no ordinary world 11

11



Laid upon the steel and glass desk were the latest empirical data sheets. Numbers and figures. Pictures. Anything and everything a researcher could assemble in the event of something big, controversial.

"Clark Kent, man or... super-man," Lex tossed the pages across his desk and bridged his fingers. These were not the usual data sheets that he had mindlessly skimmed through for years. These chats were recorded after the new direction change. The experiment within the experiment. The breaking of a man, or something other of it.

Across from Lex where his army of nodding heads, drowned in white lab coats. Everyone of the researchers shared the same, subordinate expression and bland look. "I've read your reports. Now, tell me what they mean. Is he dangerous, or not?"

"He has a bone density one hundred times greater than our own, " a more senior researcher replied, "added with his enhanced strength, this makes him very... advantaged."

"Advantages only under certain radiation waves," Lex reminded curtly, "don't forget that we are in the control seat here, doctor. In the end, we have all the advantages."

"Of course," the doctor nodded, but glanced skeptically at the others.
This was not lost on Lex, "What?" he asked immediately, "You don't agree?"

Suddenly, all doubts vaporized. "No, Mr. Luthor. You are correct. The radiation levels are secured and are the project's most valuable tool in controlling the subject. Although Clark is exhibiting similar effects to the radiation as the others, we are still in complete control."


Lex picked up the two magnetic marbles and spun them in his palm, "Continue."

Bowing his head, the non descript doctor read from his papers, "Along with the aforementioned heightened abilities, the subject also experienced an acute hearing gain, as well as mild complaints of eye irritation."

Lex laughed, "Allergies?"

"I think not, sir." The doctor flipped through the paper, "the complaints correlate with an elevation of body temperature."

"Is he, sick?"

"We don't know. All we do know is that the temperature levels were that of combustion levels."


*

"Is he, sick?"

Martha Kent stood beside her blonde, fair eyed guest. Both she and Chloe stood outside stairs to the Kent's cellar, a place where Clark had disappeared two hours ago.

"I don't know what's wrong with him," Martha said, a half truth. It had been three days since Clark caught the milk truck single handedly. At first he was in denial, searching for any other explanation other than... the truth.

But soon after, other symptoms arose.

Chloe stood patiently with Martha, "Has he eaten anything?"

"Not since yesterday morning," Martha shrugged, and then waved the plate of dinner in her hands.  "Why don't you take it to him, dear? Clark always did confide in you the most."

Chloe looked back at Martha, recognizing kindness in the woman's eyes. In them, she saw the genuine worry of a mother. The woman had truly raised Clark from the beginning of the extensive project, and was one of the last original cast members. Someone who actually remembered what the initial project was about.

Chloe took the plate of food and approached the cellar doors cautiously. She bent down and pulled the rope which levered the door wide...

Down the hole was dark except the sole, flickering lamplight somewhere below. Like a cave, she wondered how often Clark ventured down there to escape from his reality. Chloe descended the stairs, ducking her head as she did. Beneath her foot crunched a little brown box, opened, empty and left laying on the cement floor. "Clark?"

 "I'm busy."

A flat answer was all she got, but she knew by hidden monitoring and intel that Clark had done nothing all night and morning except stare at a bucket of greasy tools.

Chloe turned around a corner of the cellar and found Clark sitting... moping, on a stool. His face was dimly lit, the flicker of the kerosene lamp warming his face. It was a man huddled in the bleakest of flame. A minute version of the monster that had come down upon Clark and destroyed him. The kerosene fire was a beast of its own right if let out of its tiny capsule; a fire lit within Clark so terrible that all who watched him now, wondered, if he too would ignite and spread like Hell on Earth. 

 Clark's eyes bore into the wick, his mind, elsewhere.

"What are you doing down here?"

"I'm working," was all that Clark said as he sat, his back turned from a giant, tarped object behind him.

Chloe marveled at its size, not imagining that the Kent's cellar would have ever been this large. She figured a whole trailer could've been parked down there.

