Before I could say "Wham! Blam! Oh, cram!", a red-and-blue blur intercepted him. The real Superman slammed into the clone, and they crashed through three walls of the Daily Planet.
It began, as many of my disasters do, with a lack of caffeine. I, Jimmy Olsen, was running on three hours of sleep and a stale donut. Lois was already in full bulldog mode, chasing a lead about a shadowy new tech startup called "Nexus Genetics" that had sprouted like a poisonous flower in Metropolis’s Suicide Slums.
"That," I said.
The clone stared. His mercury eyes dimmed. And then, like a candle snuffed out, he crumbled into a pile of frozen ash and shattered test tubes.
"—and another thing, your heat vision is crooked! Clark's is a precise scalpel. Yours is a microwaved burrito!" Mis aventuras con Superman 2x3
I held up my phone. I'd recorded the clone's entire monologue earlier. And on the screen, I played a video of the real Superman—not fighting, but helping an old lady cross the street. Giving a kid his cape to use as a blanket. Eating a hot dog with mustard on his nose and laughing.
"Or maybe," I yawned, "Metropolis needs to update its eye-scan security." Before I could say "Wham
We entered the Spire. The lobby was a mess of shattered glass and frozen security guards—literally frozen. Ice crystals crept up the walls. In the center, Lois was tied to a chair, arguing with the clone.
"Hey, Knockoff Kent!" Lois shouted. "You missed a spot!" The real Superman slammed into the clone, and
"What did they take?" Superman asked.