Many many years ago, Clark received an alarm clock for his birthday. Round face, two slim hands for hour and minute, and a stout short one with a hollow circle like a pod at its point chasing the seconds. It had a nice, though rather grating, ring that could wake up the dead, which was useful because Clark often slept like the dead. He read the card and hugged his parents and let them watch him place it next to the eyesore of a lava lamp that Pete, Lana, and Chloe pooled to get him last Christmas. It was a hardy little alarm, somehow impervious to his aggressive morning behavior. It stood next to him like a silent sentry, guarding him through teenage angst, alien heartbreak and everything in between.
It followed him out of the farmhouse and into his accommodations on University Row where it survived freshman orientation, a torrid change of sexual orientation, and bottomless frustration. Somewhere along the line, someone managed to jury-rig the alarm to make it go moo one morning and cluck the next. Along the way he counted seven different farmyard animal noises that alternated without any conceivable pattern, thanks to a small out-of-place device embedded under the original ringer in the clock's dented butt.
When a fire broke out in the Seniors block one Saturday dawn, Clark managed to save seven friends, three pets living illegally, and two of his classroom rivals. By brunch, it was declared safe for them to go back inside and collect their belongings. Clark's side of the building was relatively okay, but water had gone into everything. Even his alarm clock that looked very wet, utterly sad and maybe on its way to dead. By lunchtime, the gym was full refugees, where corners and quiet spots became battlegrounds. By the time Arthur the exchange student from England crouched in his hard won corner for a spot of tea and scones, Clark had helped beleaguered RAs break up low level fights, soothe a few anxiety attacks, track down several misplaced items and people.
At eight PM, Clark had to double check with a Hello Kitty calendar hanging on the bulletin board to remind itself that, yes, it was still the same day. Just a very long day on top of a very long week. He hadn't even found a spot to sleep yet, his worldly possessions reduced to a plastic box and one hiking backpack.
But several minutes before midnight, for some odd reason, Clark had a mattress under him, a goose-down cover over him, the hum of well-maintained A/C around him, and his faithful alarm ticking defiantly and haughtily on the high-polish mahogany table next to his head. Beyond the understated oak door with sleek chrome handle, someone was driving a hard bargain in Japanese. Someone Clark happened to know very well.
He woke up to somebody screaming for help into his ears. Shrill and urgent in a voice Clark happened to know very well. He all but jumped up, sleep sliding off him like it was some odd dream. He looked around wildly and the screaming didn't stop. There was a weight around his lower waist, and he saw an arm, attached to a sleeping person he also happened to know very well, whose voice was yelling like Armageddon had arrived, from the other side of him.
Out of his alarm clock.
Which he promptly smacked. It went away skittering, leaving a small scar on the table, plopping with one last half-yell onto the thick carpet below, ending with something like a long-suffering sigh.
And there was a chuckle, heavy with sleep, and not coming from any household appliance.
The one that greeted him good morning, the one that asked him about his sleep, and whether he liked the new wake up call. The one that would wake him up with a different message every day, magically programmed into the small wireless gadget clinging like a spider under the original ringer in the butt of his slightly rusty alarm. The one that would later, many many years later, neither confirmed nor denied being the cause of the dorm fire in Clark's Senior year. Because, really, who would be insane enough to burn a building down just to get a boy into his bed?