10
The tired creak from a swing's chain spoke for the events of a long day.
Clark watched as the moon hung low on the horizon, it's full face made jagged by the cut out mountains that denoted the edges of Smallville. He looked at Chloe who been at his side during the whole ordeal. She was sitting next to him now on a bench swing, ever studiously examining Clark as one would the features of a real moon.
So distant. Mysterious.
Except, Clark was none of these things. Clark was a man that was studied minute by minute, day by artificial day. Everything was known about him, from his special blood type, to the way he parted his hair. They knew everything, but of course, anyone could study a man like a specimen. Connecting and correlating data to produce an image that resembled something like a man. Some would argue one could understand a man solely by data processing alone.
Perhaps one of things Clark Kent had ever taught her, was that knowing a man came as easily through friendship.
The swing's motions called and answered itself while Clark and Chloe kept their thoughts separate. Above them, the delicate chain rocked gracefully with a steady tension, holding onto the arm of an old oak tree. Chloe leaned back and watched the chain rock forward, then back, its movements synchronized with the push and pull of her own body.
They had returned from the hospital not too long ago after a grueling day of investigating.Lois had been moved to an isolated room and was heavily sedated. A detail provided by Lex of course . As long as they had a body to play the role, Chloe knew Lois would remain there. Speaking lines not required, Chloe thought cynically, and then immediately corrected herself.. She bent forward and held her head in her lap, seeing the fingers of the past reaching out and strangling her. How hard were they going to push Lois out of Clark's life now that she compromised Lex's plans? Plans, which Chloe noted, she did not understand or believe existed. Guilty fingers consumed her conscious, and bled it until she felt the pain rising from the pit of her chest.
She felt Clark's hand on her shoulder, and looked up.
"It's alright," he said bravely, "I know how much you care about her. She'll be fine. She'll be fine." This last, he said for himself. Wrinkles settling over his brows, these were signs of a man being dismantled. A man, discovered and observed for the sole purpose of destroying once past his shelf life.
"She will be." Chloe said, unknowing whether it would turn a lie. "It must be difficult seeing her like this. Lois is usually so..." She paused, hardly knowing much of the girl at all. They crossed paths once backstage on Chloe's last day ten years ago. She seemed like an professional back then. All looks, and unquestioning of how much they groomed her for the role. Of course, when you do complain, a Luthor held the mute button.
" Usually I can't get her to stop talking," he smiled but miserably failed. "I suppose it's harder not being able to do anything for her. Or finding the person responsible for this. I feel like my hands are tied, Chloe."
She nodded and listened.
"Every lead runs into a dead end." Clark leaned back, head rolling back as he studied the opposite chain, "I just don't understand why. Smallville used to be a good place to raise a family. Why here, why Lois, why me?"
"You're special, Clark."
He turned his head, "What do you mean?"
Chloe held his gaze for a moment and then continued, "Sometime's challenges are put in front of extraordinary people."
He mockingly laughed beside her.
"It's true," she insisted, "you're a good man, Clark Kent. You wont believe how rare it is to find those of you're kind."
He did smile this time, a small one, "And that's enough to be labelled, 'extraordinary'?"
No, she thought quietly to herself. It wasn't just the good, but the simple, honest good. The bravery, and integrity of doing good in the world, no matter how small. If the project had learned anything about Clark Kent, it was that he was by definition, an unordinarily good man. And it was that fact alone, Chloe surmised, that men like Lex Luthor hungrily waited for a chance to bring men like Clark down.
Chloe looked upon Clark with a great appreciation, the way she smiled with simple assurance. It was a perfect kind of smile that illuminated dark places, which Clark found himself at presently.
Her smile, it reminded him of a different time.
The swing whispered softer now.
"There is one more option left." Clark said, his confidence lifted up a bit, but not much.
"Another lead? I thought we exhausted all those."
"Well, there is the simple fact that the combustible used in both arsons was a special type of diesel fuel. Not common in Smallville, at all. In fact I couldn't find a single business who used this type of fuel. It's a heavy grade, used only in extensive industrial rigs. A small town like this doesn't come close to that."
Her eyes jumped to the dark, jagged horizon.
"It's a peculiarity. So strange, I just can't let it go." Clark said restlessly, "A fuel like that has such a higher ignition temperature than regular fuel. I don't understand why anyone would choose it."
Chloe didn't understand either. She could imagine Lex's men smuggling the fuel sloppily from one of the generators behind stage. It was probably the same path Clark has tracked earlier that day. He was so close to the truth. She pictured the sliver of moonlight across Clark's face the light of a door left ajar. She wanted so much to push him closer to it, to yank it open and rip down all the curtains he struggled to see behind.
