Clark woke up and it was several moments before he could even remember where he was. He got up slowly and turned on the lamp by his bed, the sudden light making him blink his eyes quickly. He was in his room at the farm, his school books piled on his desk with the notes he had been going over the night before. A Smallville High jacket was curled over his chair, looking weathered and a bit beaten, the white faded and no longer the bright color he remembered from last year. He rubbed his forehead briefly and then got up, stretching.
The dream had been so real, he thought quietly. Disturbingly real. He threw back his covers and climbed out of bed. Clark didn’t dream very often; not even about a certain dark-haired beauty he knew. Sometimes he dreamed about strange buildings and nonsense words that didn’t make any sense. He’d never put any thought into his dreams before though. He left that for his mother, a great believer in dreams was Martha Kent. She frequently enjoyed dissecting hers, or anyone else’s, over the breakfast table, looking for hidden meanings and warnings. His father would often remark during this that he wouldn’t believe his dreams unless they came regularly and always said the same thing: good weather, healthy crops, and fine times ahead. His mother usually responded that you couldn’t force a dream to say anything, but he’d laugh and return to his paper, smiling at her.
Clark wondered idly what his mother would make of his dream as he padded through the upstairs quietly. The door to his parents’ room was open and he could see that it was empty. Downstairs, he could hear them chatting quietly and he smelled the delicious scent of his mother’s bacon and eggs come wafting up from the kitchen. Hopping in the bathroom, he quickly showered and got ready, pulling some relatively clean clothes off his floor to wear.
As he passed by the hallway mirror, he could see his reflection out of the corner of his eye. He was tall for a seventeen year old, with broad shoulders and dark hair. His face was dominated by a jaw-line that his friend Chloe had once said, ‘wouldn’t look that out of place on a statue.’ He still didn’t know what to think of that. Clark thought his face was serviceable, handsome without being too showy. He worried about his hair sometimes though. It hung wildly and seemed to refuse to be tamed by any comb. He’d noticed that a lock of his hair tended to curl up on his forehead when he wasn’t looking and that always bugged him. He’d considered cutting it back, but it was hard enough keeping his hair this length in the first place. That was of course, because Clark Kent wasn’t your normal teenage boy, if such a creature even existed.
He though uneasily about how similar his arrival on this planet and his dream had been. At first, he’d just thought he’d been reliving those events, until things had started to go wrong. He hadn’t landed in the middle of town, but in a field outside of it. And, as if by fate, it had only been Jonathon and Martha Kent who had seen his ship crash. The two, childless, had taken him in and loved him from the start, vowing to keep his secret safe for the rest of their lives. For a while, they had probably thought that wouldn’t be too difficult because from all outward evidence, Clark looked just like any normal human boy. But as they’d slowly discovered, he was most definitely not. As he’d gotten older, his strength had grown so much that he could now perform feats that were beyond belief. He could lift a car up easily with one hand, and was literally impervious to pain and injury. His could run and move faster than the eye could see, and most startling of all, was even able to see through almost any surface. Recently, his vision had taken a new and almost dangerous twist; by focusing himself, he could cast intense waves of heat through his eyes, capable of melting stone. Not even Clark knew whether this was the last of his abilities to emerge, but at times he wondered what else lay in store for him.
“As long as it’s not a pair of little antenna,” he reasoned to himself, “then it’s alright with me.”
He came into the kitchen and sat down on one of the stools. His mother had already laid out a plate with silverware and glasses ready for him. She was munching on a piece of toast and fussing with a pan full of scrambled eggs on the stove. He noticed that she was wearing one of the new business suits she’d bought when she’d taken her new job with Lionel Luthor. His father was standing by the open kitchen door with his favorite mug, which was spotted like a cow. He glanced back at Clark and smiled, raising his cup.
“I thought the smell of breakfast would get you up,” he smiled at him.
“Morning, Clark,” his mother said. She carried the pan over and heaped the contents on his plate. “We really need to get you a new alarm clock one of these days. You’re going to be late for school.” He grunted something that could have been in agreement, too busy with his breakfast to go on.
“Clark could get up with five minutes to spare, do my chores, put the cows out in the fields, drop the produce off at the market, run to school and still have four minutes left,” his father joked with her. He walked over and gave her quick peck on the cheek, stealing a piece of bacon from the plate she was carrying as he did. She smiled sweetly at him and put the plate on the table in front of Clark. “No need for an alarm clock with your cooking. And besides, have we forgotten what happened to the last one?”
“That was an accident,” Clark said in between bites. “I hit the snooze button a bit hard.”
