Flare

by margroks

Clark just couldn't stop running. Missing day from the episode Perry.

Flare

The rights to the characters of Smallville belong to its producers, to DC Comics and the WB Network. The rights to the characters of Nash Bridges belong to its producers. I own them not.

Clark Kent just couldn't stop running. He'd been running since early morning when he unexpectedly took off at warp speed across a field on his family's farm before the startled eyes of Perry White, point man for X-Styles, the broadcast magazine for all things paranormal although he was currently, due to his frequently inebriated state, not the sharpest point on any quill; Clark prayed that he could somehow convince him there was a reasonable explanation for his rapid disappearance though the exact nature of that explanation eluded him at the moment. Clark sped across western Kansas at high speed, stumbling slightly near the Colorado border as he slowed a little and tried to turn around, startling a colony of prairie dogs. He looked like he was dancing an odd little jig as his powers abruptly left him and he tried to keep his balance while avoiding the numerous holes all around him. Then just as suddenly, his powers were back, his last leap became a rush and he was off again. The prairie dogs, convinced they were all going to be snatched and eaten by the alien creature in their midst, dove back down into their dens yelping in alarm as Clark raced westward, heading up into the Rockies.

At higher elevations, snow already covered the ground making many roads impassable. A line of cars was halted near the top of the mountain, stranded by the early snowfall and Clark ran by them, using his heat vision to clear the far lane as he disappeared into the distance. Behind him, people watched as the snow in the eastbound lane evaporated in a cloud of steam, swirling away up into the sky. Then, with much scratching of heads, motorists slowly eased their vehicles into the now clear far lane; they were further puzzled by the fact that the air on the snow free side of the highway was very noticeably warmer but the people of Colorado are an irrepressible hardy lot and they pushed on despite this oddity, taking advantage of their sudden good fortune.

Clark angled cross country for a ways until he joined US Highway 50, following along it until he passed over the continental divide where, much to Clark's distress, he became airborne as he topped the mountain's summit. A majestic bald eagle swooped down to investigate and fled in distress as Clark helplessly flapped his arms in an attempt to gain altitude before he crashed down in a field of boulders at the mountain's base, crushing several of them into dust as he rolled across the ground until he hit one particularly large rock and came to a abrupt halt. There he sat for a while, nursing some bruises and contemplating the long road back to Smallville with his powers completely gone again. He'd been lucky, at that, to have lost them after he fell to earth. Remember how you wanted to be normal?

He watched forlornly as traffic on the highway passed by, picking up speed as they reached the foot of the mountain. Finally he stood, sighing and wondering if he could hitch a ride back to Kansas. Limping over to the road on what he guessed was a sprained ankle because he didn't really know never having had one, he put out his thumb, trying to attract the attention of the one lone car heading east but on seeing him the driver sped up, apparently finding something disturbing about the disheveled young man at the side of the road. Looking down at himself, he had to admit his condition was quite deplorable; covered with dirt, streaked with mud here and there where the steam from the melting snow had hit him, his front of his t-shirt somewhat tattered…all in all his appearance certainly lent him a disreputable air, to say the least. It looked like he might be walking back to Kansas after all.

Turning, he put a hand up to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun and spotted an eagle, gliding over the treetops in search of prey; he wondered if it was the one he'd scared a while ago. Another sigh escaped him as he admired the ease with which the bird soared through the air. For once, he admitted to himself that flying was a truly awesome ability and one which he knew, deep down, he would one day be capable of. Since freshman year, he'd known it; hovering over his bed when he woke up was a pretty clear indicator and those other incidents, like during the tornado when he'd willed himself to reach Lana's truck or when he'd leaped out into space to bridge the gap between the Daily Planet and the LuthorCorp building and had hung suspended, feeling for just a second that he could defy gravity. Of course that was right before he dropped, crashing through a window on the LuthorCorp building where he slammed into a wall and fell in a heap. But someday, he knew he would take flight just like the eagle, soaring high above the earth whenever and wherever he pleased and there would be no stopping him; the sky would literally be the limit and he could use that amazing ability to do whatever he wanted. Right now, he just wished he could use it to get home.

Clark thought he could see a sign about a mile away to the west so he struck out, hobbling toward it and hoping it said there was a store or gas station or restaurant, something nearby so he could rest inside where it was warm as he figured out his next move. As he got closer he could make out what he thought were the words food and lodging and he picked up his pace, shuffling along as fast as he could in anticipation of food and shelter. After a while, he got close enough to see the building itself. Lights! Food! Warmth and a place to rest his throbbing ankle; he tried to jog in spite of the sharp pain that shot up his leg every time his foot hit the ground.

And then he felt it. The rush of power that normally infused his body, his own unique birthright, taken for granted until it wasn't there. Except now it was back in spades, whatever was causing his power glitch kicking into overdrive and his jog became a headlong rush and once again he had no more control over it than before. Well, he thought as he raced past the roadside diner he'd been aiming for, at least my ankle's better. In only a moment, his aches and bruises were no more than a memory and Clark was literally blazing a trail through the Colorado countryside. Westward ho!

When he reached the little town of Montrose, Colorado, the highway ended its westerly direction, splitting off north and south and Clark once again headed off across country, not wanting to go northwest and terrified of heading southwest lest he eventually encounter the Grand Canyon and find himself leaping out across that great chasm not knowing whether he would ever live to reach the other side or the very bottom, whichever came first. So he headed due west, more or less, running across the foothills of the Rockies until he reached the high desert.

The Utah border was coming up fast and in only a few moments he was over it, racing south of Moab through the northern edge of Canyonlands National Park with its impressive and colorful rock formations and, as the name implied, numerous canyons of its own. Fortunately for Clark, he managed to avoid the deepest although there was one close call when he jumped one of medium size and felt his powers leave him just as he hit the other side. He hung from a bush that grew out from a narrow crack in the canyon wall, eventually managing to claw his way up to the top using the exposed roots of an ancient tree. Scrambling away from the treacherous edge of the canyon rim, he fell onto the dry red earth where he lay panting and exhausted, eventually dozing for a while. In his dreams he was watching the news about the comet, snacking on fresh cherry pie and drinking cold milk directly from the antique glass jar. Clark took another swig, the milk jug icy cold in his large hand, condensation dripping down his wrist and onto his shirt as he watched the TV screen, transfixed by the pictures and graphics of the cosmic collision supplied by Swann Communications. The dream was shattered by the cry of a buzzard circling overhead.

When he came fully awake, his throat parched and lips dry, he slowly got to his feet and shuffled off in search of water. His mouth felt like the sand he walked on and his head was beginning to swim when he spotted a pool of water up ahead. He ran, stumbling twice before he made it to the rock ledge at one end of the shallow pond… Falling to his knees he dipped his hand into the water and quickly brought his cupped hand up for a sip. The fetid smell of the dark brackish water hit him just as his lips touched it and he spit out what little was in his mouth; coughing and wondering if he'd just poisoned himself as he sat down on a dead tree stump a few feet away.

A pounding headache was making itself known along with a hint of nausea and Clark's clinical analysis suggested dehydration, something else he'd never really experienced but Clark had the feeling he was about to get up close and personal with that particular ailment; humans needed water more than anything else to stay alive, especially in this harsh desert climate. After a few minutes rest he rose and started walking as rapidly as he could. He knew he needed to find water soon.

Even without his special abilities, Clark was in excellent physical condition and that made the going somewhat easier. As he walked, Clark tried to keep his mind off of his current plight and the fact that it grew more desperate the longer he went without water. Why was this happening, his powers coming and going with no real warning? Could the sun really be the source of his powers? Affecting him just like it affected communications everywhere… It made sense; without warning, he had no powers at all, then just as suddenly he could go into full tilt overdrive, his abilities completely beyond his control. A new and very disturbing thought hit him: what if this had something to do with Kryptonite or even worse, some new form of Kryptonite? It was not a very comforting thought.

What if his powers never returned? This was the longest they'd been gone so far; what if they were gone for good this time and he would have to walk out under his own limited power or die here in the barren desert wastes? He had to find water and if by nightfall his powers had still not returned then he needed shelter from the cold desert night as well. How many people had set out across this unforgiving landscape never to be seen again? Clark rounded a creosote bush, the pungent smell filling his nostrils as he nearly took a header onto the skeletal remains of a cow lying behind it, the blank eye sockets of its skull staring up at him. Had it died from drinking the foul water he'd just found?

Shivering, Clark increased his pace as much as he could, wanting to put some distance between himself and the unfortunate bovine. It was all too easy to imagine his own bones stretched out on the red sandstone plateau, bleached white by the relentless desert sun. He was trying to remember anything he could about survival tactics but it was a subject to which he'd never given much thought for obvious reasons. A serious oversight and one which he would rectify if he ever got the chance. Now however, he was wondering if eating the leaves of the green bushes up ahead would help sustain him until he could find water. Water! Clark ran and threw himself down at the edge of the pool, praying the water would be clear and uncontaminated. And it was, or at least, it appeared to be, small and clear enough that he could see the sandy bottom and some pebbles on the far side and a ring of healthy green vegetation grew along its edge.

Well, it looks clean and it'll have to do. Clark brought one heavenly handful to his cracked and dusty lips and sipped. Mmm…wonderful! He took another sip then plunged his whole head into it, drinking deeply. Coming up for air, he shook his head sending water droplets flying everywhere, letting out a very satisfied sigh at this welcome improvement in his personal fortunes and more thankful than he'd been for anything in a long time. By now it was midmorning, the sun not yet high. If he could drink enough and regain some of his strength perhaps he could find his way to a highway or if not, a cave or even a rocky outcropping, something which would provide shelter for a while. Surely, his parents would start searching if he didn't return before long.

