The Curious Case of Clark Kent

The CIA keeps trying to kill a reporter, but it keeps failing.

In the dimly lit corridors of Langley, a clandestine meeting was underway. The CIA’s Special Activities Division had a new target: Clark Kent, a mild-mannered reporter for the Daily Planet whose relentless exposés on government overreach had become a thorn in their side. His latest piece, detailing covert operations in a small South American nation, had embarrassed the agency, and Director Harlan Voss had had enough.
“Kent’s got to go,” Voss growled, slamming a dossier on the table. “He’s leaking classified intel. Neutralize him—quietly.”


The team nodded. Operation Black Ink was greenlit. They didn’t know Kent was more than a reporter. They didn’t know he was Superman.


Attempt #1: The Sniper


Agent Marcus Reed, a sharpshooter with a flawless record, perched on a Metropolis rooftop, his rifle trained on Kent as he exited the Daily Planet. The crosshairs settled on Kent’s chest. Reed exhaled, squeezed the trigger, and—


Ping. The bullet ricocheted off Kent’s glasses, which he adjusted absentmindedly while scribbling notes. Reed blinked, checked his scope, and fired again. Another ricochet. Kent glanced up, frowned slightly, and walked on, muttering about “pesky insects.”


Reed reported back, baffled. “Sir, the bullets… bounced.”


Voss scoffed. “Faulty ammo. Try something else.”


Attempt #2: The Poison


Next, they sent Agent Lila Chen, a master of chemical subterfuge. She infiltrated a Metropolis café where Kent often grabbed coffee with Lois Lane. Posing as a barista, Chen slipped a lethal dose of untraceable neurotoxin into Kent’s black coffee. He sipped it, smiled at Lois, and kept talking about municipal corruption.


Chen watched, expecting convulsions. Nothing. Kent ordered a refill. Later, lab tests showed the toxin had somehow neutralized itself in the cup. “Impossible,” Chen muttered, unaware of Kent’s Kryptonian biology breaking down the poison like it was sugar syrup.


Voss was livid. “Incompetence! Move to close quarters.”


Attempt #3: The Alley


Agent Victor Malone, a hulking operative trained in hand-to-hand combat, cornered Kent in a dark alley after a late-night stakeout. Malone lunged, aiming a knife at Kent’s heart. The blade snapped like a twig. Kent, startled, grabbed Malone’s wrist—gently, he thought—and tossed him aside. Malone flew twenty feet, crashing into a dumpster, unconscious.


When Malone woke up in a hospital, he swore Kent had superhuman strength. Voss dismissed it as a concussion talking. “He’s a reporter, not a bodybuilder. Get creative!”


Attempt #4: The Explosion


Desperate, the team rigged Kent’s apartment with enough C4 to level a city block. As Kent returned home, they detonated it remotely. The building collapsed in a fireball. Neighbors screamed, sirens wailed—and Kent emerged from the rubble, dusting off his suit, apologizing for the “gas leak.” Firefighters found no trace of explosives, as if the blast had been absorbed.


Voss slammed his fist on his desk. “How is this guy still breathing?!”


The Truth Dawns


The team began to whisper. Kent wasn’t just lucky—he was untouchable. They dug deeper, cross-referencing his stories with impossible feats: a reporter surviving a warzone unscathed, lifting a car to save a pedestrian, vanishing during disasters only to reappear with scoops. One analyst, a comic book fan, timidly suggested, “What if… he’s Superman?”


Voss laughed it off. “Superman? That’s a myth for kids. Kent’s just a nerd with a typewriter.”


But doubt crept in. They pulled back, watching Kent from a distance. His bumbling demeanor, his knack for being in the right place at the wrong time—it didn’t add up. When Kent published another exposé, this time on the CIA’s failed attempts to silence a “certain reporter,” Voss called off Black Ink.


“We can’t kill him,” Voss admitted, sweat beading on his brow. “But we can’t let him keep digging. Find another way.”


Epilogue


Clark Kent sat at his desk, typing furiously. Lois leaned over, smirking. “You’re awfully calm for someone who’s dodged bullets, poison, and a building falling on them.”


Clark adjusted his glasses, hiding a grin. “Just lucky, Lois. Just lucky.”


He knew the CIA would try again. They always did. But as long as truth needed a voice, Superman would keep writing—and no agency, no matter how powerful, could stop him.