“You put your hand through the nightstand, Clark,” his father pointed out.
“It was an old nightstand,” he protested.
“Well, you’re going to have to learn how to get up on your own then,” his mother chided him. “I’m not going to be able to cook for you every morning, you know,” she said, carrying the pan to the sink. Clark could sense what was coming next. He saw his father frown and walk back over to the window, staring outside.
“Mr. Luthor’s going to need me to come in an hour earlier for the next few weeks,” she told them. “And maybe stay a few hours later as well.”
“I take it you already agreed to this, so there’s no reason for me to give you my opinion about it?” his father asked coolly.
“Everyone’s going to be very busy,” she explained to him patiently. “He needs me there.” Jonathon took another sip from mug and said nothing.
When the silence got threatening, Clark asked her quickly, “What are you going to be doing?”
“Last minute agreement things; checking on contracts, reviewing proposals,” she said, moving about the kitchen quickly. She picked up a briefcase he’d never seen before and started to put some papers in it. “Lionel’s signed a lot of deals with Wayne Enterprises.”
Clark choked on his meal and took a quick gulp of milk. “Wayne Enterprises? That’s not…”
“Yes, Bruce’s company. He bought up a lot of failing manufacturing and industrial companies and joined them together. He’s certainly stirring up things in Gotham. Lionel certainly underestimated him. He tried to short change him on a deal and Bruce wound up stealing a few contracts out from under his nose.”
Jonathon snorted into his cup, but Martha ignored that. “I have to say it’s nice to see him doing something constructive for a change,” she went on. “When he was in town last summer, the way he carried on… Well, it’s just nice to see him starting something that won’t end up with someone in the hospital.”
“The way Lionel conducts his business,” his father remarked, “I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Or from what we know of Bruce either.”
Clark understood that perfectly. Bruce Wayne had been traveling with a circus under the name of Tom Malone when he’d come to Smallville. Why someone with his amount of wealth would be living that way had been something of a mystery at first. Even more puzzling was his habit of showing up at just the right time, like when Lana had been attacked by a pair of car-jackers and Bruce had saved her. He had gotten suspicious and followed Bruce, but that had only complicated matters, revealing both of their secrets. He’d discovered that Bruce was some sort of vigilante, attacking criminals, and Bruce had found out about his powers. Neither had been happy about it, but a series of murders had forced them to pool their talents to survive and bring the killer to justice. It had also forced them to develop a kind of grudging respect for the other. Bruce might have been many things; stubborn, arrogant, intense, but he was also brilliant and very determined. If the Lionel wanted to take him on, Clark knew how much of a fight he was in for.
“Simply terrible about Lionel,” Jonathon remarked from the door, still looking out. Martha rolled her eyes in irritation. Clark watched the two of them, unsure of what to say.
His parents had always been divided when it came to the Luthors; both Lionel and Lex. His mother was willing to give them a chance, but his father had always seen things differently. His attitude towards them was that “leopards don’t change their spots.” Clark might have felt differently about Lex, but that fit Lionel pretty accurately in his view. When his mother had taken the job as Lionel’s personal assistant, it had only made things worse. She had told them she was only doing it because they needed the money, but sometimes Clark wasn’t sure.
Desperate to lighten the mood in some way, his eyes fell on the briefcase. “So, new briefcase, huh?” he tried to ask brightly. He saw his mother flinch and he instantly regretted it.
“It was a gift,” she said quickly. She put the last few papers in it quickly and shut the lid, setting it on the floor. Clark caught a glimpse of the embossed initial, LL, on the flap before it disappeared under the table.
“I think I’ll check on the cows,” his father remarked from the door and stepped out without another word. Thunder rolled suddenly overhead as Martha looked after him sadly. When she turned back to Clark, she gave him a wan smile.
“Storm’s coming,” she told him. “You almost never see those in the morning, huh? Gonna be pretty bad, I guess.” Clark nodded lamely as he finished up his breakfast.
“Virginia Woolfe, Chloe,” Pete asked her, amused. “Why, of all people, did you choose Virginia Woolfe to do a paper on? You do know you’ll actually have to read some of her books, don’t you?” Classes were over for the day and they were walking back through the halls to the lockers. Pete idly munched on what was left of his lunch, sharing with Clark, as Chloe and Lana walked slightly ahead of them, chatting quietly.
“I was going to choose Upton Sinclair, but I’d rather not have to take breaks throughout my research to barf up my lunch and swear off bologna, thank you very much,” she told them breezily. Her blond hair curled up at her neck and bounced as she walked. “And besides, it’ll be an easy report,” she went on. “Blah blah blah… women’s rights… blah blah blah… male dominated society. Easy A. I’m too busy with the paper to actually put effort into this.”