Wishing he had something in which to carry water, he dug into his pants pocket to take stock of his assets and while he didn't have much, not having intended to go any farther than the barnyard after feeding the chickens this morning, he nonetheless found a few useful items. One partial roll of duct tape, crushed but always useful in a crisis if you subscribed to the MacGyver method of problem solving which both Jonathan and Clark always had, two gallon Ziploc baggies he'd gotten at his mother's request but forgotten to give to her and which might very well turn out to be a lifesaver now, a large bandana, his wallet and some pocket change. Not a huge inventory but he could work with it. He went about reinforcing the baggies with the duct tape so he could fill them from the pool before he left. Clark took another drink and got to his knees, scooting over onto a flat rock next to the pool.

Too late, he heard the dry hissing rattle. A sharp stinging pain in his left calf made him gasp and he fell down next to the pond watching a large rattlesnake slither away under the rocks a few feet away. Damn! It hurt already; he ran his fingers over the two small tears in his pant leg, wincing in pain. Not good, Clark; not good at all. He needed ice and a tourniquet and a knife to cut open his flesh at the site of the bite so he could suck out the poison before it reached his heart and killed him. Or was this a neural toxin which would work its way through his body, eventually paralyzing his autonomic nervous system and causing him to suffocate? Maybe he would just suffer something akin to a stroke before he finally succumbed. Poisonous snakes. Another oversight, another thing to which he'd paid virtually no attention because it never seemed particularly relevant, him being an invulnerable teenager from another planet and all. And now he regretted it. It was, after all, important to know the manner of your death as you waited for your life to slip away. On the third planet from the star, Sol, you will be a god among men. He could still see the words as they'd first appeared inside his little ship. Well, Kal-El of Krypton would likely die here, alone in this desolate place, felled by a lowly reptile from his adopted world and as far away from godlike as he could be. The sheer irony of it made him laugh out loud in spite of the growing agony in his leg.

At least he could use the red bandana to make a tourniquet and slow the poison's spread. Maybe they'd find him before it was too late. He ripped the leg of his jeans up to the knee and took a good look at the bite. It was red and angry looking, swelling already; he tied the bandana around his leg and made a loop for a stick with which he could keep it cinched tight, periodically loosening it to allow some circulation and so delaying the onset of the gangrene which would eventually occur without medical intervention. Maybe I'm just prolonging the inevitable and only making sure I have a truly agonizing death. Clark was beginning to feel strange and lightheaded. The poison's spreading already. Leaning over the pool again, he took several big gulps then stood, tentatively placing his weight on the injured leg, taking a couple of steps before he had to sit back down again; walking out was simply no longer an option.

Clark held the tourniquet tight for about fifteen minutes then released it; he could measure out the remainder of his life by the number of times he tightened and loosened the constricting band below his knee. Every release meant he got to keep his leg a little longer and every tightening meant staving off whatever horrible fate the snake venom would eventually bring. Perhaps he could fine tune it and so bring his life to its conclusion at a moment of his own choosing. He thought of the bones lying on the sand not far behind him and wondered if someone would someday discover his bones stretched out on the sand next to this small waterhole on the third planet from the star Sol, bleached white just like the hapless cow by the blazing sun overhead.

Another buzzard circled overhead. Probably looking for an easy meal. Saddened by thought of his parents never knowing what had happened to him, he closed his eyes, imagining their faces smiling at him across the dinner table. His mom sat a huge platter of muffins and biscuits down in front of him and his dad asked him to pass the mashed potatoes. It was Sunday dinner and as always in the Kent house, it was a meal fit for a king. Or a god, he mused. The flapping of wings close by roused him from his reverie and he came to, shaking and dizzy. How long had he been out? He'd lost consciousness without tightening the tourniquet, the poison spreading through his body unchecked now for a while. For how long he couldn't say since his watch had been broken when he fell back in Colorado but he could feel its effects. Perhaps it was just as well that it would happen more quickly now. He had fallen from the heavens, after all; maybe it was time he returned there.

Another wave of dizziness hit him and he crawled into the shade beneath row of boulders next to the pond. Closing his eyes, he thought of the people he cared about; he was grateful for them all. He wished he could have been a better son and friend. For some reason, he thought of Chloe, wondering what she'd do when he didn't return. Clark smiled, thinking of her dogged pursuit of some things; it may have made him angry at times but it was one of the things he loved about her. She'd probably never give up searching for him; he hoped she'd pursue her dream of working for the Planet with the same determination because she'd have to carry on without him now. The thought of never again seeing her bright smile and bouncing enthusiasm brought a wave of melancholy as he slipped into unconsciousness.

Jonathan Kent stood at the window, staring out at the X-Styles van parked on the road out front. Perry White was waving at him as he leaned against a fencepost next to the Kent's driveway. Swearing under his breath, Jonathan began to pace again, worrying and watching and wondering when Clark would call.

"Those floor boards have been there for a long time, Jonathan. It would be a shame if you wore them out now."

Looking down at his wife he stopped pacing as she came up and wrapped her arms around him. He sighed as she laid her head down on his chest. "Why hasn't he called, Martha? It's been hours since he ran off."

"I don't know. Maybe he can't find a phone or…" she threatened to dissolve into tears. "How far do you think he went? "What if he's…he's so far away he's lost and his powers are gone again and…oh, Jonathan! What are we going to do?"

"It'll be okay, Martha; it'll be okay. Clark can take care of himself. If we don't hear from him soon I'll…I'll make some phone calls… I just wish that idiot would leave us alone! I told him to stay off our property but he keeps coming into the barn every time I try to get some work done. It was all I could do not to-"

"Jonathan! We'll only make things worse if we antagonize him any further. Maybe he'll just get tired and go away."

"He's like a bloodhound and after he saw Clark run off like that…I just don't know if we can ever persuade him he was imagining things."

"Oh, no…he's walking up the drive again."

"I'll go talk to him; you stay and…maybe Clark will call."

"Jonathan. Let me go talk to him. You'll just get angry and make things worse. You stay." Martha grabbed her jacket and walked outside. She stood on the porch and waited, a stern expression on her face as Perry White approached the steps.

"Well, Mrs. Kent, have you heard from your speed demon son?"

"Mr. White. I don't know what you think you saw but there is nothing unusual about my son except that he tried to help you. Now why don't you leave."

"I saw your son run across that field so fast he became invisible; now that's definitely not normal unless-" Perry hiccoughed suddenly and swayed a little, finally grabbing onto the fence to steady himself. Blearily, he added, "Now why don't you just tell me how he got all these abilities. Was it the meteors? We'll make him famous! We'll-" Perry hiccoughed again and started up the steps, leaning heavily on the railing.

"Clark ran across the field and disappeared into the trees. He didn't become invisible. You just couldn't see straight because you were so drunk!"

"Mrs. Kent…I was quite sober," he hiccoughed again, "I assure you, when I saw him perform his amazing disappearing act. Now…" he took another step.

"Stop right there. We have nothing to say to you; you can just turn around and leave."

"Now, Mrs. Kent…may I call you Martha?"

"No. You may not. Now get off our property right now!"

"Mr. Kent!" he yelled out, "can I talk to you…"

"I said get out of here!" Martha picked up the broom next to the door and started down the steps to meet him and Perry White reversed course, deciding perhaps a hasty retreat was in order judging by the look in this woman's eye.

"I'm just looking for the truth and if you won't talk to me-"

"You don't care about the truth! The truth is that my son would help anyone who needed it, including you when you ran your car into a telephone pole because you were drunk and you are nothing more than an ungrateful, wretched excuse for a man who doesn't care about anybody. You don't care if you hurt anyone with your stupid stories!" She took a swing, just missing Perry's head when he lurched to the right at the bottom of the stairs.

"Hey!" he shouted, ducking again when she took another swing. This time she grazed the back of his head then smacked him firmly on the butt before he could stagger out of range.

The door flew open behind her and Jonathan yelled, "Martha!" as he ran onto the porch.

"Get out and if I if you put one foot on our property again I'll call the sheriff! I'll have you all locked up for trespassing! "I'll-"

"There's something called freedom of the press! And I can have you charged with assault!"

"You haven't seen assault!" Martha threw down her broom and grabbed a cast iron frying pan that sat on a small potting bench at the foot of the stairs as she rushed forward. "I'll show you assault, you son of a-"

"Martha Kent!" Jonathan grabbed her wrist from behind and saved Perry White from a certain concussion. Martha was still struggling to let fly with her skillet. "I think you'd better get out of here before I decide to let her go." Perry fled down the driveway to the safety of the X-Styles van where he could be seen pulling out his whiskey flask and taking a deep drink. After a moment, when Martha seemed sufficiently calm, Jonathan released her. "I thought we weren't supposed to antagonize them?" he said softly into her ear.

She breathed heavily then let out a long slow sigh. "I'm sorry, Jonathan. I was just so- That man is infuriating! If I ever get my hands on him…"

"Why don't we go back inside. I can call Sheriff Adams."

Martha stomped up the steps ahead of her husband. "No…just…wait. It's better not to get the sheriff involved unless we have to…maybe Clark will be back soon." She was still muttering dire threats when Jonathan, smirking slightly as he guided her into the house, shut the door behind him.

Clark was shaking violently now; maybe it was almost over. As the shaking got worse he heard someone speaking and opened his eyes. An old man was looking him in the eye and shaking his shoulders.

"Come on, buddy; wake up!" he shouted into Clark's ear, this time smacking his cheek a couple of times. "You gotta come to! Sit up! It'll keep the poison from getting' to ya so fast."

Grunting, Clark shook his head and said, "Okay! Okay!" He sat up half way then fell back on the sand when his head began to spin. "Whoooo…"

"Here, let me help." The man grabbed his arm and helped him sit, propping him up against one of the larger rocks. "Now sit still," he handed Clark a stick and pulled out a large pocket knife, "and bite on this while I cut. I need to suck some of the poison out."

"Okay." Holding the stick in his mouth, he bit down hard, groaning as his rescuer made the cuts into the painfully swollen flesh and tried to suction out the venom. The man spit several times then examined the wounds, shaking his head.

"What?"

"Man…how long you been out here?"

"I don't know; I lost track; it's been a while."

"Well, it looks like the poison's spreading; you need to get to a hospital and get some of that anti-venom stuff."

