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INT. OFFICE – DAY
A bullpen of six cubicles. Two on the left. Four on the right. Far right: JEAN. Far left: CLARK.
CLARK rubs his jaw. Again.
JEAN clocks it. Hesitates.
JEAN
(quiet)
Hey… you okay?
CLARK
(startled)
Huh? Oh—yeah. Just a toothache.
JEAN
(skeptical)
Bite into something wrong?
CLARK
No.
JEAN
Grind your teeth at night?
CLARK
(half laugh, half wince)
No. Thankfully.
JEAN
Been to the dentist lately? Perry would give you time if—
CLARK raises a hand, a half-smile.
CLARK
I’m fine. Really. It’ll go away.
I’m tougher than I look, alright?
JEAN nods, unconvinced.
They return to work. Keyboards clatter. Phones ring. The hum of the bullpen. JEAN flexes her arm at her side, as if her joints are stiff. CLARK still winces, every so often. JEAN catches it every single time.
---
JEAN’s desk: cluttered with multicolored Post-its — affirmations, reminders. Four superhero rubber ducks guard her monitor.
A framed photo: two kids, arms slung around each other. One is a younger JEAN. The boy beside her is unknown.
JEAN stares at the photo.
Clark grimaces off-screen. JEAN’s fingers twitch on the keyboard. She pushes back from her desk.
JEAN
Did I ever tell you how I started this job?
CLARK
(pulls his hand from his jaw, surprised)
What?
JEAN glances at his hands in his lap. Flexes her own. Forces herself to meet his eyes.
JEAN
When you first gave me the tour, you asked why journalism. I never answered.
CLARK
(smiles, remembering)
Hard to believe that was six months ago.
JEAN
(laughs, a little melancholy)
Yeah. Flew by.
Her gaze flicks to the photo. She trails off, then catches herself.
JEAN
Anyway… wasn’t your fault. I just didn’t have a great answer.
CLARK swivels to face her, giving her full attention.
CLARK
No such thing. Almost every reason’s a good reason.
JEAN gives him a look. CLARK chuckles, sheepish.
CLARK
What? I said almost.
JEAN
Yeah, sure thing — Mister King of Qualifiers.
CLARK
(grins)
Hey, qualifiers come in handy sometimes.
JEAN
See? Case in point.
CLARK
(replays it back)
…Touché.
JEAN smirks. Shakes her head, turns back to her keyboard. Quiet again. Just typing. Newsroom chatter. JEAN idly flexes her stiff elbow.
CLARK leans into his work—then winces. Hand to his jaw.
JEAN notices. Again. She opens her mouth—then shuts it. Her eyes drift to the photo. She runs a thumb along the frame.
CLARK
(noticing)
Cute photo. Your brother?
JEAN
(startled)
What? Oh—yeah.
(beat)
He… uh, he’s why I came here, actually.
CLARK tilts his head, curious. JEAN backpedals.
JEAN
Anyway. Long story.
CLARK studies her a moment longer, like he wants to press. He opens his mouth—
The bullpen doors swing open.
LOIS barrels down the aisle, notebook in hand, mid-sentence with CATT.
LOIS
—chief’s got no comment, of course.
But the guy swears up and down he’s sorry.
CATT
(scathing grumble)
Oh, he’d better be—
(beat)
Broken nose. Missing teeth. Hog-tied on the precinct steps before sunrise. Says he was about to—well.
CLARK swivels toward them. JEAN stiffens.
LOIS
(snarling)
Says he was about to force himself on some runaway kid in the Narrows.
LOIS tosses her notebook onto her desk, exasperated.
CATT
(lounging on a partition)
Guess the vigilante saved the cops the trouble.
CLARK leans back, thoughtful. Covers his jaw with one hand—subtle.
JEAN grips her chair arms. Fingers twitch, like they ache.
The bullpen hums around them.
CLARK
(careful)
Still… broken nose, missing teeth?
That’s a hell of a message.
LOIS shoots him a sharp look.
LOIS
So? You feel sorry for him now?
CLARK
(quickly, hands up)
No. Not that. What he tried to do—
He deserves to be stopped.
(beat)
I just… wish it hadn’t been quite so—
CATT
(snickers, cutting in)
—thorough?
CLARK
(grimaces, conceding)
Yeah. Something like that.
JEAN exhales, low. Says nothing.
LOIS
(to Catt)
Thorough or not, he won’t try it again.
CATT
Damn right.
CLARK leans back, uneasy. JEAN curls tighter into her chair.
The conversation hangs—
JEAN fidgets, eyes flicking to CLARK. His words got to her.
JEAN
(quiet, tentative)
It’s not like they caught him in the act.
But if he was about to hurt somebody—
(swallows, presses on)
Statistically, most survivors never report.
Even fewer ever see justice.
CLARK turns toward her. JEAN stares at her hands, words tumbling faster.
JEAN
So if no one had been there—
if the vigilante hadn’t shown up—
who knows what could’ve happened?
She glances up, meets CLARK’s eyes for half a second. Then looks away.
JEAN
(soft, almost to herself)
Sometimes… the right place, the right time…
is all that keeps someone safe.
Her voice trails.She realizes she’s said too much. JEAN peels a Post-it half off her monitor, fidgeting.