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“I didn’t think you’d take something like that so lightly,” Lana mentioned, a bit puzzled. Taller than Chloe with a slightly exotic complexion, she was a natural born beauty. Not only that, she was one of the kindest and most caring people Clark knew. She glanced back at him and he felt the blood go rushing to his face. He always seemed to feel that way when she looked at him.
“Clark, Pete,” Chloe asked, bringing him back to reality, “do you still work for the paper?”
Pete and Clark shared a quick look. “Sure, last time I checked,” Pete replied. “I mean, we write an article here and there, if you call that work.”
She rolled her eyes but chose to ignore the comment. “Then you both work for me, right? Since I run the paper, correct?”
“When you put it that way,” Clark said slowly.
“So I can order you around or even fire you if I want to. I’m your boss.” Chloe turned back to Lana and nodded. “I think I’m about as liberated as I need to be, thank you.”
“That’s not really the point,” Lana started to say, but Clark shook his head.
“It’s not worth arguing with her,” he told her. “Trust me.”
She laughed and then asked, “So who did you both choose?” Lana was in the other English class than the rest of them.
Clark took out a thin book and held it out to her. “I got Lewis Carroll and Pete chose George Orwell. I figured, if I have to do a project about a past author, I may as well have some fun with it.”
Lana looked impressed. “Well, I guess we can count on you staying in for a while,” she joked with Pete. “Looks like you’ve got a bit of research ahead of you.”
“Not really,” he shrugged. “I checked the bookstores before we chose topics. Do you know how many Cliff Notes there are about him? It should be a crime to use them.”
“I think that’s why it sorta is,” Clark pointed out. At that moment a crack of thunder practically shook the school. Everyone jumped unconsciously and looked around nervously. The storm had started just before school and hadn’t let up once. If anything, the clouds outside seemed to be building in intensity.
“On that note,” Pete said, looking outside, “who wants a ride home?” No one looked that thrilled. “C’mon, guy with a cool car here, free ride, it’s raining, what’s not to like?”
“Your car’s a convertible,” Lana gently reminded him.
“The top works most times,” he said, nonplussed.
“As exciting as that sounds, I’ll pass,” Chloe said. “My dad’s of the belief that if you do anything during a storm you’re risking electrocution. I’d rather finish up the Torch here than hiding under my covers at home.”
Pete nodded grudgingly and looked at Lana. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m study hall bound. I promised I’d help tutor someone.”
“That’s alright,” he sighed. He turned towards Clark.
“Okay,” he agreed. “See you later,” he said to Chloe and Lana.
“Ooh, before I forget,” Lana said and started to dig around in her bag. “I have something for all of you.” She brought out film envelope and pulled out a stack of photos. “I was going through the junk drawer in the Talon and look what I found. From the grand opening; I guess Nell must have stuffed them in there and forgot about them. Ugh,” she said, holding up a photo, “look at me. That’s what I get for living off of coffee and no sleep the week before.”
“I know that routine,” Chloe said dryly. She flipped through a few of the photos and passed them to Pete. “I never know what to say when I see myself in a photo,” she admitted. “I mean, I look like me, what else is there to say?”
“Something like, ‘I’m looking fine,’ or my personal favorite, ‘Look who’s got it going on,’” Pete suggested to her. He pulled out a picture of him and another girl dancing and held it up. “As shown in this photo.”
“I don’t know about that,” she rolled her eyes, “but I’ll give you bonus points if you can actually remember the girl’s name you were dancing with.”
He stood there for a moment, and then looked at the picture closely. “Huh,” he said finally.
“She must’ve been really special,” Lana said to Chloe.
“Absolutely,” she agreed.
Clark chuckled and took the rest of the photos from Pete’s hands. He flipped through them quietly and then stopped at one and pulled it out. It was of all four of them, posing together in front of the Talon emblem. “Mind if I steal this one?” he asked Lana, holding it up.
“Go ahead,” she said. She touched the photo in his hand and smiled at him. “Nice choice by the way. Maybe we should blow it up and keep it in the Talon.”
Chloe snorted and rolled her eyes. “Okay, that’s really cheesy, but even I have to vote ‘yes’ on that.”
“Second the motion,” Pete chimed in. “Any opposed? Then the motion is cast. Get the negative blown up and framed and I’m all ready to sign it.”