Clark started to protest, the automatic response so ingrained it threatened to come tumbling out despite his clearly grave condition. For a moment, he held his breath, blowing it out before agreeing. "Okay." He knew he'd die if he didn't go; in fact, he suspected he'd probably die if he did; something told him it had been too long for anything to be of help. But at least he wouldn't have to die alone. "How?" he asked, finding he couldn't quite focus.

"My truck's right there," he pointed behind him. He held out his hand and Clark grabbed onto it, hobbling on his one good foot and leaning on his new found friend. "Come on; that's it. I'll get you inside in just a minute." True to his word, he had Clark inside the cab shortly and they set off across the desert.

Clark slumped back against the worn seat cushions, caring very little now that he'd decided death was near.

"You just try to relax, son; I'll git you to the hospital and they'll fix you up. Just hang in there." The old truck bounced as the man tried to go faster.

"Thanks Mister…sorry…didn't catch you name."

"Cole, Eddie Cole."

The name sounded vaguely familiar but Clark simply didn't have the energy to wonder. "I'm Clark. Listen, Mr. Cole-"

"Just call me Eddie." Leaning forward, Eddie swore under his breath as he fiddled with the radio dial, trying to bring in something other than static. "Durn it," he said more loudly, banging his hand on the dashboard. "Daagone thing was fine just before I pulled over and now I can't git anything." The old man looked up, suddenly apologetic. "Sorry."

"Eddie." Clark tugged weakly on his shirt sleeve. "Listen, Eddie; I'd appreciate it you could get in touch with my mom and dad and tell them…tell them I love them and I'm sorry I couldn't make it back. I want them to know what happened."

"Whoa now, son! You're gonna be fine once I git you to the hospital! It ain't that far! Don't go talkin' like that!"

Clark could see the man's eyes didn't match what he was saying. "How far is it, Eddie?"

Eddie hesitated and Clark could see he suspected the truth. "Maybe…maybe an hour…maybe less. Don't you worry!"

"Eddie…I appreciate what you're trying to do but it's okay. I'm starting to feel numb and I don't think I have much time. Just listen. My parents are back in Kansas and I just want you to call them-"

"Kansas!"

Oddly, Clark thought he heard a note of panic in Eddie's voice. "Eddie…something wrong?"

"No! No!"

"My parents are in Smallville-"

"Smallville! Ah…shit, man! Man! Not…there…" Eddie ran one hand through his hair, obviously upset.

Clark sat up as best he could and tired to focus on Eddie. "Are you from Smallville Eddie? Your name sounded familiar; what's wrong? Why are you afraid?" Eddie stopped the truck suddenly and muttered something before starting off again. "Clark leaned toward him, shaking. "Eddie, if you're gonna tell me what's wrong you'd better be quick."

A tear rolled down Eddie's cheek as he stared back at Clark. "I'm awful; you're…might be dyin' and I'm the one that's afraid."

"Eddie!" he whispered, clutching at his sleeve again, "Faster. Not much time." He leaned back, his breathing getting shallow.

"I was…I was flyin' my crop duster back in '89 when the meteors hit. And I saw a…a…a ship come down with 'em; it nearly hit me! I talked about it and the FAA jerked my license."

Clark reached over, placing one trembling hand on Eddie's arm, his palm ice cold despite the desert heat. "I'm sorry Eddie. I'd change it if I could."

Eddie gave Clark an odd look before he continued. "A couple years ago, I told my story to someone for some cash and then I saw some strangers wearing suits in town and I found this letter shoved under my front door tellin' me not to say anything else about it to anyone and that I'd better leave town and never some back if I knew what was good for me so I left and came way out here to the middle of nowhere. I didn't ever want to go back there."

Clark sat up, trying to ease his tortured breathing. "Eddie…stop the truck…I need to get out."

"But…we can try to get to the hospital-"

Smiling weakly, he shook his head. "No Eddie. We both know I'll never make it. Now stop and let me out. I just wanna sit outside in the sun for a while."

Eddie slowed down, pulling off the road near a field of yuccas, some still flowering. He helped Clark out of the truck and eased him down against a large boulder, covering him again with a blanket. "We could still-"

Clark smiled, patting his hand. "No, it's okay, Eddie. Just talk to me. I don't think you'll have long to wait. And thanks for helping me out."

"Well…I never was much good at conversation. Uh…was you there when the meteors hit?"

That brought another wan smile to his face. "I'd just arrived."

"You're pretty young, ain'tcha? High school, maybe?"

"Junior."

After a few minutes of silence, Eddie asked, "Do you believe there's aliens, Clark?"

"Yeah, Eddie, I do."

"You believe me? That I saw a ship that day?

Clark wheezed and coughed before he could answer. "I believe you, Eddie. I'm sure you saw something."

"Whaddaya think they look like, Clark? Do ya think they're little and gray with those big black eyes like the ones people say crashed at Roswell? Or do they look like us?"

"I don't know about Roswell but who knows, Eddie; maybe some of them could look just like you. Maybe you've met one and you never even knew it." Clark laughed but it turned into a coughing fit; he was growing markedly weaker, his eyesight beginning to dim. Soon now; time to follow the rest of my species into extinction.

"So…you been hearin' 'bout them solar flares? They said a comet hit the sun and caused the biggest flares ever. 'Causin' all kinds of communication problems. My radio's been on the fritz; sometimes it's just fine and sometimes nothing but static. Weird, huh?"

"Yeah," he said softly. Now he might never know if the sun was really the source of his power; something about the static niggled at him in the back of his mind but his brain just wasn't up to figuring out any more mysteries. Now Chloe will have to solve the mysteries without me. "Eddie…my mom and dad…" A bright ray of sunlight touched him, warming him slightly. The sun has always made me feel better; maybe that was really it. Too bad I'm in the powers glitching faze now. But it's okay...I'm ready…Will my parents be waiting for me? Clark took one last breath and closed his eyes, waiting; feeling Eddie's hand tighten around his own, he was glad for this last bit of human contact, grateful for the comfort it provided.

"Clark…oh…Clark…" Eddie's voice already seemed far away but the light seemed brighter, shining all around him...

And suddenly he sat up, eyes wide, enveloped by light and warmth, his body instantly energized. He could feel the toxin dissipating and in a few moments it was gone as his newly recharged alien metabolism worked its magic. His leg, so swollen just moments ago shrank back to its normal size, the fang marks as well as the incisions over them healing rapidly. Clark's skin color quickly returned from a ghastly ashen gray to its normal golden hue.

Much to Eddie's surprise, Clark leapt to his feet laughing, looking down at Eddie's astonished face.

"Clark? What's happening? I thought you was-"

"It's okay, Eddie! I'm okay! You must have gotten most if it out and…what little was left just made me really sick for a while." Clark patted his chest with both hands. "All better."

Eddie stood up and patted Clark on the shoulder. "Are you sure? I never heard of anyone getting' better on their own after bein' snakbit like that. You was awful sick… Maybe you should come to the hospital to git checked over…so's ya won't uh…relapse."

Clark stared into the gentle puzzled face of his benefactor and smiled like a kid on Christmas morning. "Eddie, I can't explain it either but I'm okay now. Thanks for helping me and being willing to stay with me when I was-when I thought I was dying." Clark's face grew more serious. "And I really am sorry you lost your license because you mentioned the ship; would you like me to talk to someone about it?"

"Clark…it wasn't yer fault. Don't…you'd best not mention nothin''bout me to anybody. I don't know who wanted me outta the way but I'm okay here; I don't even have a phone and I just live out in the desert away from everyone and do odd jobs fer people and nobody hardly knows me."

"But…don't you miss flying?" he asked.

"Yeah, I do but…just…it's best this way." Eddie clapped Clark on the back. "But thanks, Clark."

"Eddie…okay. Now…how far's the nearest town?"

"Well, it's about fifteen or twenty minutes thataway. Come on, I'll give ya a lift."

"So, where do you live, Eddie?"

"I got me a trailer out that way; down that little road there, as a matter of fact. Not much but it's home and it's private. Say, maybe you should come and sit awhile before you head off; I still think you oughta let one of the docs at the hospital look you over."

Actually, Clark had been thinking perhaps it was Eddie who needed checking up on. He felt responsible for his situation and this was his chance to help him in return for his willingness to play Good Samaritan. "Okay, Eddie; just for a little while. I could use another drink." Eddie turned onto the dusty path and eventually they pulled up in front of a small trailer nestled in the side of a hill. A low tree hung over a sun porch that had been built onto the side of it and a few yards away behind the hill Clark saw the top of a windmill.

"Welp…here it is. This is where I hang my hat."

"You are pretty far out, aren't you?'

"I know it's small but I was able to pay cash fer it and park it out here where nobody knows me. The people that own this land let me do odd jobs in exchange fer puttin' the trailer here so's there's no mention of me in the county records."

They went inside and Eddie poured out a glass of ice water. "Here ya go, Clark."

"Thanks. How do you manage electricity and water?"

"Windmill generates electricity and I've got me a couple of them solar panels; I even have some batteries I can use to store power. Water's a bit trickier. I have a well but it's gone dry I guess. Never was much water there anyway. Been bringin' water from town fer a while now. I thought about going down in there to see if I could fix it and I even got some pipe but…I decided I probably oughtn't get down in there by myself. Probably nothin' I can do anyway."

"Let me take a look. I've worked on our well at home."

"Well…you're supposed to be restin'…"

"I'll rest later; it probably won't take long. Come on, Eddie; let's take a look."

Clark set the cover aside and peered down into the well. It was bone dry; apparently no water had made its way into the well for some time. The well itself was largely intact but an x-ray revealed the pipes that went down into the earth below it were rusted and broken; they would never carry water again. Clark sent Eddie to fetch tools from the shed near the windmill and quickly carried the new pipes over to the well head in one trip while Eddie wasn't there to observe. When Eddie returned with the tools, he found Clark's shirt and jacket lying on the sand and Clark already inside.