 She nodded to Clark and juggled the plate of food, "Care to take a break and join us upstairs?"

"I told you, I'm busy."

"I see that," Chloe replied, setting the plate on the work table behind him. "Can I join you?"

Clark's deep blue eyes never looked her way. They stared ahead, his fist underneath his chin and leaning to one side. Like a marble statue of David, a Michelangelo. His eyes spoke for him.

Chloe found a wooden work stool and sat down next to Clark. "Clark, your mother is worried."

"She should be. I'm a freak of nature."

"No," Chloe said reassuringly, "you're absolutely fine. There's a perfectly reasonable explanation for what happened. We just have to find it. And you wont find it here, hiding from the world."

"I'm not hiding."

"Right," Chloe said mirthlessly, "you're busy. Got it. Can I interrupt for a second?"
Out from the dark, Clark felt her hands gather around his from beneath him, tugging him up from his work bench. "What are you doing?"

"I'm interrupting you for a second," Chloe said, pulling him up the stairs, " I promise, after we make sure you eat and..." Chloe made a playful stinky face, " and shower, I'll leave you alone."

"I can't-" Clark pulled his hand away, "I can't go up there."

"Why?"

"Outside, it--" Clark's eyes clouded over, "It makes me..."

She stepped closer to him, "What happens to you?"

Even he didn't know how to explain it, just only shook his head, his hands self consciously rubbing each other. "I just can't, Chloe."

She looked at him, really looked. "Don't ever tell me that."

From beneath his dark hair, Clark met her eyes. They watched as she marched over to the tarp in the center of the cellar, reached for an edge and ripped it away from the bulky object it covered. She paused, seemingly shocked by what she found underneath it. When she turned to face him, her eyes were questioning, curious. "Why would you keep this?"

His response was genuine, "I don't know."

This time, she walked to him, and gently placed her hand inside of his, and just held it there. She made no effort to pull or push him anywhere. She understood now, that his entire life had been directed by one invisible force or another.

Clark stayed quiet a few moments, looking down at their hands. "She wont talk to me. She thinks I'm the one who started the fire."

"What?" Chloe's response was genuine. "Why would Lois think that?"

"Because of what happened yesterday... I went to talk to her at the hospital. She--we, we argued and I was so angry-I..." he trailed off, "I've never been so angry before."

"Clark, it's ok." Chloe took his cheek in her other hand, "you had an argument that's all--"

"I set the bed on fire."

Chloe blinked, "What?"

"I--I don't know, I don't know what happened!" Clark turned in on himself, "Then she said she wanted a divorce, and she wont talk to me--" Clark rambled off again, trying to live it down. "Everyone is afraid of me, Chloe."

Confidently, she took his hand that was still in possession of hers, and squeezed it, hard. "I'm not, Clark. I never have, and never will be."

*

Out from the mouth of the cellar, Chloe emerged, towing Clark behind her. One of his hands was thrown across his ear, expecting to hear the voices, but they were no longer there.

 Martha Kent smiled ear to ear, acting as if everything were normal. She took Clark's other arm and led them both to the house.

"I made apple pie, Clark. Your favorite." Martha said, nodding thankfully to Chloe.

"I'm not really hungry," Clark said, opening the porch door.

"You will be," Martha said winking, "after that first bite, there might not be any left for me or--"
Martha paused, "Oh, honey?" she said, speaking to Chloe, "you are staying for dinner, right?"

*

Dinner was over, only scraped plates and empty glasses piled next to the kitchen sink. Chloe watched as Clark washed each dish very gently like one would a infant. His hands moved slowly over the delicate surface as if he knew she were watching him. Calculating him. Proving to her, and him, that he could indeed, be careful with his strength.

He handed her the dish to dry, which she did very pleasantly, "We make quite the team."

Clark's expression changed, he was no longer thinking of the sud collecting around his wrists, "I always knew that."