“Should be ready by next week,” Lana laughed. Clark smiled and tucked the photo up and stuck it in his wallet. Lana took the rest of the photos from him and stuck them back in the sleeve and in her backpack. “I’ll have the rest in the Talon if anyone else wants to snag any more. Okay?” She smiled at them and she and Chloe started off down the hallways.
“So,” Pete said, turning to him. “What if we drive around and see if anyone else needs a ride home, okay? I hear the girl’s soccer team gets out after the late busses leave. You never know, you might be able to give a nice looking girl a rescue.”
“Have fun, Pete,” he told him and slung his backpack over his shoulder.
“You’re not actually gonna take me up on the ride, are you?” Pete realized.
Clark looked at him and grinned. “Why don’t we make a little race out of it?” he joked. “You drive, I’ll run.”
Pete rolled his eyes and gave him a withering look. “Thanks but no thanks,” he shook his head. “You know, I did a lot of oddjobs to save up for that car, and every time you lap it, all I can think about is how long it would take me to save up enough to buy a jet engine. ‘Cause without that, there’s no way I’m ever going to beat you”
“I could ask Lex about that,” Clark offered him. “He’d probably know what the going rate for one is these days.”
“Get out of here and leave me to my soccer players,” Pete told him. “Man, I think I liked you better when you were being all mysterious,” he complained.
A half-hour later, Clark was jogging down the backroads to home, enjoying the feel of the rain against his face. His poncho flapped behind him as he ran, trailing after him like a cape. It kept his shirt and book bag dry but his jeans were already soaked to his hips from the rain and splashing in the muddy roads. Clark didn’t mind though, he’d worked through a lot worse than this at the farm. The rain was actually quite cool and there was something innocently fun about running through the muddy road.
He ran around the smaller puddles putting his feet down in between them like it was an obstacle course. Laughing, he stepped nimbly around a series of them and saw a much larger puddle stretched across the road in front of him. Unless he left the road there would be no going around it. A grin stretched across his face, Clark didn’t slow down or step aside, he kept running and when he reached the edge of the puddle, he leapt up. He soared up and over it, at least twenty feet through the air, before coming back down on the other side. Not counting on the muddy ground there, he slipped as he landed and went skidding a few feet on his side.
Now he was really filthy, but he still didn’t mind. Clark picked himself up and tried to brush some of the mud off his jeans. That had been kind of stupid, he told himself, jumping like that. What if someone had seen him? He would’ve been hard put to explain how he could jump like that.
His parents had always harped on that danger, that someone, someday would discover his powers and take him away from them. Clark understood it, he’d been fending off the suspicions of both Chloe and Lex for the past year to realize how real the possibility was, but sometimes he wondered about it. Pete had found out about him, but he’d sworn never to reveal it to another person. If one person could handle it, why couldn’t others, he’d asked.
His father had remarked that “it only took one. The wrong kind of person finds out, and well… who knows what would happen.”
The problem was, of course, that he was right. Sam Phelan, a rogue cop from Metropolis, had discovered the truth, and he’d tried to blackmail Clark into committing crimes for him. He’d threatened his family and friends. The reporter, Roger Nixon, had done the same before he’d died. Even Professor Hamilton had almost tortured Pete to get the truth when he’d found the spaceship. There were too many reasons, Clark realized, to keep his powers a secret. But that didn’t make it any easier.
Most of all, he thought, he wanted to tell his friends. To share with them what made him special. Not that he wanted to rub their noses in it, but he wanted to show them everything he could do, everything he was. He wanted to show Lana, Chloe, and even Lex just who he really was.
But even as he thought it, he wondered, just what would they say? Chloe had devoted her life to chronicling the strange happenings in Smallville, how would she feel about finding out he was a major part of them? Lex had always gone on and on about how he hated people lying to him, how much he valued the truth in Clark. What would he say? And then there was Lana. Her parent’s had died the day of the meteor shower, an unfortunate casualty of his arrival. How well could she be expected to take that?
Clark sighed, thinking back over all those things. He started down the road again, and then stopped and looked around once more. There still wasn’t anyone around, and there probably wouldn’t be anyone on the road today with the storm. He hesitated briefly, his better judgment warning him against it, but in the end he gave in and hurried over to the side of the road. Taking off his poncho, he wrapped it around his book bag and stuck them both up in the branches of a nearby tree. Then, grinning like a maniac, he crouched on the ground.
“On your marks,” he muttered to himself. “Get set. Go!” Clark took off running, dashing at near full speed down the road. The wet mud exploded under his feet, throwing up torrents of brown water to either side of him. Laughing, he tried to turn around suddenly and found himself skidding helplessly along the road, carried by his own momentum. As he finally came to a stop, he fell over, gasping for breath. It was like ice skating or water skiing, he thought, exhilarated. Climbing to his feet, he dashed down the road again, going faster and faster until he slipped and went sliding madly again.