"You down there already, Clark?"

"Yeah…Eddie," he replied, his voice sounding hollow from inside the empty well, "you need new pipe here. Is this all the pipe you have?"

"Yep, this is it. I been getting' a little at a time but I stopped when I decided I probably couldn't fix it myself. You think I need more?"

"Sorry, Eddie but yeah…about twenty, thirty feet more, I'd guess. Could you head into town and pick up some more?"

"Well, I could but…I don't know if I should leave you alone down there. What if something happens? What if you get sick again?"

"I'll be fine, Eddie. What could happen? It's a dry well. Just hurry and I'll put in what you have. Get going and I'll be almost finished by the time you get back. Okay?"

Eddie looked down at Clark again and frowned. "Well…"

"Eddie. Just go. If it makes you feel better, put that rope down here so I can climb up if I have to. Now go."

Eddie dropped a coil of rope over the edge and reluctantly agreed. "Okay but you be careful, you hear me?"

"Yes, I promise; now go."

Once Clark heard the old truck start up and head off down the dusty road and he was certain Eddie had really gone as instructed, he got down to the business at hand. The old well needed a lot more than pipe; the channel through which the pipe went was caved in several feet below the bottom of the well where it passed through an uplift of bedrock. Some serious and expensive drilling would be needed to bore out that section for the pipe to pass through it again. Unless, of course, Clark Kent was on hand to help. Drilling through bedrock down below the surface without the proper tools would surely be no problem for Clark Kent, alien plumber extraordinaire.

First, he pulled out the old pipe then knelt down on the floor of the well and rammed his own arm into the earth all the way to his shoulder. He widened the hole as he pulled back so that he could get down inside and use his arm as a drill again. Once again he rammed his arm into the ground, driving it in a couple of feet before he realized he couldn't stop. Suddenly, his entire body was plunging down into the earth, through dirt and rock until he had forged an entirely new channel to the water. Clark came to a sudden halt and water began to seep in around his outstretched fist. After a moment of panic during which he thought his powers were gone again and he might well suffocate or drown, he realized he still possessed them, they just weren't in overdrive anymore. Pushing against the earth and rock, he worked his way backward until he emerged into the well again, feet first.

Water began to trickle into the well as soon as he was out and he quickly pushed the pipe down the hole he'd created, welding lengths together with his heat vision and melting some of the sand and rock around the pipe to hold it securely in place. He then tamped more dirt and sand around it, melted more sand around the pipe where if entered the floor of the well and finally, fitted the stones that lined the bottom of the well back into place. Then he used his heat vision to seal the interior of the well itself, hoping to keep it both cleaner and less prone to leakage. Now a couple of lengths of pipe was all he'd need to run water from the well over to Eddie's trailer.

Clark leaped for the rim of the well and fell back into the water. Great. Now his powers were gone and the deep well deep was rapidly filling with water. He grabbed for the rope, catching it on the second try and held on, treading water until he neared the top and managed to pull himself out. He lay on the sand next to the well for a while, warming himself in the sun and dozing until he heard Eddie return a short time later.

"The ground's wet…"

"Yeah, there was a broken pipe. I think it'll be okay now."

"Wow…I sure didn't mean fer you to do it all yourself, Clark." Eddie stared down at Clark who still lay on his back with his eyes closed. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." Clark looked up at Eddie for a moment and finally stood, realizing he was very much okay; he was suddenly back to Clark normal once again. Smiling, he asked, "Did you find any pipe? I can use it to run water into your trailer."

"Yeah, I…got a couple of lengths but you've really done enough already."

"That's okay, Eddie. This won't take long; then I'll be going. I really need to head home."

"I'll get you into town. Least I can do."

Once they arrived in the town, which really only amounted to a wide spot in the narrow desert highway, Clark insisted on buying Eddie a meal and putting gas in his truck at the small post office/restaurant/gas station even thought it put a dent in his meager funds. Eddie looked like he could use a meal despite his protests. Then Clark made his goodbyes, promising to visit again sometime. Eddie reluctantly drove off after Clark assured him he could hitch a ride with someone; Clark could see him looking back at him in his rear view mirror, obviously puzzled by their odd encounter. Clark was already thinking he might not mention his brush with death in the Utah desert; his parents had enough to worry about.

Once Eddie was out of sight, Clark walked through the two block stretch that marked the thriving metropolis of Willing, Utah then took off running toward home. He was barely five miles away when he saw a little girl ride her bicycle directly into the path of a speeding cattle truck. Before the driver could even slam on the brakes, Clark snatched up the girl and her bicycle, made an end run around the truck and safely deposited her back on the yard of her family's home. The truck driver jumped down from his truck, rushing toward the little girl who'd ridden out in front of him a moment ago only to vanish abruptly before his startled eyes. But Clark was long gone.

Looking back over his shoulder, he smiled at the truck driver's puzzled look just as he stepped in a shallow ditch; whirling to keep his balance, he turned full circle, creating a miniature funnel cloud as he began to twirl even faster. For several minutes Clark turned in a circle so fast he would have been the envy of any Olympic skater. Eventually, he managed to escape the mini-tornado he'd created, leaving it to dissipate at the far edge of town but now he was heading west again, unable to control his powers or slow his frantic pace no matter how much he wanted to.

In no time, Clark left the desert behind as he passed through a forested area in the middle of the state, briefly paralleling I 70 until he took off on an unpaved back road west of I 15. Then he sped up and over the Mineral Mountains, this time, thankfully, without taking flight when he reached the summit then down the other side, skimming another stretch of desert before passing over the foothills of the Cricket Mountains and past the southern end of an ancient dry lake bed near Sevier. From there he raced onward, crossing over another low range of mountains then out across nothing but desert. He left even the unpaved road for a brief time, frightening a herd of sheep in passing before he stumbled, literally, out onto US 50 once again; he followed it and in a short while left Utah far behind as he crossed over the border into Nevada, running like the wind.

The hot sun beat down mercilessly as high noon approached and Clark felt his speed increasing. Surprisingly, although Nevada is known as desert country, there are actually several forested areas in various parts of the state. US 50 led him through parts of the Humboldt National Forest and over another low range of mountains. He shuddered when he saw they were called the Snake Range. At Ely, Clark changed direction slightly, heading south on US 6 which led him across western Nevada through various mountain ranges and valleys and into parts of the Toiyabe National Forest. Eventually he detoured as he neared Warm Springs so he could take a gander at Nellis Air Base and the fabled Area 51 near Groom Lake. He came so close he set off perimeter alarms along the northern edge of the base; he couldn't help smirking at the puzzled faces of the airmen inside who scrambled into their Humvees and headed out to see what in the heck was making the enormous sand geyser just outside the main gate. But there seemed to be nothing much happening there as he passed by, the only evidence of alien activity being Clark himself. So he angled away, heading back in a slight northerly direction once more as he closed in on the California border.

When he found himself again in an area of isolated desert, it occurred to him he might try to expend some of this excess energy by using his heat vision as an outlet; he spotted a pile of tumbleweeds that had fetched up against some boulders and obliterated them with one powerful blast. A hedge of creosote bushes growing in a shallow depression caught his eye and he mowed them down with several quick bursts as he passed by. Next, he fried a few dead tree branches then in desperation began aiming at boulders. Several exploded when he overheated them and he aimed for some that were larger, figuring they'd absorb more heat but that was a disaster; try though he might, he couldn't dial down the heat vision to anything less than nova-blast and the larger boulders exploded with frightening destructive force, the fragments turning into molten rock and shooting upward as if a volcano had erupted in the middle of the desert. That would certainly make the geologists scratch their heads Clark was able to slow down a little after that but it didn't last for long and Clark sped up again, running even faster as he traversed the last of the Nevada desert.

Clark raced through enormous tracts of desert at speeds exceeding his previous personal best; it was especially impressive considering he could sustain it for such long periods of time. Except for the time he'd raced to catch the doctor for Ryan, he'd never attempted a long range trek at such high speeds. But with only one more state to go before he plunged into the Pacific Ocean, Clark had to do something. The wheels were turning and the more he thought about it, the better it sounded. He would definitely head for Yosemite. Clark Kent had a plan.

He crossed into California, angling a little north, passing through the Inyo National forest on his way to Yosemite. All the camps he passed were full; even the lodge at Yosemite village seemed packed as he raced by. Now he was immediately west of the village and his target was coming up fast; he could see it in the distance: the giant granite face of El Capitan towering majestically over the surrounding countryside. Clark headed straight for it. Right before impact, he winced, hoping he didn't damage it very badly; he'd hate to destroy such an impressive national treasure but he thought it was his best shot at stopping his headlong rush to the sea. The great monolith trembled when he smashed into it at full speed, badly scaring some climbers who'd just reached the top. Slowly, Clark pried himself out of the cliff face and fell backward, covered with dust and debris. He lay on the ground staring up at the deep Clark shaped depression he'd made. A new crack split the rockface above it, arrowing upward toward the pinnacle. It occurred to him that his mom and dad, both of whom belonged to the Sierra Club, might not be so happy to hear he'd cracked El Capitan so maybe this was another thing he shouldn't mention when he got back.

He laid there for a few minutes, catching his breath and trying to decide what he should do next. Perhaps he should call his parents from the village and ask them. Sighing, he got up and headed back toward Yosemite Lodge. He was carefully keeping his gait at no more than a brisk walking pace so it took him a little bit to reach the lodge. A family with three young children was hiking up ahead, the kids laughing and running off the trail as their parents frantically tried to corral them when something in the underbrush caught Clark's eye. A large mountain lion sat like a statue, its tail twitching in anticipation, poised to leap as the smallest of the children came close to its hiding place. Well, there was no help for it so Clark burst into action, getting between the little girl and the big cat which he grabbed in mid leap. He deposited the big cat ten miles away from the hikers, up on a mountainside hoping they hadn't seen anything to alert them to his own presence. The journey had not been without a struggle, however, the cat having fought like the dangerous predator she was, snarling and biting as he carried her along. She growled, taking one last swipe with her deadly claws as he let her go and bounded off into the woods. Looking down at his badly shredded t-shirt, he suddenly realized, he'd lost his flannel shirt and jacket somewhere along the way. Still, he breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn't gone into overdrive with that little burst of speed and thought, hopefully that whatever was really causing this, the solar flares or something else…maybe the worst was over.