The wistful sadness in his voice prompted her to remain quiet, the mutual feeling resonating in the kitchen. The faucet whirred quietly, water washing soap from his arms. He had strong arms. 

Clark reached for his wedding ring, which he had removed to do dishes, and placed it back on his finger. "I can finish up here, Chloe. Thanks."

"Ok," she leaned against the counter, the quiet moment over, "I can see that's the brush off but the journalist in me wants to know more. You have to talk about it with someone Clark."
He continued washing dishes.

"That person used to be me," Chloe prompted, hoping that he'd loosen up,"before, we could talk about everything--"

"And then you left." Clark passive-aggressively slammed the dish on top of the others. He had done it without intending to, and also started himself along with her.

The kitchen became quiet again. Clark stood motionless with the sink running hot. Steam rose as clouds, and in that moment they were both drifting through it.

 Chloe held onto the counter for courage, for the break in her voice was not in character any longer,  "I didn't want to."

Martha entered the kitchen, walking to the sink to place the silverware, the cloud breaking. "Oh, Clark! I think that's enough steam to drive a train, don't you think?"

He was staring at Chloe, "I'm sorry." Yet she knew he wasn't apologizing for the sink, for his mother, or anything that was happening now. He was apologizing for some other part, a lingering feeling that habitually grew and lifted like a cloud. Dark now inside Clark, that she could see it shade his eyes when he looked at her from the other side of the small kitchen.

His body hunched slightly at the sink, like a caged animal would if he knew he'd never escape.

"Chloe," Martha noted very perkily,"I hadn't commented before, but you look gorgeous in that dress. A perfectly beautiful grown woman you turned out to be."

She looked down at herself. It was a simple cut dress the costume department had suggested. She didn't ordinarily wear dresses in everyday life, and it seemed inappropriate to wear it here as well. Yet, they were packaging her, primping and selling her. To him. To Clark.

They had done it before, selling her camaraderie to him at a young age. Yet, she could feel the marketing had a different purpose now. She felt that they were advertising her body, her image, as something else.

Self consciously, she covered her self by casually crossing her arms, "Thank you."

"The city certainly did you wonders, you look so grown up. Aren't you glad you're home?"
Clark visibly bristled, "Mom, you've asked her that several times already."

This, a sharp remark from Clark, was atypical, "Well," Martha smiled nervously, "I suppose I'm just expressing my own relief that she's returned to us. I've never had a daughter, but I've always thought of Chloe as my own."

Clark stilled, "Lois is your daughter-in-law."

Her smile tweaked, "Well, yes. But, it's never felt the same. Chloe and you were such old friends..."

"I'm going to make coffee!" Chloe chimed in over enthusiastically, she pointed to an unplugged coffee maker, "does this thing work?"

"Let me," Clark moved towards her, it, and filled the pot with water, "I need to practice anyway, for Lois."

Chloe winkled her middle brow, but smiled anyway.

"I'll be in the living room if you need me," Martha nodded and exited through the hall.

Chloe watched as she left, and then felt as if she wanted to escape too. This situation, this tension in the room. Clark was saying nothing. Not anything about himself, or her, or her, his own wife. She wondered how much he missed her, he seemed to. But she couldn't help but think his emotion in his words were a little acted. Compulsory. Obligated. As if Clark himself was no longer the man people acted around, and turned into one of the actors himself. She knew that little of anything of his life had been left up to him. So many researchers, fringe scientists manipulating the little details up to the big ones, like his life with Lois. She wondered, if Clark had settled for what his life had turned out to be. If he would be content living that way.
Did he have a choice, anyhow?

Clark dipped the scoop into the coffee can, intent of the perfect measurement of dark grounds...

Chloe slipped out through the hall, feeling forced out from the kitchen as Clark consciously avoided her presence. She could hear the coffee drip as her fingers traced pictures strewn on the wall of the hall. There was one of Clark, Martha and the departed Jonathan. She remembered that last day. The day they killed Jonathan Kent.

