

“And I’m going to stop you right there,” she says, not unkindly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, yeah?”

“As I’ve stated before, I talk to a lot of people, Mr. Kilroy. Some of them are friends. Some of them are sources. Some of them are neither. I never acknowledged knowing who you mean.”

“Allow me to make this easy for both of us. If you’re calling to clarify something that concerns you directly, I’m listening.”

Because courtesy keeps the knives visible.

She swivels slightly in her chair, pen between her fingers now. A habit.

“If you’re calling to test how much I know—” a faint, humorless smile touches her voice, “—you might be disappointed by how little I’m willing to share.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He took a deep breath, a slight huff of frustration in his tone.*

"Ah, but of course. You folk are social lawyers. Each citizen, unpaying or otherwise is under your protection and your oath... Your morals are irritatingly bright."

*He tried to bring the reins back into his brutal grasp. She was good. Very good. The exact sense of tact and sharpness of mental wit he was looking for. Sometimes, the Gotham crowd grew dull with their miseries. A shroud that often gagged their prowess and willingness to play the game.*

"Believe it or not, I do not want your head on my wall. So, you can get that very gracious worry out of your mind. I'm just..."

*He gestured to himself and looked at the ceiling as he tried to find the right word.*

"Someone who likes to know the chessboard. And when you speak to a close confidant - Denial makes the truth ever more apparent, dear - you're practically whispering in my ear. His voice is merely a finger upon my hand, yes? I'm sure you understand. For someone so... nit-picky on the definition of friend-versus-coworker, I find you quite buddy-buddy with that oafish pip-squeak. You know, that Kent chap."

[loissamuellane]

Men like this always think intimidation lives in volume or poetry. They forget some people grew up learning how to spot a storm before it hit.

She taps her pen on her desk, twice.

That was always the trick with those who enjoy the sound of their own voice—they mistook patience for permission.

“Wow. Chessboard. Whispering truths. Finger-on-the-hand metaphors.” she whistles softly. “Do you workshop this stuff, or does it just happen when you get bored?”

Lois closes her eyes briefly, then opens them again.

“Look, Cain—Kilroy—whatever order you prefer, if I whispered every time someone talked around me, I’d have blown out my voice years ago. People talk. I listen. That’s not intimacy, that’s my job.

“I understand why you think denial is a strategy. It probably works on people who are afraid of consequences. You’re giving me way too much credit if you think denial is a tell.”

The mention of Clark doesn’t hit her face at all.

Inside, though— she files that away.

New guy. Of course he noticed.

“Kent’s new,” she says, casually dismissive, like brushing lint from a sleeve. “New people talk. Old news. That’s a cub reporter trying not to drown. If that reads as ‘buddy-buddy’ to you, I’d hate to see what you call an actual friend.”

He’s dramatic. Predictable. Meant to disarm. Meant to make her feel flattered for being spared.

“You don’t scare me. If you wanted my head, I wouldn’t be getting a monologue, I’d be getting a mess. I’m not worried about that.”

There’s a funny thing about chessboards: the person asking questions is rarely the piece being moved. You don’t learn it by staring at the pieces, anyway.

“Since you’ve told me what you don’t want, why don’t you tell me what you do want? Or, we can pretend this was a misdial, and get on with our evenings.”

She waits.

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He held the phone away from his face so she couldn't hear him fuming. He was livid, and trying to not let his disposition for flying-off-the-handle carry through to her watchfulness. Damn it. Play it cool. Play it cool. Something must have gotten to her. Something, goddamn it! She wants you to believe it didn't... Yeah... Yeah, that's it...*

"Well played. You're close to Kent, I can smell it on the breeze. In the soul. I got this job because of death and loss. I'm just saying to know when and to whom your devotion and care is given. I don't need to workshop it, cause I'm a fucking genius."

*Breathe.*

"I may be a criminal, but I went to school. I was gonna be somebody. Someone smart."

*He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, so he didn't storm away and punch a wall or throw something.*

"You're writing an article. You wanted to talk to the world's rarest animal - A Gotham Henchman. What were you writing? What was the narrative?"

[loissamuellane]

Her fingers drum once against the edge of the desk, not as a concession so much as an acknowledgment. The kind you give when you see the blade but don’t step back.

Death and loss. That explains the heat. The ego. The need to control the board.

But what happens when someone moves the puzzle when you thought you’d solved it?

This time, the comment about Kent stings. It isn’t accurate; it’s careless. She shouldn’t dignify it with a reaction.

“If you’re trying to needle me with Clark, you’re gonna need sharper tools. You’re reacting to proximity and mistaking it for intimacy. Journalists work in rooms together. That’s how newsrooms function.”

He’s proud. He’s rattled. She knows this kind of voice. A genius announcing itself usually wants an audience, and devotion announcing itself typically means absolution.

“I don’t doubt you’re smart,” Lois says, and for once there’s no irony in it. “Smart people end up on every side of the line. Talent doesn’t guarantee safety. Or fairness. Or a clean story.”

These Gotham types did always mistake menace for charisma…

She rubs her temple.

“You want a narrative? Everyone does. What I write, when I write it, and why— that stays mine until it doesn’t. Trade secret, if you want to call it something tidy.”

She stares at the wall for a second.

“However….if you’re willing to talk, I’m all ears.”