Clark had backtracked somewhat to deposit the mountain lion away from the immediate vicinity of Yosemite village, ending up just east of the lodge itself. At a clip most people would find demanding but which made Clark Kent feel almost like he was standing still, he headed west as he made his way back to the village again. It was now just after lunch and Clark wouldn't mind a bite to eat. He was just wondering if he could get something at the lodge as well as find a phone without attracting too much attention though he did look pretty bad at the moment and he would certainly have trouble explaining his thoroughly disreputable appearance. A heavy cloud cover had moved in overhead and a lot of people were heading back to the lodge in anticipation of foul weather so more people to avoid added to his dilemma. Perhaps, if he timed it just right, he could run in through the back door, grab a sandwich and drop some money on the counter. Given his limited choices, it would have to do.

Sneaking close to the back door, he x-rayed the interior while he listened to people talking over the sounds of running water and the banging of pots and pans in the kitchen, the mouth watering aromas emanating from inside clinching his decision. He hunkered down in some bushes by the loading dock until the moment was right; inside, the food prep area was almost empty and a platter full of sandwiches sat waiting to be served out front. A man was just closing the doors on his truck and a member of the kitchen staff judging by his chef's garb, came out, handing him some papers and waving as he climbed up into the cab. Clark waited, poised to make his move. If he'd had a tail, it would have twitched just like the mountain lion's.

The cook reached up to close the large garage like dock door and Clark sprang into action. The man felt only a breeze as Clark moved faster than the eye could see past the dock area, through the long kitchen with its stainless steel tables piled high with food. He snatched a huge sub sandwich loaded with ham, salami, turkey, bacon, three kinds of cheese and garnished with lettuce, tomato, onion, olives, pickle and jalapenos and slathered with mayo and mustard, grabbed a bag of chips, pocketed a can of pop and dropped a twenty dollar bill on the counter. For the rest of his life, Reginald, the assistant cook on duty, would always claim he'd seen a tall dark haired man with striking luminous green eyes and the rattiest clothes ever, appear out of thin air, grab a sub sandwich and leave a twenty in its place before disappearing back into the ether from which he came. Fortunately for Clark no one ever really listened to Reginald since he was known to believe that aliens were among us, talked constantly about where Warrior Angel actually came from and always watched those Roswell specials with Bryant Gumbel like they were gospel.

Slowing once he was away from the lodge, Clark found a high ridge overlooking Yosemite village. Flopping down on a boulder left over from some ancient volcanic eruption he ate his sandwich and chips, sighing when he'd finished. This was truly beautiful country but he had to get home. He'd seen a phone near a side door at the lodge and he decided to call home; his parents were probably worried sick by now. Clark jogged back to the lodge and waited, lurking in the bushes as he surveyed the area, making sure it was clear before he snuck inside to call home. He could hear the crackling of static on a radio in the nearby kitchen as a newscaster reported a fresh round of solar flares heading toward earth and a man cursed as he banged on the radio attempting to improve reception without success.

After about fifteen minutes of waiting as a constant stream of people left the building by the one door he needed to use, he finally made his move, slipping inside before the door slammed shut just after an elderly couple walked out. Clark held the receiver in one hand, his other poised to dial just as Reginald the cook rounded the corner and stopped dead when he spotted the phantom sandwich thief right in front of him. A look of abject terror on his face, Clark held up one hand in supplication, praying the guy wouldn't say anything but the flustered cook started yelling for his fellow workers to come quick, his chance for vindication at hand.

Employees and lodge patrons alike came running, Reginald leaped at his nemesis and Clark bolted. He had evaporated in front of the startled cook like morning mist, was out the door and across the park in seconds. As he passed close to the spot where he'd seen the mountain lion he saw his jacket and shirt hanging on a small sapling where he'd evidently lost it when he rushed to save the little girl. Clark snatched it as he flew by, groaning at his luck; the universe was apparently conspiring to send him west because once again, he couldn't stop. On he went, faster and faster, heading west on the narrow state highway that led out of Yosemite.

A light rain began to fall as Clark sprinted westward. Groves of giant sequoias grew near the road and he marveled at the ancient trees, many of them growing here long before his ancestors had come to Earth and encountered the early Kawatches. He wondered if anything like these trees had grown on his native planet. Had his people ever seen and admired them as they explored what to them must have seemed like a backwater planet far from their own advanced galactic civilization? Why had they come here to begin with? Had they stumbled upon Earth by accident and returned merely to study the primitives they found here? Or was there a deeper, darker purpose, his people or just his family looking for a place to colonize? Did they know the end was coming but found it impossible to save themselves? Or was it some sudden cataclysm, overtaking them with little warning, his own survival a last minute miracle from his father's hand? Okay, now you're getting really maudlin.

Clark tried to wrest his mind away from such melancholy and pay more attention to the situation at hand; in only a short time had left the immediate vicinity of Yosemite and the Stanislaus National Forest to the west. There he left the highway, zigzagging cross country, leaping over streams and ponds and the narrow viaducts that carried water from the high mountains to the communities that lay to the west along their western flanks. He managed to skirt anything larger as he crashed through the wilderness on his way to the sea and was very shortly reaching lower elevations where the heavily forested Sierras gave way to sparse woods and grassland.

The landscape here was much more uneven and it would be too easy to lose his footing if he wasn't careful. No sooner had that thought popped into his head than he tripped over a dead tree and fell, rolling pell-mell down the mountain face where he eventually came to rest in a small grove of giant Sequoias and promptly passed out when his head slammed into the base of one very large specimen.

Sometime later, a fine cool mist fell, helping his return to consciousness. Clark groaned out loud when he opened his eyes; judging by the excruciating pounding of his head and the double vision, he guessed he had a serious concussion from his head first encounter with the tree and a broken arm. No x-ray vision needed to determine that since two bones were poking out through the skin of his left arm just below the elbow; he'd apparently broken both the ulna and radius. Just great. Trying to sit up against the bole of one of the great trees brought a fresh wave of agony and he added several broken ribs to his assessment and, guessing by the dark and very tender swelling there, easily visible through the remains of his t-shirt, possible internal bleeding.

Trying to get his breath, he sat for a few minutes, waiting for the pain to subside a little. Carefully, he reached for a couple of sticks to use as a splint for his shattered arm. A fresh wave of agony washed over him after that and Clark had to rest for awhile before ripping strips of cloth from his t-shirt with which to secure the splint; the fact that his shirt was fairly well shredded anyway after his encounter with the mountain lion made it easier. Then he tore some wider strips and used them to strap his ribs; they still hurt like hell. Clearly, Clark had somehow offended some deity; that much was certain. Perhaps it was some delayed punishment for his summer spent robbing banks in Metropolis and hobnobbing with Morgan Edge and his underworld cronies. He lay back against the tree trunk and promptly lost consciousness.

Sometime later he came to, lying on the ground, face down in the loamy soil at the base of the great tree. Light rain continued to fall and moisture dripped from the high branches of the Sequoias; there was fog here even though it was still just after noon, or had been when he fell. Except for the occasional ray of sunlight which managed to break through the heavy forest canopy it was, for the most part, dark and damp and quiet. Clark slowly got to his feet, leaning against the tree for support and lurched off in the direction he thought was west, hoping to make it to the highway before he bled to death internally. After about fifteen minutes of absolute agony during which he thought he would collapse with every step, he heard a car in the distance. Trying to walk faster, he stumbled over a large tree root and tumbled to the ground, landing on his broken ribs. He moaned loudly and passed out again as a fresh wave of pain engulfed him.

"Ouch!" Chloe exclaimed, tumbling to the ground after tripping over a gnarled tree root that stuck out into the gully behind the Kent Farm. Picking herself up, she surveyed the damage which was limited to a few scrapes and a rip in her cargo pants; she was otherwise intact although a little dirty after her trek through the brush and weeds that filled the old creek bed so she started out again. Many times over the years she'd used it to sneak away on an investigation, especially before she got her driver's license but she still remembered the first time like it was yesterday.

It had been a serendipitous discovery on her first day in Smallville when she'd seen someone creeping around in the underbrush there as the movers unpacked the Sullivan household after the interminable three hour drive from Metropolis. As soon as she'd been able to slip away from her dad's watchful eye, she'd snuck down into it and followed it as far as she could before dinnertime. It had taken her quite a distance from Luthor Meadows and her new house, so far away from the big city in which she'd grown up.

Chloe had followed the dry creek bed for quite a ways that day, getting her bearings in this strange new environment and a look at the verdant countryside that surrounded the town of Smallville which she would now have to call home. She remembered hiding when she saw a girl riding a pony along the fence that ran along the creek on the far side, suddenly overcome with new girl shyness. Hurrying on, she'd seen a big yellow house on a sprawling farm where cows and horses wandered over the fields. A Gateway box on legs ambled past her hiding spot, stopping to moo through the fence at her before going on its way and she carefully backed off, uncertain if cows would bite. Various members of the herd wandered by, switching their tails and turning their baleful eyes on the city girl peeking through the fence as they carried out their mysterious bovine activities which, she'd quickly discovered included making a lot of methane.

She could hear the soft clucking of chickens somewhere across the field but that made her somewhat nervous, too since they were, after all, just dinosaurs in feathers, no doubt waiting for their next innocent victim. A large rooster strutted by the fence, stopping and staring for a moment before going on its way; had he gone back to alert the flock to her presence? From a nearby barn, she heard what sounded like someone chopping wood. When she climbed up to get a better look she could see a spotted cat that looked very much like the cows, lazing in the sun outside what she guessed was a kitchen door due to the two huge pies cooling in the window next to it. Before she could gather the courage to get closer, a woman's voice yelled, "Shoo! Shoo! Go on! Get out of here!" and she ducked down.

