Santana screamed as the car she was trapped in plowed through traffic. The other cars honked and swerved out of the way as she attempted to steer and stamped on the brake. Both efforts were useless. The Mustang just raced on, veering up onto the sidewalk and reducing a hot dog stand to shreds as the car rammed through it. Santana kept screaming, her panic becoming more and more genuine with each passing second as the car continued to speed through traffic. Santana resorted to blaring the horn as loud and as often as the device would allow her.

Where is he? He should be here by now; he said that he would be here by now! I'm making enough noise, why isn't he here? Oh my God, what if he doesn't come? What if he's busy saving someone else and I'm going to die. God, I swear if I live through this I am going to KILL—

Her thoughts were interrupted by her own ear-piercing scream at the recognition that the Mustang was barreling into Union Square, hurtling towards an outdoor restaurant full of patrons that wouldn't be able to get out the way in time...

Instinctively, Santana closed her eyes and flinched as she waited for the collision to come. But it never did. Tentatively, she opened her eyes to see why she hadn't flattened the diners to road pizza, and saw that she was floating over the grouping of tables rather than plowing through them. She sat there frozen in shock, her hands still gripping the steering wheel as if her life depended on in it.

A few moments later, Santana felt the car being lowered to the ground. Her eyes flickered to the rearview mirror. There he was, in all of his wholesome, handsome glory. Superman. Santana stayed seated as she willed her heartbeat to return to a normal pace. Heartbeat, that reminds me…

"Are you alright, miss?" Superman asked after he opened her door.

She launched herself out of the car and into Superman's arms. "My heart!"

"I'm sorry?" The hero quirked an eyebrow at the woman clawing at his chest.

"I h-have a palpitation, a heart palpitation!" she shrieked, now encircling her arms around his neck. "And a murmur!" Santana added for good measure. She jumped up, forcing Superman to hold her bridal-style. "Take me to the hospital!"

Superman hesitated. Santana knew that he knew that there really wasn't anything wrong with her, but she had him by the balls. A huge crowd had formed around them, watching his every move and most of them had even whipped their phones out, snapping pictures or taking video. Superman couldn't just dump her on the ground and tell her to take the bus. Santana kept fake-weeping into his chest until he succumbed to the situation.

"Just hold on tight," he told her softly, but Santana could sense the reluctance in his tone. Next thing she knew, they were airborne.

The flight over to Beth Israel was much shorter than Santana would have liked. She kept her arms twined around Superman's neck and her head pressed against his broad, strong chest. Damn, he smells so good! I know I'm technically not into guys anymore but for this one, I think I might be able to make an exception.

Santana hadn't noticed that they had landed until Superman said "There you are, ma'am," and placed her on the ground outside the entrance to Beth Israel Medical Center. Ma'am? I'm only twenty-eight for Christ's sake! Santana dismissed the thought with a roll of her eyes. She needed to stall him as long as possible, and if things went her way, she would be stalling him by showing Superman just how young, energetic, and perky she really was.

"My heart…my palpitations…they're gone!" She pretended to marvel and rested a hand on his chest, right on top of the S thingy. "What'd you do?"

"I didn't do anything," he replied keeping his tone firm but friendly.

"It's Santana."

"Santana," he repeated her name carefully. "Glad you're feeling better."

"You have places to go, people to save…" she mused, her manicured hand sliding down his chest.

"Yes," he told her evenly, ignoring her suggestive touches.

Superman had begun to lift off, but Santana grabbed his wrist, halting his flight so that he hovered two or three feet above her. "…it's so sexy. Would you like to come back to my place? Maybe work on getting both of our heart rates up? I know that's forward but—"

"Goodnight, Santana," he said sternly, freeing his hand from her grasp and floating away into the night.

She huffed in disappointment and checked her watch. It had been an hour. She had fulfilled her part of her boss's grand scheme. Now it was time to kill him.

0-0-0

Dave knew from the moment he heard the stomping of heels across the marble floor of his billiard room and the high-pitched cursing in Spanish that Santana had returned.

"…Cabrón! Tú sádico carbon! Voy a matarte…voy a tronchar tus testíclos después de qué me hiciste! No puedo—" she bellowed as stormed up to him.

"English, Santana," he sighed.

She had reached him now, and promptly punched Dave square in the jaw before continuing ranting in her second language. "I was going to pretend the brakes were out…pretend! Like we talked about! You didn't actually have to CUT THEM!"

Dave straightened up, rubbing his jaw, his cool façade wondrously still intact. "Of course I did. A man can always tell when a woman is pretending, especially Superman."