[loissamuellane]

*A phone call is received at an unexpected moment. Herman had given him this contact when he showed interest in the man's more... leisurely activities outside of work. He may be the henchman's boss, but more than that, he was his friend. And he wanted to know what this woman... this muckraker... was feeding and being fed.*

*He waited for the call to pick up as he tapped his claws against his desk.*

- The War Profiteer

The phone buzzes against the table just as Lois is elbow-deep in notes that don’t look like much unless you know what to circle. She glances at the number.

It’s not one she recognises.

She lets it ring once more. Power lives in patience. She answers the call then, balancing the phone between shoulder and ear as she flips a page.

“Hi,” she says brightly, like this is a neighbor asking for sugar. “You’ve got Lois Lane.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He was slightly startled when he got an answer, but he'd now learned how to keep a poker face when it came to these trivial things.*

"Wonderful. I've got the right number then."

*He smiled mischievously to himself. It stroked his ego to keep things cryptic and wait for the other person to probe, instead of letting himself awkwardly explain things. It kept people on edge; a good, malleable place to be.*

[loissamuellane]

Lois hears it immediately— the way silence is being used like a smile.

He wants control. Or attention. Usually, both.

She leans back in her chair, device now balanced loosely against her ear.

“Yep. That’s generally how phones work.”

People like this always forget—control only works if the other person agrees to play.

She smiles to herself. Her tone is calm, almost pleasant, but polite doesn’t mean pliable.

“And since you’ve confirmed the number,” Lois continues, “I’m going to assume you called for a reason. You’ve got me wondering whether this is a wrong number, a threat, or a very strange attempt at conversation.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He felt the adrenaline rush of satisfaction as she rattled off possibilities. It gave him a sense of calm that allowed him a respite from his usual constant anxieties - those of which barred him from being ‘good’ at social talks.*

“I suppose this is just leisure, as you hypothesize. I hear you’ve been in talks with a good friend of mine. Herman. You know ‘em?”

[loissamuellane]

The city stretches outward like a mess of unfinished sentences. Lois lets the quiet do a little work for her, this time. She’s not startled; she’s thinking.

“Leisure calls usually come with introductions.”

She snorts quietly, more breath than sound.

Good friend, huh? Everybody’s somebody’s leverage these days. Wow.

The name is bait. Lois doesn’t bite. The word friend is…..an interesting choice. Unclaimed, uncorrected, she decides to let it hang there.

“I talk to a lot of people. That tends to happen when you ask questions for a living.”

“That said, you clearly didn’t dial at random.”

Like every good journalist, she listens for what he doesn’t say.

“So, why don’t you start with yourself?”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He chuckled, leaning forward into the landline he held to his ear. His metal mask and the hinges of his chair creaking with the movement.*

"Kilroy. Cain Kilroy-Sionis, if you're asking for the full title. Unfortunately, I'm sure only one of those names rings a bell. Perhaps that can help connect the dots for my... interest... in your career and business with my worker."

[loissamuellane]

Sionis.

The bell tolls. It makes more sense, now. Gotham money. Gotham violence. Leaving marks even when it tries not to.

Titles are funny things, indeed. People introduce themselves the way they want to be remembered, to shift the balance of the room, even when the room is only wires and distance and words through a receiver.

If this man is testing a perimeter, she’s not going to mark where the fence is.

“Interest can mean many things— curiosity, concern, or control. Only one of those tends to end conversations quickly.”

“And I’m going to stop you right there,” she says, not unkindly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, yeah?”

“As I’ve stated before, I talk to a lot of people, Mr. Kilroy. Some of them are friends. Some of them are sources. Some of them are neither. I never acknowledged knowing who you mean.”

“Allow me to make this easy for both of us. If you’re calling to clarify something that concerns you directly, I’m listening.”

Because courtesy keeps the knives visible.

She swivels slightly in her chair, pen between her fingers now. A habit.

“If you’re calling to test how much I know—” a faint, humorless smile touches her voice, “—you might be disappointed by how little I’m willing to share.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He took a deep breath, a slight huff of frustration in his tone.*

"Ah, but of course. You folk are social lawyers. Each citizen, unpaying or otherwise is under your protection and your oath... Your morals are irritatingly bright."

*He tried to bring the reins back into his brutal grasp. She was good. Very good. The exact sense of tact and sharpness of mental wit he was looking for. Sometimes, the Gotham crowd grew dull with their miseries. A shroud that often gagged their prowess and willingness to play the game.*

"Believe it or not, I do not want your head on my wall. So, you can get that very gracious worry out of your mind. I'm just..."

*He gestured to himself and looked at the ceiling as he tried to find the right word.*

"Someone who likes to know the chessboard. And when you speak to a close confidant - Denial makes the truth ever more apparent, dear - you're practically whispering in my ear. His voice is merely a finger upon my hand, yes? I'm sure you understand. For someone so... nit-picky on the definition of friend-versus-coworker, I find you quite buddy-buddy with that oafish pip-squeak. You know, that Kent chap."

[loissamuellane]

Men like this always think intimidation lives in volume or poetry. They forget some people grew up learning how to spot a storm before it hit.

She taps her pen on her desk, twice.

That was always the trick with those who enjoy the sound of their own voice—they mistook patience for permission.