A door slammed and a couple of minutes later a family of raccoons went running past the fence, having been evicted from somewhere, Chloe assumed, judging by the shouting that has heralded their appearance. Wondering if perhaps preventative rabies shots might be in order here in the Kansas wilderness, she would get out her new laptop, a consolation prize from her dad for having to leave the comforts of civilization, and research the incidence of rabies in Smallville as soon as she got home.

While she was at it, Chloe decided she'd better see what else might be hiding out here in the sticks. She'd always had a secret fascination with all things extraterrestrial and she was well aware, as were most people in Kansas, of the devastation caused by the meteor shower that had hit Lowell County in 1989; she considered it odd that the meteor strike had been so localized. That had always piqued her interest and now that she was stuck here she might as well find out more about what happened on that sunny October afternoon.

Chloe remembered thinking, as she contemplated the bucolic scene before her, that there were probably still people in Smallville who didn't even have electricity; watching from the bushes, she thought the people who lived on this farm might well read by kerosene lamps and candles unless they went to bed at sundown and heated their home with nothing but the wood they chopped by hand. She envisioned an elderly farmer feeding his cows while his elderly, gray haired wife baked pies and canned vegetable and fruit for the lean times to come. They were probably Amish. There would be a huge hulking farmer's son with big hands and muscular arms and enormous bare feet sticking out from under worn coveralls that were much too short and he would be chopping mountains of wood in preparation for the coming winter. He'd be cute and a little shy and completely clueless about the world outside his small, isolated community. Well, Chloe had decided, suddenly emboldened, she would just have to show him. However, before she could embark on her humanitarian mission of enlightenment, the raccoon family came back, scuttling down the embankment into the gully, no doubt looking for hapless urban prey like herself and Chloe took off, running as fast as she could back toward the safety of Luthor Meadows, squealing and wondering if the people who made shark repellant had anything for raccoons or chickens.

That memory still brought a smile to her face even though she'd been almost completely wrong in her original assessment. Now the old creek bed had once again proven useful. It had been not quite an hour ago, just as Chloe had been about to make the turn from Hickory Lane into the Kent's driveway she'd had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting the X-Styles van that was backing up to block the Kent's driveway. Even worse, she'd almost hit Perry White as he stumbled out in front of her little red car, practically falling onto her hood. "Hey! Watch out! And move that truck!"

Paying no attention, Perry worked his way over to the driver's side window, leaning heavily onto the car all the way. "Good afternoon, Madame Editor!" He hiccoughed, underscoring his currently inebriated state.

"What are you and your X-Styles goons doing out here? Why don't you leave the Kents alone?"

"Did you come looking for Speedy Gonzales?"

Chloe leaned away, trying to escape the strong smell of alcohol clinging to Perry. Grimacing, she asked, "What are you talking about?"

Perry held onto the door for leverage and hung in her face. "Why, your star reporter, Clark Kent. Makes Mario Andretti look like he's standing still…"

"You're not making any sense."

"Your friend…or…whatever he is to you…I saw him run so fast he became invisible…"

Chloe's eyes narrowed. "You don't know what you're saying."

Perry got even closer; Chloe found the fumes overwhelming but she couldn't get any farther away and still remain in the driver's seat. "Mr. White. You are or were, obviously drunk."

"But…you already know it, don't you?" he continued, looking her in the eye up close. "And you're covering for him. More than friends are you?"

"Don't be ridiculous! Clark can't run any faster than I can. Now move-"

"You two lovers keeping this big secret between you…" he belched and Chloe turned her head. "The meteors affected him, didn't they? And you're protecting your true love; that's very sweet."

"Get out of my way!" She inched the car forward and Perry leaned over her again.

"I'll find out! You can't keep this under wraps forever! Our Mr. Clark is definitely special."

"That's right! He is! But only because he'd help someone like you in spite of the fact that you're harassing him and his family!"

"Now…Ms. Sullivan…I could cut you in on the deal of a lifetime if you'll tell me everything you know about Clark Kent! I-"

Scowling, Chloe grabbed her messenger bag and whacked him over the head with it. "Get out of my way!" Then she gunned the motor, whipped the little car around in a tight circle and shot away back in the direction from which she'd come. Perry leaped backward, staggering in an effort to keep his feet under him.

"Chloe…hi…come in…what's up? What happened to you?" Martha exclaimed when she realized her clothes were dirty and torn. Looking over her shoulder, she asked, "Where's your car?"

"I parked and walked down the old creek bed to get here to avoid any further encounters with the wackos blocking your driveway," she said as she breezed into the side door.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Oh, yeah; I'm fine."

Jonathan looked at her for a moment before adding, "I didn't realize anybody else knew that old creek bed was still there."

"Oh, I used to use that creek bed all the time to sneak away from the house when we first moved here." Sheepishly, she added, "Uh…I don't think my dad ever knew that…"

Jonathan laughed, "Well, I guess we can keep your secret."

"I've been trying to reach Clark all day but I haven't heard from him and I wanted to talk to him about something I heard on the news. There was a report in Colorado of a snow covered road suddenly clearing when the snow boiled off into steam and several reports out west of strange people materializing out of thin air and just…generally crazy stuff. I wondered if he'd seen anything. I'm thinking maybe it has something to do with the solar flares. Statistically, there's always a lot of craziness associated with sunspot activity and I'm thinking maybe all this wigging out is related to the flares but..." Chloe smiled, "You know me and my theories. Is…um…Clark around?"

"No, I'm sorry, Chloe…he's not. He went for a run to get away from those people and Perry White has been bothering us ever since. I…saw him stop you; I hope he didn't bother you too much…" she added, somewhat nervously, it seemed to Chloe.

"Oh, I just blew him off; he's talking crazy; he's obviously been drinking. I nearly hit him with my car when I first drove up; he jumped right in front of me. He…kept raving about…well, he's just got a really bad alcohol problem. Perry needs serious help. Then…I…had to hit him with my bag to make him get away from my car. Decided it would be better just to come unannounced…although…I hope that was okay…"

"We saw. Don't worry; it's fine, Chloe. And don't feel bad; Martha nearly hit him with a frying pan."

"Jonathan!"

"Good one, Mrs. Kent," she said, approvingly. "Maybe I should start keeping a frying pan in the car for self defense."

"I shouldn't have lost my temper."

"She only resorted to the skillet when hitting him with the broom didn't work."

Clark's mom seemed genuinely embarrassed by her lapse of good behavior. "Well, I won't mention it to anyone." She looked through the window at the X-Styles van still parked on Hickory Lane. "I'd say you had good reason to be angry if they've been harassing you like that." She turned back to Clark's parents. "When Clark gets back, would you tell him I need to talk to him?"

"Sure, Chloe. Want a cup of coffee before you go? I just made it. And there's fresh strawberry pie, too."

"Oh…thanks, Mrs. Kent; you know I can never refuse strawberry pie." She sat down at the counter and began to dig into her sweet treat. "So…what kind of skillet works best for self defense?" she asked in between bites.

Martha made a face as Jonathan hefted his wife's heavy skillet, patting the bottom. "Oh, I think the Kent seal of approval definitely goes with cast iron." He smiled as Martha gently smacked him in the arm.

"Jonathan! Ignore him, Chloe." But she was smiling slightly when she asked, "Why don't you stay and tell us what you heard on the news."

Somewhat dejectedly, Chloe sighed, adding, "I can't believe I used to look up to Perry White."

Martha patted her consolingly on the arm. "It's hard to discover our heroes have feet of clay." She brought the coffee pot over. "Here. More coffee? Or another piece of pie?"

Clark had been dreaming of his mom's strawberry pie. He could almost taste it; the flaky crust and sweet juicy fruit, layered with a mountain of whipping cream… But someone was speaking to him. "Mom…" Now someone was shaking him and that brought another round of agony to his abused ribs. Clark groaned again and whispered, "Stop. Please…stop…"

"Buddy…wake up…what happened to you? I think you need to get to a hospital."

"No…no hospital…"

"Buddy; your arm's broken and I don't like the look of those ribs. I really think you need to see a doctor. Now, come on; I'll help you. The road's close; just a few yards that way."

Clark opened his eyes and found himself staring into the concerned face of a young man in a business suit; well, several concerned faces, actually. There were at least four of whomever it was, swimming around in front of him. "Where are we?"

"We're in the woods along highway 108 near Manteca. Come on; you need to get up."

Clark stood, groaning and wobbling as he leaned heavily on his latest benefactor. "What are you doing way out here?" he asked, as they broke through the row of bushes that lined the roadside.

"I should be asking you that question. You look like hell."

"Thanks. You should have seen me earlier," he wheezed.

"What?"

"Never mind." Clark waited while the man opened the car door. He eased himself into the passenger seat and carefully lifted his legs up and into the car. He was panting with even that little bit of exertion.

"Look, I'm gonna take you to the hospital in Manteca. It's close and they have a trauma unit there."

"Who says I need a trauma unit?" Clark proceeded to have a coughing fit which produced a trickle of blood on his lips.

"Here." The man handed him a handkerchief. "I do. Look, I don't wanna scare you but I think you might be bleeding internally. Your side looks really nasty and the fact that you're coughing up blood can't be a good thing."

"Probably just cut my lip when I fell." Every breath was sheer agony and accompanied by a disturbing wet gurgling sound; he suspected his lungs were filling up with fluid. Blood.

"Well, there's still the fact that you have a broken arm. I can see the bones just under the surface of that wound which is also bleeding, I might add, so I'm thinking greenstick fracture. Now why on earth don't you want to go to the hospital?"

"I'm…it's a religious thing." Clark winced at the pain as well as the lie. "What was your name, again?" he asked, trying to change the subject and gritting his teeth at the white hot stab of pain in his side.

"Joshua, and I'll let you work that out with God and the doctors because I'm taking you to the hospital. You can explain it to them. If you're worried about money, the hospital is non-profit; they take everyone whether they can pay or not. And I don't believe I caught your name either."