This was just what he needed sometimes, he thought. To just take off and run, get away from everything that was bothering him. It wasn’t fair that he had all these powers and he could never use them. That wasn’t something he could share with his parents though. How would they be able to understand?
Sometimes he felt like just taking off during the day and running free. To feel the wind get left behind him as he ran through the countryside. He’d sit in his chair at school and stare out the window and wonder what it would be like to do all the things he’d only dreamed about. To climb Mt. Everest in a day, and then jump off at the very peak just because he could survive the fall. Or to race a train to its destination and beat it there.
Someday I’ll be able to do all that, he promised himself. Or I’ll do it and let people say what they want. They won’t be able to stop me. I’ll just let them do what they want and not worry about what -
Lightning crashed to the ground not thirty feet away from him, startling Clark from his thoughts. He tripped and stumbled, sliding to a stop again. The storm was raging overhead more fiercely than ever. A bit frightened, he hadn’t noticed how bad it had been getting. He decided quickly that he’d had enough fun for now and had better get home. He’d been hit by lightning before, and wasn’t in much of a mood to try it again.
“I guess running down a road surrounded by trees hadn’t been too smart either,” he muttered to himself, spitting out a bit of mud. “Lucky I didn’t get shocked.” He picked himself up and started back for the tree with his books, when another burst hit the ground in the exact same spot previously. Clark jumped again, staring at the impossibility. Then a third bolt flashed from the spot. And another.
Stunned, Clark stared at it, and then he noticed something: the bolts were almost soundless. There was no thunder. That was as impossible as four bolts hitting the exact same spot one after another. Then a fifth bolt flashed and Clark realized it hadn’t come from the sky. The bolts were coming from the ground. To confirm this, another flashed upwards and then arced overhead and smashed down next to him. He jumped backwards in shock and fell to the ground again.
“Not lightning,” he hissed between his teeth. “Not lightning!” Another arc flashed from the ground and curved overhead. Clark saw it coming and rolled to the side away from it. The bolt hit the ground and exploded as three more bolts flashed upwards. He tried to get to his feet to avoid them, but the ground was still to muddy, and he slipped to his knees. One of the bolts smashed into the ground by his hand, but the other two fell on him squarely. Instead of exploding, they fastened to him like chains, circling his chest and neck. They burned like fire against his skin, making him cry out. Then suddenly he was pulled off his feet and face first into the mud.
Clark rolled onto his back and tried to pry the tendrils off him, but it was no good. It seemed like they had a death-grip on him. Slowly they started to pull him forwards. The spot in the ground they’d shot up from was now a circle of shimmering mud about six feet wide. The white arcs of energy were slowly drawing back down into it, pulling him along with them. He tried to brace his feet, but in the muddy road there was nothing to do so against. His feet scrambled and slipped against the mud, as he was pulled closer to the hole. It started to glow brighter as came nearer. Slowly the gap closed between them; first ten feet, then three feet away.
Finally throwing everything he had into it, Clark let go of the tendrils and sunk his hands into the mud, looking for purchase. His hands felt blindly in the muck as he was pulled slowly backwards. Then, amazingly, he felt something hard underneath his fingers. He latched onto it and felt himself stop right on the edge of the circle. The tendrils tightened against him neck and chest, leaving him choking for air. Still, he held on grimly. The wind whipped overhead as the storm raged on.
Then he heard it, faintly over the wind. Clark. It was just a whisper in his ear, but it sounded so familiar to him that he froze in shock. He knew that voice from somewhere.
“Is anyone there?” he bellowed, holding on for all he was worth. The tendrils tugged fiercely at him, but he fought against them, trying to pull himself away. “Can you hear me? Help me!”
Help me. It came again, echoing him. The tendrils writhed against his skin, getting tighter. One of his hands slipped and he dangled there, fighting for his breath. He clutched at the tendril’s fingers with his free hand, trying to pry them apart. He could feel his fingers slipping in the mud. Help me, it came again, the tendril’s fingers tightening. Then he realized they were fingers, and not bands of energy. Somewhere in the struggle, the tendril’s had formed into great, white arms and they were dragging him in. Like a living thing, they were dragging him in. Help me, it called out desperately. His grip slipped and he was pulled down in a rush, screaming, towards the shimmering circle. His last thought in this world, was that he could see a face in it.
Then he plunged in, and was gone.