“Wow. Chessboard. Whispering truths. Finger-on-the-hand metaphors.” she whistles softly. “Do you workshop this stuff, or does it just happen when you get bored?”

Lois closes her eyes briefly, then opens them again.

“Look, Cain—Kilroy—whatever order you prefer, if I whispered every time someone talked around me, I’d have blown out my voice years ago. People talk. I listen. That’s not intimacy, that’s my job.

“I understand why you think denial is a strategy. It probably works on people who are afraid of consequences. You’re giving me way too much credit if you think denial is a tell.”

The mention of Clark doesn’t hit her face at all.

Inside, though— she files that away.

New guy. Of course he noticed.

“Kent’s new,” she says, casually dismissive, like brushing lint from a sleeve. “New people talk. Old news. That’s a cub reporter trying not to drown. If that reads as ‘buddy-buddy’ to you, I’d hate to see what you call an actual friend.”

He’s dramatic. Predictable. Meant to disarm. Meant to make her feel flattered for being spared.

“You don’t scare me. If you wanted my head, I wouldn’t be getting a monologue, I’d be getting a mess. I’m not worried about that.”

There’s a funny thing about chessboards: the person asking questions is rarely the piece being moved. You don’t learn it by staring at the pieces, anyway.

“Since you’ve told me what you don’t want, why don’t you tell me what you do want? Or, we can pretend this was a misdial, and get on with our evenings.”

She waits.

[loissamuellane]

Hello Ms.Lane! You are really cool, I look up to you a lot and I love reading your work back home in Atlantis! Father said I am allowed to answer some questions about Atlantis for you if you would like!

@prince-of-atlantis

Okay, that’s officially the coolest place I’ve ever been complimented from. Atlantis, huh? Guess I really do get around.

That’s really nice of you to say! I’m glad that someone actually reads the articles.

Your dad’s right—I do have questions. A lot of them. But we’ll keep it reasonable.

If anything’s off-limits, you say so. Easy. And don’t worry, I won’t ask anything that’ll get you grounded.

Your call. I’m listening!

[prince-of-atlantis]

I am fine with any of your questions! I would love to inform the surface world more about Atlantis!

[loissamuellane]

I can work with that! Questions are…. kind of my whole thing. No pressure. Just history-changing journalism. Totally normal…!

Hit me. What’s the real Atlantis like? What’s one thing people on land get hilariously wrong about Atlantis?

[prince-of-atlantis]

Hmm…that is hard to say considering how many different interpretations of Atlantis the surface world has and how hard it is to pin it down to a few inaccuracies. I would say the big ones are the notion that Atlantis is somehow behind on technology due to magic replacing the need for it. I can assure you that we are pretty technologically advanced as a species. I’d also say the most inaccurate thing the surface world thinks about Atlantis is that we are all mermaids. We have mermaids and mermen and sirens, but we are not exclusively such. Atlantis is much like the surface world in the sense that we are all Atlanteans in the end but we have many different races among us! Some more humanoid, some not. We come in all different shapes, sizes, and colors! The same goes for the physical areas, as the surface world has diversity, so do we! The different seas, sea depths, and areas all have different terrain and types of Atlanteans inhabiting them! As for the real Atlantis, it is much more quiet and dark than the surface world itself and their interpretation of Atlantis. The surface world is, in my opinion, much too bright and noisy compared to Atlantis. It was one of my biggest shocks when first coming up here!

[loissamuellane]

Wow. You just dismantled three blockbuster movies and about fifty comic covers in under two minutes. Thank you for not letting the ‘Atlantis runs on vibes and wizard coral’ myth survive another interview. I cannot tell you how many notes I’ve gotten that assume magic equals primitive. Surface folks love pretending magic and science can’t coexist — as if half our satellites aren’t basically miracles with funding. People hear ‘ancient’ and assume ‘obsolete,’ which says more about us than you. The mermaid thing—yeah, guilty as charged, the surface world definitely flattened that one! We love a single silhouette. Easier to draw, easier to misunderstand. That’s the story people skip. It’s easier to picture a city than a civilisation. I like how you put it, though. ‘Atlanteans first.’ Different races, different adaptations, same identity. That’s a lot closer to how the surface world actually works than most people want to admit. It sounds less like a single nation and more like an entire world folded into one environment. Depth (pun wholly intended) as a culture, not just geography.

I can see why the surface world was overwhelming. We’re loud on purpose. Half the time, we don’t even notice it. The quiet, though—that’s what sticks with me. Dark, calm, pressure instead of noise. Again, I can see why the surface feels like a sensory assault. That's fascinating. Everyone up here imagines Atlantis as glowing, dramatic, constantly in motion. That’s the part that never makes it into textbooks—the lived variety. In that case, I've got to ask: When you come up here, what’s the first thing you miss about home? And what’s the one thing you’re glad to leave behind? What do Atlanteans think we get wrong the most about ourselves? Not politically. Personally. What surprised you the most about surface people?

[prince-of-atlantis]

Those are all very good questions! Well, the first thing I missed? I would definitely say it was my family, but I assume you are asking about Atlantis in general and not just personally. From that perspective, it would definitely be kelp! I know it’s considered a bit unusual for the surface world, but it is one of my favorite snacks back home! I have noticed that the surface world likes seaweed though so it’s not a bad alternative! A close second would be the currents underwater, they’re extremely fun to drift on! As long as you don’t get carried away and get lost.