"I'm," he hacked before he could even say it, "Clark. Look, I don't mean to sound ungrateful-" he hissed in pain as the car rounded a sharp turn and momentum pushed him sideways.

"Sorry, Clark; I'll try to take it easy but I really think you need to get to the hospital right away."

Through clenched teeth, Clark finally gave in. "Okay…okay."

After a few minutes, Clark thought to ask, "How'd you find me?"

"I pulled over to look for something in the trunk. I could hear you moaning as soon as I got out although at first, I wasn't sure it was human."

That made Clark laugh but he found that was not a good idea. "Unh…don't make me laugh…oh…" he moaned, "God, let me out! I'm gonna be sick!" Joshua pulled over and Clark was decidedly green as he fell to the side of the road and emptied his stomach into the weed choked ditch. Joshua ran around the car and gave him a rag with which to wipe his mouth as he helped him up and back into the car. Clark sat sideways in the front seat, breathing heavily for a few minutes until he decided his stomach wouldn't betray him again.

Joshua offered him a sports bottle. "Here rinse your mouth out. You'll feel better."

"Thanks." Slowly, Clark put his feet inside the car and closed the door. He leaned his head over against the cool window for a moment, noticing the car's fine interior for the first time. "I'm sorry; I'm messing up your car."

"It's okay, Clark. That's why they make leather interiors. Anyway, it's a company car, courtesy of Bank of America. Great sound system if you can get it to work. Here-" he reached for the radio and punched several buttons but got nothing but static. "Sorry. Reception's crumby for some reason. The solar flares, most likely. I forgot my CDs."

"So…you're a banker, huh?" Clark smiled; at least that didn't hurt too much. "Now what if I'd been a bear?"

"I ran track in college. I can still run pretty fast." He eyed Clark for a moment before declaring, "You're really a mess."

"Yeah. I got that."

They passed a road sign for Manteca, California. Next, a sign announcing the Manteca hospital exit coming up appeared. Joshua slowed and Clark looked a little green again as they made the turn. "Uh…do I need to stop again, Clark?"

"I don't know…maybe…"

"Look…maybe we should just get you into the hospital. Joshua sped up and turned into the hospital parking lot." Sighing, Clark had to agree he felt pretty bad as the car came to a stop.

"Wait here and I'll go inside and get someone."

"Wait…get me out; I wanna sit outside." Hesitantly, Joshua helped him over to a bench near the entrance. "Gimme a minute; I just need some air." Overhead, the clouds were receding, the sun coming out quite brilliantly for an early afternoon display. Shafts of bright golden sunlight shown down making the panorama look like something out of a Renaissance painting.

After a few minutes, Joshua tried to urge him on. "Come on, Clark; let's go."

Clark, however, was feeling so good in the warm sun he didn't want to move. Closing his eyes, he stood, turning toward the sun, stretching his arms wide despite the pain. He could already feel his strength returning.

"Uh…Clark…" Joshua moved to help.

But Clark stood transfixed as the sun's rays washed over him, his headache fading. Opening his eyes, he found his double vision gone. He smiled, knowing the worst was over. The wound on his arm closed as he watched leaving no sign he'd ever been injured and he could feel the bones inside knitting together. Touching his side, he felt the ribs healing and the ugly swelling that had marked the internal bleeding rapidly disappeared. Clark Kent was back to normal and now he had to extricate himself from the kind hearted fellow who'd rescued him.

"Um…Clark…what are you doing?" Joshua stepped in front of him, staring at his face. Where a livid bruise and a bloody cut had been there was nothing but unbroken healthy skin. A glance at Clark's arm revealed no wound or swelling at all, the skin there, just like his forehead, showing no sign it had ever been damaged.

"Joshua," he said, his voice normal once more, "it was good of you to help me but I'm feeling much better and I think I'll skip the hospital."

"You…you're arm…looks like…"

"I know…I heal really quickly and I'll be fine. Now I have to go." Clark shook his hand and said, "Thank you," then turned, jogging off down the road, leaving Joshua staring after him with a very puzzled expression on his face. Once he was out of sight he took off at high speed. When he reached highway, he stripped off the splint and flung it into the bushes as he headed off toward home, pleased he hadn't gone into overdrive when he'd raced away from the hospital. He could see a major interstate up ahead and if he remembered correctly from the map of California he'd seen spread out on the floor of Joshua's car, he could follow it north until he hit a smaller state highway that would take him back east.

Clark sped up a little and made it to the interchange in a matter of seconds. There, he had to jog left suddenly to avoid a Winnebago and just like that he was once again in overdrive, heading west. Leaping onto I 580, he quickly found himself coming up on the western side of San Francisco Bay. When he got really close to the bay, he started to panic; it was as if he was being forced to follow the sun's arc across the sky and now he was going to have to swim across the bay if he didn't locate one of the bridges that crossed it…he saw signs for I 80 and the Oakland Bay Bridge so he followed those that led to the onramp and in no time at all he was racing along one of the busiest bridges in the world.

It was much more difficult to weave his way through the heavy traffic and he narrowly avoided causing an accident when he had to dart left then jump over a Camry wagon waiting at the toll plaza on the east end of the bridge. When he came down he bumped the car in front of it that had just left the gate causing it to veer slightly to the right. As he hopped left again to avoid it he was nearly struck by a speeding Porsche, barely managing to get out of the way in time. Do I have a sign on my back that says, 'Hit me if you're in a Porsche?' But except for the toll booth incident, he managed to shoot across the Bay Bridge so fast he was only a faint blur to those in the cars around him, his body still supercharged for the moment. As he neared the far end of the bridge he zipped around an eighteen wheeler heading into San Francisco, thinking to take advantage of the currently sparse carpool lane when he stepped in a sizable pothole and stumbled slightly. While he fought to regain his balance, he heard the screech of brakes and the semi's horn; turning, he saw the big rig's driver jerk the wheel hard, trying to avoid the man who'd appeared out of nowhere right in front of him. The semi went into a skid, sliding dangerously close to the railing. Clark prayed for control and grabbed the front of the truck, guiding it away from the precipitous edge and slowing it down before the astonished eyes of the trucker inside.

The truck came to a halt and he stumbled away, trying to make it to the relative safety of the bridge rail before he got run over because all of his abilities were suddenly gone again; he held some faint hope that he could somehow avoid being identified by the trucker and a number of drivers who had stopped after witnessing his amazing feat moments before. A bright yellow convertible with a flashing red and blue light on its dashboard had come to a sudden halt in the far lane and a man flashing a badge was halting traffic and heading his way. Then, in another second, he felt it; his powers returning in full force and he took off running, putting as much distance as possible between himself and any witnesses. And just as before, he had very little control as he shot down the bridge on the inner lane.

Up ahead he saw a sign for San Francisco but traffic was even worse on this end of the bridge and a couple of fender benders a few car lengths in front of him had brought traffic to a virtual standstill across all six lanes. Clark wove his way around cars and trucks, accidentally denting a few when he got too close in his mad dash to make it to the exit. Currently, his plan was to go south and circle around the bay if he had to. Now, if he could only make it off the bridge. With some very fancy last minute footwork he managed to take the exit which curved sharply off to the southwest but went a little wide, scraping the concrete wall before stepping in another pothole and lurching off in the other direction. In only those few short steps, his speed mushroomed off the charts and his momentum carried him up and over the retaining wall, his foot taking out a chunk of it as he passed over the top. For a moment, he seemed to float in mid air, sailing out like the seagulls nearby and then to his horror, he dropped like a stone.

Harvey Leek sat quietly on the western edge of San Francisco Bay, finishing up his late lunch as he listened to the cries of the gulls wheeling overhead. He liked to sit here on one of the stone benches beside a walking path that ran along the water's edge; it was always a welcome respite from the hectic pace of the Special Investigations Unit of the San Francisco Police Department to which he belonged. His unit was headquartered on an old barge moored south of the Bay Bridge that had spent its early years as a floating cannery and then as a disco nightclub before being seized after a major drug bust there and claimed by the SFPD when space was needed in a hurry. He would really have to head back soon but he hated to; it had turned into a beautiful afternoon after some morning showers and nothing was more beautiful than the bay on a day like this.

Idly, he scratched beneath the black armband he always wore out of respect for his deceased hero, Jerry Garcia. Harvey had grown up in the Bay area and become an early and avid follower of the Grateful Dead; he'd gone to every concert he could, even making pilgrimages to distant locales whenever possible and had been devastated when Jerry died. A sudden gust of wind nearly dislodged his beret and he grabbed it to keep from losing it.

He was just settling it back on his head when a loud crash behind him made him jump and he quickly ducked down under the bench, covering his head when dust and small chunks of concrete began to rain down around him. When the debris stopped falling, he cautiously leaned out and looked behind the bench where he'd been sitting moments before; there he saw a body lying on the crushed remains of a concrete trash receptacle. "Awww…man!" He looked up and down the path but saw no one; looking up, he saw the Bay Bridge high overhead and wondered if the guy had jumped. Steeling himself, he walked over to the body; jumpers were hard to take and even after all these years he'd never gotten used to the gore-

The body raised its dark head and said, "Hi." Then it sat up and looked around, adding, "Um…uh…what happened?" he asked.

Leaning down, Harvey asked, "I was gonna ask you the same question. Are you okay?"

"Yeah…uh…thanks." The man glanced around him at the shattered concrete and trash strewn everywhere. "I guess I stumbled."

Detective Leek stared in disbelief at the man now sitting on the remains of the trash container. "You're kidding, right?" There was also a big chunk of concrete and steel next to him that did not appear to have come from the trash can. It looked disturbingly like it might have fallen from the bridge.

The man-no, boy-he corrected now that he got a better look at the face beneath the dust and grime, gave him the most disingenuous look Harvey had ever seen and said, "Um…no?"