The man who played Johnathan was a kind man. Unusually kind, and intelligent. Outside of the set, he was a philosopher, a humanitarian, a sociologist. He wrote books about the measures of society. Of collective fear.  Or more specifically, the fear brought upon the arrival of a small child.

He had known nothing about farming, or being a father, the man himself had no biological children. But he had raised Clark, and done so with under restrictive rules. Jonathan Kent worked hard to make Clark's childhood a wonderland of freedom. Imagined freedom. Of hard work, of growing up on a small farm.

It was the other people who raised Clark like a one would a rare crop. A child, under a heated microscope.

With the death of Jonathan Kent, so died Clark's hero.

"I miss him." Clark appeared beside her, holding her coffee in his hands.

She gingerly received the mug and smiled softly, "I do too."

She brought the brim of the mug to her lips, and she noticed that Clark was watching her very carefully. "What?"

"Nothing. Go ahead."

She paused, his look so cautious that it made her skeptical, "What? Did you put something in here?"

"Huh?" Clark blinked, "Just cream and a little sugar."

Chloe narrowed her eyes, and then bravely took a sip.

And then immediately spat violently into the mug.

"What?" Clark looked at her very concerned, surprisingly at the coffee, not her, "What does it taste like?"

"Terrible--" she barely choked, "Clark, what did you put in here?"

He shook his head, "Just cream.. sugar.. I don't understand."

"Lois drinks this stuff at home?" Chloe asked jokingly, wiping her lips.

He looked dejectedly at the mug. "Lois said it was fine, I knew he was lying to me."

"Well, Clark..." she walked back into the kitchen and investigated the cause. Next to the coffee maker was the evidence, still laid out for her. She picked up the inconspicuous 'sugar' jar and dipped her finger in it, tasted.

"There's your culprit."

Clark joined her, and mimicked her actions. "Salt?"

"It's ok," she said, partially hiding her laugh, "It's easy to get these things mixed up. They do look so alike."

"Yet, completely different." Clark smirked, and then added, "I guess it's just the little details...

Clark poured out the coffee pot, "I wonder how many times she was going to drink this crap before she told me the truth... that's what I don't understand. Lois used to be so lovable, so agreeable, so... I don't understand why she wont talk to me anymore. She wont even let me explain."

"She's in shock, Clark. She was very close to being, killed." Chloe relucted to say it, but it was true. Lex and his crew had gone too far. Those were real flames, real smoke. And even if it were all a massive charade, these were real people. And as she had learned after she'd left the secretive walls of the project, the creators had killed before to protect their secrets.

"She can't think I set that fire. I would never hurt her. I wouldn't hurt anyone!"

"I know," Chloe soothed, "but you need to give her space, for now."

"I've never seen her mad  before."

"I have," Chloe said, "she can be a real spitfire, but it's usually over in a few days."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Chloe lied, "she is my cousin after all."

"I'm thinking about what you said before. About us leaving Smallville."

"You and Lois?"

"Well, Lois doesn't want to see me now. I was thinking you could take her to Metropolis. For me."

All she could do was nod, "Of course, Clark."

"Metropolis has better medical facilities there. I need her to be safe. Until I can figure out who this Lex Luthor is."

Chloe wondered if he was still ruming for that name. It was the biggest lead Clark had. Unfortunately, everything after the name didn't exist here. Lex Luthor, was a myth. 

"I think you're right. Maybe some space, some fresh air will help her calm down."

"It would do us all good," Chloe added, and then added again,"in fact, I think I'll take some fresh air right now. I'll see you later, Clark."

"You're leaving?"

"Yeah, I..." she shrugged, knowing nothing else but the truth, "I need to speak to Lois."

"Wait," Clark followed her to the door, "Promise me you'll be careful."

She smiled, a little surprised that Clark thought she had anything to worry about. But in his perspective, everyone around him had been a potential target. The more she thought about it, the more she realized he was right to worry.

She tightened her grip on her purse strap and grinned, "I'll keep an eye out."