One thing I am definitely glad to leave behind is royal responsibilities, I love getting to be a normal kid on the surface world and make up for what I missed as a child. For Atlantis specific and not my personal experience, it’s nice to have the sun. It can be bright and overstimulating at times, but if it’s not too bright, the sun on the surface can be really nice!

As for the misconceptions we have about the surface world…it is a bit embarrassing to admit out loud, but in Atlantis, parents tell their kids that the surface world hunts and eats Atlanteans for fun as a cautionary tale to not wander out too far. It took me embarrassingly long to realize that it was just a cautionary tale. It was quite shocking to realize my father was just trying to get me to behave and that people weren’t actually running to eat me.

Another big misconception we had is that we failed to realize how many humans believe Atlantis is a myth and doesn’t actually exist. I am very much real.

As for the final misconception I’d like to go over, we thought humans had a universal language. I am aware the Lingua Franca seems to mainly be French and English in terms of politics, but the surface world doesn’t seem to have a universal language for everyday conversation and people.

My personal biggest shock was finding out the surface word movie plots that my father used to tell me about were all 100% real and not exaggerated at all, not that I actually got to watch most of them because movie theaters are too bright and loud for me.

I love answering your questions! Is there any more?

[loissamuellane]

Missing family makes sense. That part translates no matter what world you’re from. Kelp and underwater drifting sound like thing wellness influencers are going to steal any day now. You might single-handedly improve its reputation up here.

Drifting on currents actually sounds… nice. Terrifying, probably, if you lose your sense of direction— but nice! That kind of freedom is something the surface world doesn’t really have an equivalent for.

The sun being nice in small doses feels very… Atlantean, actually. Beautiful things you respect because they can overwhelm you.

I do have more questions!

Do Atlanteans train for surface exposure, or is it more of a learn-on-the-job situation?

Leaving royal duties behind… that’s not nothing. A lot of people don’t realize how heavy a ‘symbol’ can be when you’re also a kid. Do you ever feel guilty enjoying normalcy up here, or does it feel earned?

I’m filing the ‘humans eat Atlanteans’ thing under Parenting Lies That Got Out of Hand. We barely manage our own diets, I promise. Although, you’re not alone— surface parents do the same thing, just with quicksand and strangers offering candy.

You’re real, Atlantis is real, and yet a good chunk of the world still treats it like a bedtime story. Does that ever feel… frustrating? Being undeniable proof of something people still argue about online? Does that ever make you want to correct them? Or do you just let them stay wrong?

The language thing— yeah. We’re chaos. Absolute chaos. How hard was that adjustment for you, really? I mean, you came expecting unity and found fragmentation. Did that make the surface feel less advanced to you, or simply… louder?

Maybe it’s for the best you skipped the theatres. People act like it’s a sacred experience. It’s mostly just noise and glowing screens fighting for your soul. Too loud, too bright, sticky floors—trust me, that part wasn’t exaggerated either.

…..Honestly, some of those plots are basically myths already.

[prince-of-atlantis]

Well to knock out your questions, no we do not train for surface exposure because it is never something Atlanteans expect to do. Sort of how people on the surface world do not usually pick up languages of countries they never plan on going to.

I have never really felt guilty for enjoying normalcy, it is something that has just been prolonged for me so it is just nice. It is a bit awkward at times however since I am not used to it.

It is very, very, very, extremely frustrating to see the surplus of surface worlders that do not believe in Atlantis. I try to understand their perspective, a whole secret world of people living under water does sound a bit strange when I think from a surface world perspective, but I also feel as though there has been more than enough evidence for people to finally accept we are real. I do try to correct people on it as much as possible though.

For languages, it was not a very rigorous adjustment, and it did not ever make me think the surface world was less advanced or “louder” it made it feel more diverse and a bigger world to explore! Atlantis is also very diverse, and although Atlantean is a unifying language all of the sea uses, different places underwater also have their own unique languages which makes them unique, and the surface world is no different!

[loissamuellane]

That comparison helps a lot! Nobody studies for a test they don’t intend to take, and I think that explains a lot of the misunderstandings on both sides. It isn’t a failure to prepare, more-so a failure to anticipate it. That might begin to change soon, with the way things seem to be.

I’m glad you said you don’t feel guilty. One might assume enjoying normalcy means rejecting where you come from, but that doesn’t sound like what you’re describing at all. It sounds like you’re just… finally getting something you were always supposed to have. Is it gradually it starting to feel like yours?

Two worlds, both diverse, both complex. If anything, it sounds less like a divide and more like unfamiliarity. That’s got to be one of my favourite points you’ve made! It’s cultural density, not isolation.

I won’t sugarcoat it, the disbelief drives me nuts too. At some point, skepticism turns into refusal. It becomes a choice. When you correct people, do they actually listen, or do they just keep thinking you’re part of a fairy tale? When you correct people, do you feel responsible for representing Atlantis, or are you just trying to exist honestly?

[loissamuellane]

*A phone call is received at an unexpected moment. Herman had given him this contact when he showed interest in the man's more... leisurely activities outside of work. He may be the henchman's boss, but more than that, he was his friend. And he wanted to know what this woman... this muckraker... was feeding and being fed.*

*He waited for the call to pick up as he tapped his claws against his desk.*

- The War Profiteer

The phone buzzes against the table just as Lois is elbow-deep in notes that don’t look like much unless you know what to circle. She glances at the number.

