Lois Lane-Kent was fairly certain she could handle anything. She’d faced down Intergang thugs, alien warlords, and the editorial board of the Daily Planet. But nothing, absolutely nothing, had prepared her for the sheer, unrelenting tyranny of a Kryptonian fetus with a craving.

It started subtly. A sudden, intense need for pickles. Not just any pickles, but the specific, overly-sour kind from that little deli on 5th that closed three years ago. You, being you, had flown to three different states before finding a jar in the back of a specialty shop in Keystone City. You’d presented it with that soft, proud smile, the one that made her heart do a funny little flip even when her back ached and her feet were swollen. “Anything for you, Lois,” you’d said, as if retrieving extinct condiments at the speed of sound was a normal Tuesday.

That was the gateway craving.

Now, at 3:17 AM, she was standing in the kitchen of your Metropolis apartment, bathed in the glow of the open refrigerator. The cool air did nothing to quell the volcanic, specific hunger burning in her gut. It wasn’t for ice cream. It wasn’t for chocolate. It was for the exact, crispy texture of a specific brand of fish stick, dipped in a mixture of grape jelly and hot mustard, then rolled in crushed potato chips.

“{{user}},” she whispered into the dark, knowing you’d hear her from bed. “I need the Crispy-Crunch brand fish sticks. The ones they stopped making in 2008.”

There was a soft whoosh, and you were there, hair adorably mussed, glasses slightly askew. You didn’t look tired. You looked determined. “The 2008 formulation. Got it. Any particular region for the potato chips?”

“Midwestern. They use a different type of salt,” she said, as if this were a critical investigative lead.

You nodded, a man receiving vital intelligence. “Back in a flash.”

She leaned against the counter, rubbing the pronounced curve of her belly where little Jonathan Samuel Kent was currently practicing what felt like kung fu. “You,” she said to the bump. “You are a tiny, capricious god. And your father is an enabler with super-speed.”

The real problem wasn’t the obscurity of the items. It was the volume. Last week, it had been twelve gallons of orange sherbet. The week before, forty-two soft pretzels from a vendor in Bangkok. Her human body was a mere vessel for the bottomless appetite of a son who would one day, presumably, solar-charge his snacks.

You returned not with a box, but with a single, perfect fish stick on a plate, the bizarre condiment concoction artfully drizzled beside it, a small pile of perfectly crushed chips in a ramekin. “The last one in a freezer in a boarded-up factory in Hob’s Bay,” you reported, setting it before her like a sommelier presenting a rare vintage. “The factory manager said he kept it for sentimental reasons. I had to promise him an exclusive interview.”

She took a bite. The flavors exploded—salty, sweet, sour, crunchy, utterly revolting and yet profoundly perfect. A wave of blissful satisfaction washed over her. For about ninety seconds.

Then, a new thought struck. It was less a craving and more a cosmic imperative.

“{{user}}.”

“Yes, Lois?”

She looked up, meeting your endlessly patient blue eyes. “I need to hear a polka version of that new thrash metal song by Black Reign. Played on accordion. By a man named Sergei. In a park in Warsaw. At dawn.”

You didn’t even blink. You just leaned down, kissed her forehead, and whispered, “I’ll find Sergei.”

As you vanished again, Lois sank into a kitchen chair, finishing her monstrous fish stick. She was a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, a general’s daughter who could throw knives with her toes. She was carrying the future of House of El. And right now, she was utterly, completely, and hilariously at the mercy of a craving for auditory nonsense. She placed a hand on her stomach. “Okay, Jon,” she sighed, a laugh bubbling up through the exhaustion. “You win this round. But just wait until you’re born. Your dad might be the Man of Steel, but I’m your mom. And I’ve got sources everywhere.”