As the moon loomed higher, she settled for subtle encouragement instead, "You should explore that oddity then, until it makes sense. Nothing remains a mystery for long."
He nodded, stirring in her advice with his own thoughts.
"It's late, don't you think?" Chloe stood on cue, "I'll see you in the morning."
Clark watched as she tip toed barefoot across the grass and into the house. His parent's house, to be exact. He suggested that they all stay under the same roof for now, paranoid that anything would come and harm the people he cared about most. He wouldn't sleep tonight. He wanted to be awake for when this twisted villain came to visit.
It didn't help the fact that he was torn between being with his wife at the hospital or being home. He spent several hours at her side until he was ushered out. One of Sheriff Adam's deputies was stationed at her door, but even that didn't settle his worry.
No, he had to stay here. His mother was asleep up stairs. He needed to watch over her too.
The lighted turned out, and the house was dark except the porch lamp. Clark remained on the bench swing, although he had stopped the rocking of it some time ago. One half of the bench was now empty, and it seemed moot now.
An upstair's light turned on, his old bedroom. It was Chloe. He offered the room to her for aslong as she wanted. She didn't disclose how long she planned to be in town, it was as if she didn't know herself. He could hardly believe Chloe giving up journalism. A woman as passionate as her, why would she ever give up something she loved?
As the minutes passed, and the moon rose, the bedroom light remained on. Clark watched the window, curious for the sign that Chloe was still awake. He missed her already, spoiled by her fresh presence all day. He walked across the yard and into the house in the dark, finding his way passed the furniture with ease as if he had xray vision. He was no stranger to this home. He loved everything it stood for, remembered it for. His parent's house was one of the few remaining parts of his life where he felt totally secure. Years after his father had died, the house walls seemed thinner, and more fragile. His foot steps echoed the emptiness of absentness.
He climbed the stairs and checked on his mom, asleep soundly in her room. He closed her door and moved to his own room, where a thin line of light lit his path.
Inside, he found Chloe on his bed, her body sprawled across his sheets as if she'd fallen asleep at the exact time she touched its coolness. In her hands was a year book from his book shelf. Their yearbook. On the cover, a picture of their now non existent highschool. He closed it, and replaced it on the shelf very gently, along with the other year books he collected. He then gathered the comforter from the foot of the bed and blanketed it around her, tucking her in.
And, for some reason, he felt the urge to preserve her there. The feeling that she belonged in this room. Among his books, his bed, and... him.
He was ashamed for it, ashamed. Confused, and guilty about everything in his mind. He flicked off the light, but he couldn't will himself to leave. He couldn't, he tried. He opened the door, but shut it again for the fear he would never get this chance again.
Ten years had gone by, hadn't it?
He watched the preciousness of her face as she slept. So much more peaceful that way. Granted, they both had a lot on their plate these days, but she seemed preoccupied with a different kind of worry.
Against his best judgement, Clark sat on the corner of the bed, leaned forward, and stroked the hairs that slipped onto her eyes. Her hair, silvery from the drifts of moonlight at the window. He'd been afraid to admire it all night, but now that she wasn't looking, he could. His fingers touched her hair again.
This time her eye opened, a sleepy hazel eye that lifted to his. She said nothing, even when he was sure she was awake. She only looked at him patiently, as if she accepted him being there. Watching her sleep.
His heart began to beat faster, the seconds ticking by as he openly watched her. He didn't know what to say. He hoped he wouldn't have to.
She sat up, noticing the blanket around her. Clark's eyes wore the same feeling she had witnessed inside the hospital room. The same protective, tenderness that tortured him.
Except, this was for her.
She reached out to him, her hand with the intention of cradling his shoulders, but her hand was so small in comparison. Her hand rested on the base of his neck instead. And against her better judgement, she leaned towards him until she was against his chest, craddled by his arm that readily wrapped around her.
She felt his heart against hers.
He was shaking. Since her unexpected arrival, this was only the second time he had embraced her.
And as the good husband he was, Clark gently placed her back against the pillows and stood to leave. "Goodnight, Chloe."
*
Clark drove home late that night, his shoulders bulging against the seat belt strap of Lois' tiny car. He had told himself he would only leave to pick up a few things for his wife at the house, and bring them to the hospital. A change of clothes, a book to read when she woke. A few roses from the rosebush she had planted in the backyard three summers ago.
But when he arrived at their house, he found it difficult to go inside. The house was left dark, no one at home all day. That had been the first night neither of them had been together since their marriage.
Inside, Clark flicked on the kitchen light and placed his keys on the table for only a moment. Beside them was the brown box that had carried all the importance of the world just a few days ago. Now, it was just a brown box.