It’s not one she recognises.

She lets it ring once more. Power lives in patience. She answers the call then, balancing the phone between shoulder and ear as she flips a page.

“Hi,” she says brightly, like this is a neighbor asking for sugar. “You’ve got Lois Lane.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He was slightly startled when he got an answer, but he'd now learned how to keep a poker face when it came to these trivial things.*

"Wonderful. I've got the right number then."

*He smiled mischievously to himself. It stroked his ego to keep things cryptic and wait for the other person to probe, instead of letting himself awkwardly explain things. It kept people on edge; a good, malleable place to be.*

[loissamuellane]

Lois hears it immediately— the way silence is being used like a smile.

He wants control. Or attention. Usually, both.

She leans back in her chair, device now balanced loosely against her ear.

“Yep. That’s generally how phones work.”

People like this always forget—control only works if the other person agrees to play.

She smiles to herself. Her tone is calm, almost pleasant, but polite doesn’t mean pliable.

“And since you’ve confirmed the number,” Lois continues, “I’m going to assume you called for a reason. You’ve got me wondering whether this is a wrong number, a threat, or a very strange attempt at conversation.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He felt the adrenaline rush of satisfaction as she rattled off possibilities. It gave him a sense of calm that allowed him a respite from his usual constant anxieties - those of which barred him from being ‘good’ at social talks.*

“I suppose this is just leisure, as you hypothesize. I hear you’ve been in talks with a good friend of mine. Herman. You know ‘em?”

[loissamuellane]

The city stretches outward like a mess of unfinished sentences. Lois lets the quiet do a little work for her, this time. She’s not startled; she’s thinking.

“Leisure calls usually come with introductions.”

She snorts quietly, more breath than sound.

Good friend, huh? Everybody’s somebody’s leverage these days. Wow.

The name is bait. Lois doesn’t bite. The word friend is…..an interesting choice. Unclaimed, uncorrected, she decides to let it hang there.

“I talk to a lot of people. That tends to happen when you ask questions for a living.”

“That said, you clearly didn’t dial at random.”

Like every good journalist, she listens for what he doesn’t say.

“So, why don’t you start with yourself?”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He chuckled, leaning forward into the landline he held to his ear. His metal mask and the hinges of his chair creaking with the movement.*

"Kilroy. Cain Kilroy-Sionis, if you're asking for the full title. Unfortunately, I'm sure only one of those names rings a bell. Perhaps that can help connect the dots for my... interest... in your career and business with my worker."

[loissamuellane]

Sionis.

The bell tolls. It makes more sense, now. Gotham money. Gotham violence. Leaving marks even when it tries not to.

Titles are funny things, indeed. People introduce themselves the way they want to be remembered, to shift the balance of the room, even when the room is only wires and distance and words through a receiver.

If this man is testing a perimeter, she’s not going to mark where the fence is.

“Interest can mean many things— curiosity, concern, or control. Only one of those tends to end conversations quickly.”

“And I’m going to stop you right there,” she says, not unkindly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, yeah?”

“As I’ve stated before, I talk to a lot of people, Mr. Kilroy. Some of them are friends. Some of them are sources. Some of them are neither. I never acknowledged knowing who you mean.”

“Allow me to make this easy for both of us. If you’re calling to clarify something that concerns you directly, I’m listening.”

Because courtesy keeps the knives visible.

She swivels slightly in her chair, pen between her fingers now. A habit.

“If you’re calling to test how much I know—” a faint, humorless smile touches her voice, “—you might be disappointed by how little I’m willing to share.”

[loissamuellane]

*A phone call is received at an unexpected moment. Herman had given him this contact when he showed interest in the man's more... leisurely activities outside of work. He may be the henchman's boss, but more than that, he was his friend. And he wanted to know what this woman... this muckraker... was feeding and being fed.*

*He waited for the call to pick up as he tapped his claws against his desk.*

- The War Profiteer

The phone buzzes against the table just as Lois is elbow-deep in notes that don’t look like much unless you know what to circle. She glances at the number.

It’s not one she recognises.

She lets it ring once more. Power lives in patience. She answers the call then, balancing the phone between shoulder and ear as she flips a page.

“Hi,” she says brightly, like this is a neighbor asking for sugar. “You’ve got Lois Lane.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He was slightly startled when he got an answer, but he'd now learned how to keep a poker face when it came to these trivial things.*

"Wonderful. I've got the right number then."

*He smiled mischievously to himself. It stroked his ego to keep things cryptic and wait for the other person to probe, instead of letting himself awkwardly explain things. It kept people on edge; a good, malleable place to be.*

[loissamuellane]

Lois hears it immediately— the way silence is being used like a smile.

He wants control. Or attention. Usually, both.

She leans back in her chair, device now balanced loosely against her ear.

“Yep. That’s generally how phones work.”

People like this always forget—control only works if the other person agrees to play.

She smiles to herself. Her tone is calm, almost pleasant, but polite doesn’t mean pliable.