CATT arches her brows, impressed.
CATT
Well damn, sugar. Didn’t know you had stats in your back pocket.
LOIS studies JEAN, thoughtful.
CLARK says nothing. But his gaze lingers on her a beat too long.
JEAN feels it. And it bothers her.
Finally—
CLARK
(careful, measured)
You’re right.
Sometimes the right place, the right time…
can make all the difference.
(beat)
But whoever this vigilante is—
surely they could do it without going full Uma Thurman on their ass.
Jean freezes. That lands.
LOIS
(scoffs)
What, you know Tarantino?
CATT
Oooh, you mean that killer yellow jumpsuit?
Knew the vigilante got her inspo from somewhere—
JEAN hides a grimace.
CLARK
(playful offense)
Don’t act so surprised, Lois. I know my movies.
LOIS
(incredulous)
Yeah—so long as it’s a pre-2000’S musical.
CLARK
(read for filth and he knows it)
Hey—!
The banter could have gone on forever— But CATT claps her hands, breaking it.
CATT
Well, whoever they are, they’ve got better timing than half the cops I know.
LOIS
(snorts)
Or better PR.
The bullpen chuckles. JEAN forces a smile, fiddling with her Post-its. CLARK leans back, masking a wince with another jaw rub.
The doors slam open.
JIMMY scrambles in, breathless, clutching his camera bag.
JIMMY
Guys! You won’t believe—
LOIS
(deadpan)
You can’t be serious.
CATT
(grinning)
Serious as a heart attack, baby.
JIMMY doubles over his desk, gasping for breath.
JIMMY
Word on the street—
the new vigilante *decked Superman* last night.
The bullpen freezes.
CATT
(half-laughing, incredulous)
No way.
LOIS
(flat, skeptical)
You really expect us to buy that?
JIMMY
I’m telling you! Streetside chatter says so. I’ve got a guy in the Narrows who says he saw Superman get clobbered trying to talk down the vigilante. Apparently they were going to town on some guy who’d been making trouble on the local bar strip. Superman walked the whole thing off— but not without a hit to the jaw.
CLARK stiffens. Hands flatten on his desk.
JEAN presses her fist to her lips, pretending to listen—but really feeling the dull throb in her elbow.
Her stomach sinks.
She lowers her hand, flexes her fingers once. Flicks imaginary lint from her skirt, feigning composure.
CATT
(snickering)
If anybody landed a hit on Superman,
we’d see it on the front page.
LOIS
Unless the big guy doesn’t want people knowing.
CLARK swallows. Forces a smile.
JEAN’S knee bounces under her desk. She blurts—
JEAN
(too quick)
Did—did anybody actually *see* it happen?
The others glance at her. JEAN forces a weak laugh.
JEAN
I mean—if someone really *decked* Superman,
you’d think there’d be a picture, right?
JIMMY
Eyewitness swears by it. Said it was one hit.
Clean. Outta nowhere.
JEAN grips the edge of her desk. Her elbow aches all over again.
CLARK coughs softly into his fist—which just so happens to cover his jaw.
JEAN notices. Freezes.
CATT
Ohhh, maybe he didn’t want people to know.
LOIS
What’s more embarrassing than admitting
you got clocked by a no-name vigilante?
CATT
He’s supposed to be the Man of Steel!
JIMMY
Maybe he is. Maybe that’s why it hurt *them* more than him.
JEAN presses her knuckles harder to her lips.
Her eyes squeeze shut for a beat.
CLARK leans back, jaw tight. Instant regret with a wince. His eyes flick briefly toward JEAN, turning slightly concerned at the sight of her perceived distress.
LOIS
(flat)
If it even happened at all. Rumors fly fast in this city.
CATT
Yeah—next thing you know, people’ll say he lost a tooth.
JIMMY
Hey, I’d run that headline.
CLARK forces a chuckle. JEAN doesn’t laugh.
CATT
(grinning)
If someone *did* pull it off?
That’s a story for the ages.
JEAN finally lowers her hand.
JEAN
Or a mistake they’ll never stop thinking about.
The bullpen quiets. Everyone turns to her, surprised.
CLARK looks up. Really looks.
A beat—then the chatter resumes. JIMMY, LOIS, CATT tossing theories again, voices overlapping.
One by one, they peel away. JIMMY vanishes with his bag. CATT drifts to her desk. LOIS mutters and disappears down the hall.
The noise fades. CLARK and JEAN are left alone.
Silence stretches.
JEAN exhales.
JEAN
(quiet)
You know what I was saying earlier?
When you mentioned my brother?
Clark turns. Attentive.
CLARK
Yeah?
JEAN glances at the photo on her desk. Takes a breath.
JEAN
That guy who got dropped at the precinct—
what he almost did to that girl?
CLARK frowns. Nobody had said “girl.”
JEAN doesn’t look at him.
JEAN
That’s what happened to my brother.
(beat)
He died not long after.
CLARK reacts—silent, stricken.
JEAN pushes back from her desk too fast. Grabs her bag. Busy hands.
JEAN
(half-muttered)
Anyway—coffee. Need coffee.
She hurries out of frame.
CLARK sits frozen in the silence she leaves behind. Jaw tight. Eyes lingering on the empty chair.
BLACKOUT.