Lois was all the importance in the world, Clark reminded himself. And as he packed her extra clothes, the two roses from the rose bush and a book from the shelf, he reminded himself as if rehearsing for his guilty alibi.
Why had he left the farm?
"Coffee." Clark said, alone in his dark kitchen. He remembered that Lois enjoyed coffee in the mornings, and by his father's watch it was almost that time. Fumbling for a grip to his life, Clark measured the grounds into the filter and prepared the pot. He practiced this once before, and it seemed like an easy task to accomplish.
Standing over the sink, the water rose higher against the glass.
Counting the tick marks of measurement, he remembered. Lois didn't like his coffee. Not truly.
Clark's shoulders collapsed, his chest relying on the straight tension of his thick arms to brace himself against the counter. Never before had he felt guilty about anything, except now. Making coffee was the only thing he could focus on other than, her. The worst of it all, was he wasn't even thinking about Lois.
*
That morning, the actor who played George Taylor, Editor in Chief of the Daily Star Newspaper showed up for work, bright and early. Of course he looked somewhat odd, dressed in his suit and slacks and slack jawed infront of what remained of the Daily Star Newspaper. Only the bronze, burly star reflected the morning sun. Part of it buried within the scraps of overhaul and charred building that stood in place.
Everything was gone.
Sheriff Adams crossed the street in full uniform. "Goodmorning, George."
"Morning," George Taylor said absently, as if trying to absorb what exactly he was expected to do from now on. Of course, they hadn't been any written orders, or any clue as to what he was assigned to next. He had always been George Taylor, Editor.
He took a bite of his powered donut.
"Looks like things are changing around here," Adams said, surveying the quiet street as she did, "in some circles, change is a good thing. Brings growth and mess like that. But here, in a place so small as this. Change is not what you want. No, sir."
"Cut the crap, okay?" George turned towards the Sheriff and swallowed the rest of the donut, "We all know what happened to Lois. It could have been anyone of us."
Adams sipped her coffee,both staring at the black char. A building erased with a click of Luthor's button.
The bronze Daily Star glinted resilently through the ashen floor, the sun appearing clearer, brighter today. And perhaps, a little less red.
There was change coming.
Simultaneously, the editor and the sheriff touched their inner ear as the intercomm fed direction:
All cast members reset to first position, in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1...
The sun rose into its place, and with a timely arrival, Clark drove past the two of them on Main Street.
Incoming, west bound Main. Approaching the Clinton intersection...
George waved to Clark. The sheriff lifted her cup.
"Say," George said absently again, "Isn't he going the wrong way?"
*
He couldn't spend another minute there.
Clark, resorting to spend the rest of his night sleeping next to his wife in her hospital bed, ended up not sleeping at all. He delivered her change of clothes, her roses, her book and then placed himself where he was at the most useful.
Out in the field, cracking down on the root of the issue. Finding the man who was responsible for all of this.
Driving in circles around Smallville helped him think, except, he found that his body couldn't breathe. He adjusted the seat beat for the millionth time and stretched his back. He knew exhaustion was catching up to him when the little voices came and went from time to time. Like a little radio, or a police scanner or... something.
Clark adjusted the car stereo. Tuned to a different channel, then turned it off. Back on, then off again. It wasn't the radio.
It was something else inside the car.
Frustrated, he pulled over and tosssed everything inside. Throwing aside his gym bag, extra dress shirts and even the spare tire in the trunk he found nothing.
But then he realized, he could hear it outside too. Barely audible, but it was there.
Above him, the sun shined brightly. Brighter than he remembered. And maybe his eyes were tired too, because the sun felt off too. His skin crackled with the unusual penetration of warmth, the reddish-golden rays sinking into his body.
Clark looked around, hearing it again.
A old woman walked down the sidewalk with a little dog.
Clark swatted at his ears, looking for the hypothetical fly. "Hey," he waved at the old woman, "Do you hear that?"
She stopped, and very kindly asked, "Hear what, honey?"
Clark shook his head, smiled and then turned towards his car. He lifted the door handle and pulled. The thing that happened next was unexpected by everyone.
Clark fell backwards, the car door lifting right off the frame like he had plucked it like an easily discarded flap, and sent it tumbling backwards into the street.
Into traffic.
Clark immediately stood up, but it was too late. A milktruck slammed on its brakes, running over one half of the steel and lost control. It tilted on his side, teetering on rolling over and onto the sidewalk.
Clark burst into action and put himself inbetween the impact of the truck...
The truck landed squarely on its wheels, but only by the direct influence of Clark's hand. Clark turned it over in shock, and then stared at the suggestive indention that ran across the side of the normally impervious metal.
"Oh, my..." The old woman whispered, clutching tight to her little dog.
Clark turned every which way, not knowing what to say or how to explain...