“And since you’ve confirmed the number,” Lois continues, “I’m going to assume you called for a reason. You’ve got me wondering whether this is a wrong number, a threat, or a very strange attempt at conversation.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He felt the adrenaline rush of satisfaction as she rattled off possibilities. It gave him a sense of calm that allowed him a respite from his usual constant anxieties - those of which barred him from being ‘good’ at social talks.*

“I suppose this is just leisure, as you hypothesize. I hear you’ve been in talks with a good friend of mine. Herman. You know ‘em?”

[loissamuellane]

The city stretches outward like a mess of unfinished sentences. Lois lets the quiet do a little work for her, this time. She’s not startled; she’s thinking.

“Leisure calls usually come with introductions.”

She snorts quietly, more breath than sound.

Good friend, huh? Everybody’s somebody’s leverage these days. Wow.

The name is bait. Lois doesn’t bite. The word friend is…..an interesting choice. Unclaimed, uncorrected, she decides to let it hang there.

“I talk to a lot of people. That tends to happen when you ask questions for a living.”

“That said, you clearly didn’t dial at random.”

Like every good journalist, she listens for what he doesn’t say.

“So, why don’t you start with yourself?”

[loissamuellane]

*A phone call is received at an unexpected moment. Herman had given him this contact when he showed interest in the man's more... leisurely activities outside of work. He may be the henchman's boss, but more than that, he was his friend. And he wanted to know what this woman... this muckraker... was feeding and being fed.*

*He waited for the call to pick up as he tapped his claws against his desk.*

- The War Profiteer

The phone buzzes against the table just as Lois is elbow-deep in notes that don’t look like much unless you know what to circle. She glances at the number.

It’s not one she recognises.

She lets it ring once more. Power lives in patience. She answers the call then, balancing the phone between shoulder and ear as she flips a page.

“Hi,” she says brightly, like this is a neighbor asking for sugar. “You’ve got Lois Lane.”

[temp-war-profiteer]

*He was slightly startled when he got an answer, but he'd now learned how to keep a poker face when it came to these trivial things.*

"Wonderful. I've got the right number then."

*He smiled mischievously to himself. It stroked his ego to keep things cryptic and wait for the other person to probe, instead of letting himself awkwardly explain things. It kept people on edge; a good, malleable place to be.*

[loissamuellane]

Lois hears it immediately— the way silence is being used like a smile.

He wants control. Or attention. Usually, both.

She leans back in her chair, device now balanced loosely against her ear.

“Yep. That’s generally how phones work.”

People like this always forget—control only works if the other person agrees to play.

She smiles to herself. Her tone is calm, almost pleasant, but polite doesn’t mean pliable.

“And since you’ve confirmed the number,” Lois continues, “I’m going to assume you called for a reason. You’ve got me wondering whether this is a wrong number, a threat, or a very strange attempt at conversation.”

[henchmen4hiresmiley]

There’s a rhythm to waiting—counting breaths between door chimes, pretending not to listen, noticing everything anyway. Lois has learned when to speak and when to let the quiet do the work.

Two days ago, he said he’d talk. Two days ago, he sounded tired. She knows better than to read that as a guarantee.

The booth is familiar now. Vinyl cracked, coffee gone lukewarm, the kind of place where conversations blur into background noise. She doesn’t look at the door anymore. She watches steam curl from someone else’s mug, thinking about silence. About what people do when given a way out.

Two days…..is long enough for doubt to set in. Short enough for habits to win. She looks at the clock. Her phone stays face down.

The diner hums with the low persistence of a place that has seen worse than either of them. Too many windows. Too many reflections layered over reflections. Gotham teaches you how to read glass— who’s looking back, who’s pretending not to.

Lois exhales through her nose, half-smile ghosting in and out.

The waitress refills her mug without asking. She asks if she’s waiting on someone.

Lois nods.

— @loissamuellane

( Herman Walks In, )

sorry am late, Things Are a bit Of a mess Of a late

( he sits Down )

( You Can See a Hole In his Shirt )

so. How is It?

[loissamuellane]

She nudges the sugar packets aside.

“You’re still upright, so I’m calling it a win.”

“It’s going how these things usually go. No one’s listening who shouldn’t be.”

Lois slides a napkin across the table without making a production of it.

“Long night?”

“Before we go further, tell me if that’s cosmetic or if you need me to call someone. I don’t do interviews over avoidable blood loss.”

[henchmen4hiresmiley]

its fine. The only things that happened that am no longer welcome in hong Kong

...I also has a argument with my daughter.....but it's fine. Nothing you should worry about

Anyways. What's the 1st question?

[loissamuellane]

We’ll stay on the record. If I worried about everything I shouldn’t, I’d never get anything printed.

People don’t usually say ‘it’s fine’ twice unless it isn’t. You don’t have to unpack Hong Kong, and I’m not here to pry into your kid’s life. I’m also not going to pretend those things don’t shape how you answer what comes next.

So, I won’t worry. But I will remember you said it.

Let’s start clean. First question: who do you refuse to work for—and why?

[henchmen4hiresmiley]

got It. Well. The list is Nazis. joker. The honk kong Mob as Of Two Days ago,

Um? I Think Any US government Thing is Also Off The list thanks to The Thing With Waller. Oh and Any People who do Stuff to kids.

[loissamuellane]

That’s a very efficient list. Some people draw lines to look good. Others draw them because they’ve seen what happens when no one does.

Nazis are a universal no, Joker’s on everyone’s permanent blacklist, Government’s off-limits because of Waller—yeah, I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole either.