Santana flung herself at Dave again, managing to get a few more slaps in before Dave's large, meaty hands snatched her wrists and restrained her. She may be scrappy, but Santana was no match for Dave's girth.

"Did you get your torpedoes?" she asked, her voice back to its natural state of indifferent contempt.

"Missiles. And yes, I did," Dave replied, releasing her wrists. "Did you get your super-fuck?"

"Ugh, no," Santana grumbled. "If I did, I certainly wouldn't be here now."

"I wouldn't be so sure, The Planet did say he had super-speed."

Santana rolled her eyes at his remark. "Please Dave, if I knew we were back in high school, I would have worn my cheerleader uniform."

"What's this about Santana and a cheerleader uniform?" a painfully nasal voice asked.

Dave and Santana whipped their heads around to address the rat of a man, Jacob Ben Israel, who had appeared in the doorway.

"Don't get your hopes up, Jewfro,"Santana sneered and sat down in one of the room's plush, chocolate brown leather arm chairs.

"What is it, Jacob?" Dave asked his henchman.

"Azimio told me to tell you that the missiles have been unloaded and stored," he told the couple.

"Good. Now scram," he barked at the little man, and Jacob did just that.

"You know, I don't understand two things," Santana pondered as Dave returned to his game of pool.

"Shoot," Dave asked as he lined up his next shot.

"Well, first of all, I don't understand what you need these missiles for. What are you doing? Using them as blackmail? You don't need any more money."

It was true; Dave had a net worth in the billions. It hadn't always been that way though. For the first half of his life, Dave had belonged to the working class, until high school when his father hit it big in the stock market, changed their names from their ancestral polish Karofsky to the much more Anglo-Saxon and powerful-sounding Luthor, and founded LuthorCorp, the most successful aerospace engineering companies in the world. The timing was unfortunate. Dave had just come to terms with his sexuality and was excited about not having to live a lie anymore. But the Luthors were in the public eye now, and the last thing Paul needed was the embarrassment of a gay son who wouldn't be able to give him any heirs to his recently formed empire. That's where Santana came in. She was the conniving cheerleader that had snagged the privilege of being Dave's date to senior prom after she blackmailed him with the threat that she was going to tell everyone why Dave apparently enjoyed being on the wrestling team so much. Santana had also softened him up with a confession that she was in love with one of her fellow Cheerios, rather than the male football players she was supposed to be rooting on. The fact that they had won Prom King and Queen that night seemed to seal the deal, Santana and Dave were going to be each other's beards until the truth did them part.

Santana quickly realized that being a kept woman was her true calling. She sported designer clothing, drove luxury cars (when she didn't feel like being chauffeured around), and got to screw whoever she wanted as long as she kept it on the down low and posed as Dave's longtime girlfriend at his social engagements. And although she'd never admit it, she did care for Dave, but she kept her affection to a minimum since it would totally conflict with her tough-girl image.

"What else?" Dave asked, thinking up a shot to recover from his last one since he had scratched.

"Aren't you going to explain the first one?"

"What's the other thing you don't understand, Santana?" His tone made it clear that Dave wasn't going to capitulate.

"You seem very nonchalant about the whole Superman thing," Santana stated as-a-matter-of-factly. "I mean making jokes about his sexual prowess? I thought you'd see him more as a threat."

"If tonight is any indicator of what we're up against, I'd say that Superman is nothing more than an overgrown Boy Scout. He'll make things more difficult, no doubt, but he's nothing I can't handle," Dave replied casually, taking a shot.

"You still haven't told me what the missiles are for," Santana pressed.

Dave halted his game to address her. "Santana, what did my father always used to say to me?"

"Get out."

"No, before that."

"Why are you listening to Christina Aguilera?"

"No! He said 'Son, stocks will rise and fall, utilities and transportation systems may collapse, and people are no damn good—but they'll always need land, and for that they'll pay, through the nose. Remember that,' my father said. 'Land.'"

"So that's why you bought hundreds of miles of cheap desert land out west?" Santana questioned unimpressed. "Hate to rain on your little fatherly-advice induced parade, but all that land is worthless."

"It won't be for much longer," Dave assured her, his tone becoming sinister for the first time in their conversation. "That's where the missiles come in. I'm going to give the West Coast a facelift and make my newly acquired real estate the most expensive in the country."

"What are you going to do? Blast off California from the rest of the U.S.?" joked Santana.

"I knew you were smarter than you looked, Lopez."

She gaped at him. "You can't be serious."

"You know I never joke about business," he reminded her.

"Dave…you can't just…people are going to…you can't do this!" Santana objected.

"I am," Dave asserted, laying his pool cue down on the table to approach Santana. He towered over her seated form. "And I invite you and Superman to try and stop me."