The crowd gathered around Clinton Street.
The milkman hopped down from the truck, scratching his head.
Milk bottles rolled across the road.
One of them rolled inbetween a bystander's feet. Gingerly, she picked it up, and stared along with the others.
Clark saw her first out of anyone else. He called out to her for help, "Chloe?"
"It's okay." Chloe crossed the street, clunching her purse and now.. milk. She was the only onlooker who dared to cross the street. "It's okay, Clark." Once she reached him, she redirected it, "Are you okay?"
"I'm... fine." Clark shook his head, the only movement he could seem to remember.
Chloe took his hand, placed the milk inside of it, and pushed him to his car. They needed to leave. "Clark, what happened?"
"I-- I don't know. I was just driving and I kept hearing these voices, I thought it was the radio but then I stopped and I heard it outside too, and then my door flew off and--"
Above them, the sun shined prominently.
Chloe shielded her eyes from the strong rays, "You heard a radio? The car radio?"
Clark rubbed his face, needing a shave. "I think I'm going out of my mind."
"Nonsense," Chloe brushed his dejectedness away, "You're just stressed out."
"I've never been stressed out before."
"Well, that proves it."
"I don't think I like being stressed out."
"Me too." Chloe tugged him along, tried sitting him in his car but soon found out that the big guy didn't quite fit so easily. Especially now that his door was missing. He looked even more miserable and out of place than before. Looking around for options, Chloe bit her lip in decision making.
It was a thing she did that Clark noticed all too often.
<Vitals are normal, blood pressure leveling... Sending medical crews. Cue medical crews... Chloe, bring him to the front for sampling.>
She touched his cheek, and thoughtfully suggested, "Why don't we have a paramedic check you out, okay?"
On cue, the medical truck rolled up.
Clark merely nodded, and let the paramedics take his bloodpressure. As he sat in the back of the ambulance, Sheriff Adams strolled by.
"Hiya, Mr. Kent." Adams surveyed the scene, no different than before the accident, "quite the bad luck you've had lately."
The medic tightened a tourniquet.
Clark didn't feel it, but as of this morning, he couldn't feel much of anything.
The medic poked him with the needle. Shook his head, then tried a second time.
"What's the matter?" Sherriff Adams asked lazily.
"Needle broke."
"I thought you were just taking my blood pressure?" Clark finally asked.
"I'm going to take him home." Chloe intervened, ignoring her orders over the radio. Clark heard them too. In desperation, he covered his ears like a child would when a fire engine ran hot down a neighborhood street.
"Home," Chloe repeated calmy into Clark's eyes, "I'm taking you home."
*
"Isn't it astounding!" Lex kicked up his legs behind his desk and grinned, "The progress we've made in the last few days." For a second, he waited for the weak protests from a nonconsenting Dr Hamilton, but heard none. He had forgotten about firing him.
Turning in his chair, he found a few "Yes Men" awaiting morning orders. "Sir?"
"Tell the engineers to revert to normal radiation levels. That's enough experimenting for today."
"Yes, sir."
Lex turned back around to face his monitors.
"Sir?"
"Yes."
"The condition of Lois Kent..."
"What of it?"
"She's stabilizing."
"Well that's fortunate." Lex tilted his head and studied a newspaper on his desk. It read, Daily Planet. Casually, he flipped the page.
One by one the Yes Men filed out the large, steel door, leaving Lex in solitude.
Alone, except for the plethora of monitors that were his eyes and ears to the little play world down below. Lex, in theory, could control and manipulate virtually anything in Smallville. Everything, including the people who played in it. Well, most people.
He zeroed in on a close up of Clark and Chloe.
Nearly everything was under his control.
But that was what made it fun, interesting.
Challenging.
In theory, Lex could afford to do whatever he wanted. Play as hard and rough as he wanted. There were failsafes installed if anything were to happen. Natural failsafes that blessed the location where his father, Lionel, had placed the project . Ofcourse, the land had pretty much nominated itself, it being the origin of everything.
Lex picked up two magnetic marbles in his palm and whirled them around in centrivical circles, thinking. Deciding. Given, if he pushed Clark to far, past his bounds and into insanity they could always abort the project altogether. Even if it were an even higher national security risk, it was doable. Right now, this project was rated at a Green, Medium Risk Level. A color scheme and nothingnelse, Lex reasoned and then tossed the marbles onto his desk.
And an appropriate color too, Lex second thought, tapping his temples as his eyes cursory searched the screens forsomething of interest. Out of one of the pixelated chaos, he saw himself in the lense, his persona as the powerful, red sun.
Behind the bloated, red disc were the jagged, black mountains. And behind it, a sea of emerald green rock.
*