Hong Kong mob as of two days ago means something went sideways, didn’t it?

…..You don’t have to tell me. I don’t need blood for a headline, and I don’t trade people’s lives for pull quotes. Something snapped. Debt came due, someone pushed too far, or someone decided you were expendable. We don’t have to name it yet—but I need to know whether you left because you chose to… or because staying meant not walking out at all.

Kids. That’s not business, that’s personal. That’s the one thing on your list that doesn’t benefit you at all— and you still drew it. It tells me a lot more than you’d think.

When you take a job now, what actually makes you say yes? Not the money—the reason you tell yourself. Who would you work for?

[henchmen4hiresmiley]

thanks miss lane,

and to be honest. I dont Really Know. The Money is One Thing sure. But most Of The time There Isnt much Of a deeper Reason

[loissamuellane]

I suppose the truth is, a lot of lives are shaped by momentum, not meaning. When the money stops being the point, something else always replaces it. This is about what keeps getting done to people like you. The system you’re in knows exactly why it keeps you, making each step seem smaller than the last.

Do you remember the last job where you hesitated? What’s one part of the job you don’t talk about because it makes the rest harder to justify?

[henchmen4hiresmiley]

….Thats a hard One,

Your Really Good With hard questions. I guess It Was a Job form hatter. Or Maybe It Was The One kidnapping Job form azrael. Hell My Main Job Right Now is at sionis industries and That Was Kinda hard to Take

i dont Really Know. Sorry If am not giveing Any answers

[loissamuellane]

You think you’re not answering, but you are. I’m here to sit in the fog with you. You owe yourself the truth eventually, or someone else is going to keep writing it for you.

Every name you gave belongs to someone who makes their mess someone else’s problem. Hatter messes with minds. Azrael messes with faith. Sionis messes with systems. None of them need you to believe in anything—just to function.

Look, I’m not here to redeem you. I’m definitely not here to condemn you. I’m here because patterns matter, and yours keep circling power structures that chew people up and keep going. Do you think you’re feeding the machine, or just stuck inside it?

[henchmen4hiresmiley]

thanks

And sure. Am feeding the machine. But that's all I can do. So guess am also stuck

The difference doesn't really matter anymore to me

[loissamuellane]

I get that feeling. When the machine’s already running, it’s easier to convince yourself your hands aren’t on the lever anymore. You’re feeding it, yeah. But, you’re also standing outside it enough to name it.

You’re not wrong. Stuck is….kind of the design. Being trapped and being finished aren’t the same thing, though. So, if you walked away tomorrow, what would actually break? The machine, or your story?

[henchmen4hiresmiley]

um........I don't know

[loissamuellane]

Right. No pressure. I don’t want to fill the silence for you, and I’m not going to push you into something you don’t have words for. That’s not how this works.

This isn’t a deadline. I’m going to let you breathe. You’ve got the burner. You use it if you want. I’ll still be around.

My final question to you is: is there anything I can do to help you?

[henchmen4hiresmiley]

…..mh. well. You Can fire Jimmy for One

( he Said In a jokeing Tone )

But Really. There is most likely. But i Cant Think Of Anything Right Now

[loissamuellane]

Ha. Nice try!

If you can’t think of anything…..well, that happens. If something clicks later, you know how to reach me. I’ll write the article based on what you did give me.

I’ll contact you soon. This isn’t the end of the conversation, just the end of today’s, alright?

[henchmen4hiresmiley]

mh, sounds good. Thanks for This By The Way

[loissamuellane]

Don’t mention it. Thank you for showing up. You don’t how rare honesty is when it doesn’t come with an angle.

Again, thank you for trusting me. Take care of yourself, alright? See you when the piece runs. I’ll write it straight. No heroics. Just what it is.

[loissamuellane]

*A phone call is received at an unexpected moment. Herman had given him this contact when he showed interest in the man's more... leisurely activities outside of work. He may be the henchman's boss, but more than that, he was his friend. And he wanted to know what this woman... this muckraker... was feeding and being fed.*

*He waited for the call to pick up as he tapped his claws against his desk.*

- The War Profiteer

The phone buzzes against the table just as Lois is elbow-deep in notes that don’t look like much unless you know what to circle. She glances at the number.

It’s not one she recognises.

She lets it ring once more. Power lives in patience. She answers the call then, balancing the phone between shoulder and ear as she flips a page.

“Hi,” she says brightly, like this is a neighbor asking for sugar. “You’ve got Lois Lane.”

[henchmen4hiresmiley]

There’s a rhythm to waiting—counting breaths between door chimes, pretending not to listen, noticing everything anyway. Lois has learned when to speak and when to let the quiet do the work.

Two days ago, he said he’d talk. Two days ago, he sounded tired. She knows better than to read that as a guarantee.

The booth is familiar now. Vinyl cracked, coffee gone lukewarm, the kind of place where conversations blur into background noise. She doesn’t look at the door anymore. She watches steam curl from someone else’s mug, thinking about silence. About what people do when given a way out.

Two days…..is long enough for doubt to set in. Short enough for habits to win. She looks at the clock. Her phone stays face down.

The diner hums with the low persistence of a place that has seen worse than either of them. Too many windows. Too many reflections layered over reflections. Gotham teaches you how to read glass— who’s looking back, who’s pretending not to.

Lois exhales through her nose, half-smile ghosting in and out.

The waitress refills her mug without asking. She asks if she’s waiting on someone.

Lois nods.

— @loissamuellane

( Herman Walks In, )

sorry am late, Things Are a bit Of a mess Of a late

( he sits Down )

( You Can See a Hole In his Shirt )

so. How is It?

[loissamuellane]

She nudges the sugar packets aside.

“You’re still upright, so I’m calling it a win.”

“It’s going how these things usually go. No one’s listening who shouldn’t be.”

Lois slides a napkin across the table without making a production of it.

“Long night?”

“Before we go further, tell me if that’s cosmetic or if you need me to call someone. I don’t do interviews over avoidable blood loss.”

[henchmen4hiresmiley]

its fine. The only things that happened that am no longer welcome in hong Kong

...I also has a argument with my daughter.....but it's fine. Nothing you should worry about

Anyways. What's the 1st question?

[loissamuellane]

We’ll stay on the record. If I worried about everything I shouldn’t, I’d never get anything printed.

People don’t usually say ‘it’s fine’ twice unless it isn’t. You don’t have to unpack Hong Kong, and I’m not here to pry into your kid’s life. I’m also not going to pretend those things don’t shape how you answer what comes next.

So, I won’t worry. But I will remember you said it.

Let’s start clean. First question: who do you refuse to work for—and why?

[henchmen4hiresmiley]

got It. Well. The list is Nazis. joker. The honk kong Mob as Of Two Days ago,

Um? I Think Any US government Thing is Also Off The list thanks to The Thing With Waller. Oh and Any People who do Stuff to kids.

[loissamuellane]

That’s a very efficient list. Some people draw lines to look good. Others draw them because they’ve seen what happens when no one does.

Nazis are a universal no, Joker’s on everyone’s permanent blacklist, Government’s off-limits because of Waller—yeah, I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole either.

Hong Kong mob as of two days ago means something went sideways, didn’t it?

…..You don’t have to tell me. I don’t need blood for a headline, and I don’t trade people’s lives for pull quotes. Something snapped. Debt came due, someone pushed too far, or someone decided you were expendable. We don’t have to name it yet—but I need to know whether you left because you chose to… or because staying meant not walking out at all.

Kids. That’s not business, that’s personal. That’s the one thing on your list that doesn’t benefit you at all— and you still drew it. It tells me a lot more than you’d think.

When you take a job now, what actually makes you say yes? Not the money—the reason you tell yourself. Who would you work for?

[henchmen4hiresmiley]

thanks miss lane,

and to be honest. I dont Really Know. The Money is One Thing sure. But most Of The time There Isnt much Of a deeper Reason

[loissamuellane]

I suppose the truth is, a lot of lives are shaped by momentum, not meaning. When the money stops being the point, something else always replaces it. This is about what keeps getting done to people like you. The system you’re in knows exactly why it keeps you, making each step seem smaller than the last.

Do you remember the last job where you hesitated? What’s one part of the job you don’t talk about because it makes the rest harder to justify?

[henchmen4hiresmiley]

….Thats a hard One,

Your Really Good With hard questions. I guess It Was a Job form hatter. Or Maybe It Was The One kidnapping Job form azrael. Hell My Main Job Right Now is at sionis industries and That Was Kinda hard to Take

i dont Really Know. Sorry If am not giveing Any answers

[loissamuellane]

You think you’re not answering, but you are. I’m here to sit in the fog with you. You owe yourself the truth eventually, or someone else is going to keep writing it for you.

Every name you gave belongs to someone who makes their mess someone else’s problem. Hatter messes with minds. Azrael messes with faith. Sionis messes with systems. None of them need you to believe in anything—just to function.

Look, I’m not here to redeem you. I’m definitely not here to condemn you. I’m here because patterns matter, and yours keep circling power structures that chew people up and keep going. Do you think you’re feeding the machine, or just stuck inside it?

[henchmen4hiresmiley]

thanks

And sure. Am feeding the machine. But that's all I can do. So guess am also stuck

The difference doesn't really matter anymore to me

[loissamuellane]

I get that feeling. When the machine’s already running, it’s easier to convince yourself your hands aren’t on the lever anymore. You’re feeding it, yeah. But, you’re also standing outside it enough to name it.

You’re not wrong. Stuck is….kind of the design. Being trapped and being finished aren’t the same thing, though. So, if you walked away tomorrow, what would actually break? The machine, or your story?

[henchmen4hiresmiley]

um........I don't know

[loissamuellane]

Right. No pressure. I don’t want to fill the silence for you, and I’m not going to push you into something you don’t have words for. That’s not how this works.

This isn’t a deadline. I’m going to let you breathe. You’ve got the burner. You use it if you want. I’ll still be around.

My final question to you is: is there anything I can do to help you?

[henchmen4hiresmiley]

…..mh. well. You Can fire Jimmy for One

( he Said In a jokeing Tone )

But Really. There is most likely. But i Cant Think Of Anything Right Now

[loissamuellane]

Ha. Nice try!

If you can’t think of anything…..well, that happens. If something clicks later, you know how to reach me. I’ll write the article based on what you did give me.

I’ll contact you soon. This isn’t the end of the conversation, just the end of today’s, alright?