Harvey looked up at the high bridge overhead and back at the boy, shaking his head. "Here..." Offering a hand, he waited; finally the kid took it, standing and looking upward at the bridge for a moment before returning his gaze to Harvey. "Okay, so…what did happen here? Where'd you come from?"

Again, that odd stare and the boy said, "Uh…I dunno exactly…" and fell silent, no further explanation apparently forthcoming.

Pointing at the boy's leg he asked, "Your jeans are ripped. Did you hurt your leg?"

The boy shook his head and mumbled, "No…I don't think so."

"Okay, let's go. I'm Inspector Harvey Leek with the SFPD and I think we need to get you checked out."

Clark whipped around and made his move into Clark Time-except he didn't, his superspeed gone again; instead he tripped on a chunk of broken concrete and fell face down in the grass beside the path. The policeman walked around in front of him and took hold of his arm. "Buddy, you need to come with me; there's a clinic just a few of blocks from the SIU."

"What's the SIU," Clark asked, brushing concrete chips and dust out of his hair as they walked to Harvey's car.

"It's the Special Investigations Unit of the SFPD. We're headquartered on a boat just south of here…" Harvey opened the door and waited.

"I'm really okay…"

"Look. You're not in any trouble; I just want someone to check you over. You…" he stared at Clark, wondering once again where he'd come from, "you might have hurt yourself when you…uh…stumbled. Come on, get in. This won't take long; I know someone at the clinic and she owes me a favor." Harvey got the impression the kid was dazed and a little out of it; maybe he'd hit his head pretty hard when he…tripped…or…fell… Harvey looked up at the Bay Bridge one more time. Shivering in spite of the warmth of the afternoon sun, he got behind the wheel.

"What's your name?" They were sitting at a stoplight while Harvey tried without success to reach bridge maintenance to let them know they might have a problem.

Clark hesitated, panic setting in; he didn't really want to be identified by the police in case they linked him to the mess on the bridge. "Uh…Cl…Claude. My name's Claude."

"Okay, Claude; I can't get any reception on my cell so I'm gonna pull over here and call in the bridge problem. I'll only be a minute. If you're interested, this is the new underwater tunnel. Just opened; it's a lot like the one over on the Wharf, if you've ever been there… You can go out under the bay and watch the sea life; they call it the Underseaum."

"Really?" Clark got out and went over to the pebbled path that led to the entrance of the underwater tunnel. The top of the tunnel was visible about thirty feet below the water's surface. Leaning out over the railing as if to get a better look and, making sure Harvey wasn't looking, he took out what money he had and pitched his wallet with all his identification out into the bay.

Just as Harvey hung up he looked up to see Claude leaning way too far out over the railing. Running over, he grabbed his arm, pulling him back. "Claude, careful there; I think you've had enough trauma for one day." Harvey herded him back to the car. "I've gotta check in at the SIU then we can head over to the clinic and if you're alright then you can be on your way. Okay?" Harvey drove down the pier and pulled in outside the ramp that led to SIU headquarters. Getting out, he motioned for Clark to come with him and Clark reluctantly followed.

Without his speed he couldn't get away very fast anyway and really, where would he go if he did manage to escape? The officer seemed friendly enough; maybe he could sneak out of the clinic after he got there. Once inside, several people nodded to Harvey as they passed by, a few looking askance at his somewhat disreputable companion. Nodding again at a couple of people whose desks sat nearby, he stopped at his own and checked his calls and e-mail. He pointed to a chair and Clark sat, fidgeting slightly as he waited.

A man in a dark purple pinstriped suit came over and waited for Harvey to finish typing before asking, "So Harvey, who's this?"

"This is Claude. I…found him while I was eating lunch near the Bay Bridge. I…think he tripped over a chunk of concrete and I thought maybe I should take him over to the clinic and let Annie check him out. Claude, this is Detective Joe Dominguez."

Detective Dominguez gestured toward Clark and asked, "What happened to you?"

Clark's eyes became large and puppy dog-like and he opened his mouth to speak a couple of times before he stammered out, "I f-fell."

Joe stared at the boy, narrowing his own eyes for a moment, but all he said was, "Ah. Well…do you have a last name Claude?"

"Um…"

Mercifully, they were interrupted by another officer who strolled into the SIU waving at Harvey before he called out to Joe. "Hi, Joe."

Joe waved. "Antoine…you got a call from your sister. She said she couldn't reach you on your cell and she wants to make sure you remember to pick her up at the Underseaum."

"Thanks, Harv. I can't get anything on my cell today."

"Me either; must be the solar flares." Harvey added.

"Have you seen Nash? I need to talk to him before I leave."

"He's stuck on the Bay Bridge. Traffic's snarled; a semi nearly slid off the deck. The trucker claimed a man appeared out of thin air right in front of his rig and he skidded when he tried to avoid him. Nash said he claimed the guy he nearly hit grabbed his truck."

"Another highjacking?"

"No," Joe snickered as he continued, "the truck driver said this guy literally grabbed the front of his truck and held on to keep him from going over the side. They took the driver away for a drug test but traffic's backed up until they can get another driver."

"Looks like they're smoking some real good crack in Oakland."

"Nash thinks he might be tied up for a while but I'll tell him you're looking for him as soon as he gets in." Joe pointed toward Clark, "Antoine, this is Claude…sorry…I didn't catch your last name…"

"I…um…can't remember…"

Harvey moaned, "Oh boy…"

"Well, Claude…we'll see if we can help you with that. This is Detective Babcock. Harvey found Claude by the Bay Bridge a little while ago…he's gonna take him over to the clinic."

Antoine eyed the disheveled stranger in their midst. "Hi, Claude. Do you remember where you're from?"

Clark stared at his feet as though they were the most fascinating objects in the universe then shyly looked up to meet his gaze and said quietly, "Hi." Then he shook his head and mumbled "But no, I don't remember that, either. Sorry."

"What happened to your shirt…or is that just a fashion statement?"

"Uh…a cat scratched me."

"Helluva cat. Think I'll stick to dogs."

Harvey got up and brought back a glass of water to his charge. "Here, have something to drink. Do you remember anything?"

Claude took a sip then said, almost in a whisper, "I'm…I'm not sure."

Harvey asked, "Do you have any identification?"

Clark made a show of going through all his pockets, emptying them out on the desk. Two gallon Ziploc baggies covered with duct tape and a dirty, possibly blood soaked bandana were all he came up with. He looked up apologetically. "Sorry. There's nothing." Rubbing his head, Clark muttered, "My head hurts. Can I have some aspirin?"

Harvey got up and waggled his fingers at Clark. "Come on; let's go downstairs to the locker area for a minute; I'll get you an icepack there."

Getting up, Harvey took him back to an area below deck where there were lockers and a shower. "I think we oughta wait until you get checked out before we give you anything for your headache. Hold this icepack on your head. Why don't you stay here for a couple of minutes while I phone my friend at the clinic. Just wait here; I'll be right back. You yell if you need anything. There's an officer just down the hall. Okay?"

"Okay." Clark felt bad about the deception but could think of no other way to avoid identification. As soon as Harvey was gone Clark started eyeing the shower. He was absolutely filthy and found the thought of taking a shower quite appealing. Guiltily, Clark eyed the door and then the shower once again. Hearing no sign that Harvey was returning, he quickly stripped and jumped in. What could they do? He washed as quickly as he could, realizing belatedly, he needed a towel so he padded through the locker room hoping to find one. Bingo! The towel locker was around the corner so he snatched one and dried off, finishing up just as Harvey opened the door.

"Whoa!" Harvey looked away. "Where're your clothes?"

"I took a shower; I hope you don't mind," he added, using the puppy dog look again. "I'll get dressed in just a minute."

"You do that. I'll…wait out here."

Shutting the door Harvey turned away, a rather pained look on his face. Joe Dominguez was just coming down the stairs at the end of the hall.

"Harvey…" he smiled as he walked up, "what's goin' on? Where's Claude?"

"In there and currently au naturel." Pointing inside, he made a face. "Claude decided to take a shower while I was calling Annie over at the clinic."

"What's up with this guy, Harvey? You think he's really got amnesia?"

"Man…" he sighed, "I don't know, Joe. There's something about this guy that is just off somehow. I can't quite put my finger on it…but he hasn't done anything wrong so I'm just gonna take him over to the clinic and let Annie have a look at him; maybe she can help me figure it out. If, that is, he ever gets dressed." Cautiously opening the door a crack, he peered in. Clark was standing fully dressed although his shredded t-shirt made him look quite pathetic.

Joe leaned in and, smiling, waved at Clark before Harvey shut the door again. Lowering his voice he said, "Did it occur to you that maybe…maybe Claude isn't…" Joe tapped the side of his head to emphasize his point, "quite right… You know…maybe he's…just a few bricks shy."

Frowning, Harvey nodded. "Yeah, that thought had occurred to me. He seems nice enough just…odd."

Joe patted Harvey on the shoulder. "You're a charitable guy, Harvey."

Harvey opened the door again. Clark was sitting on the bench, staring dejectedly at the floor. At the sound of the door opening, he looked up and gave the detectives a weak smile.

Joe nodded in at him and said, "The grunge look is a little old hat, Claude." The kid's eyes got bigger and Joe turned to Harvey. "Why don't you get him another t-shirt; there's a bunch in the cabinet in the corner. I'll ask Antoine to check missing person's reports in the Bay area. Good luck," he whispered as he turned to go.

Clark shed his shredded t-shirt and put on the one they'd given him. He stared into a nearby mirror at the SFPD logo emblazoned across the front in large black letters. Well, it was an improvement but it would complicate his explanation when he got home. Maybe he should- Harvey opened the door before he could further contemplate the matter and told him they could leave for the clinic. Waving to everyone as he walked away and out onto the deck, Clark gave them a shy smile, hoping it would distract them from thinking too much about his enigmatic arrival. It always seemed to work with Chloe.

The little clinic was almost literally right around the corner, only a couple of blocks from the SIU in what had once been a diner, judging from the tables and booths which still filled one side of the small anteroom. Harvey spoke to the receptionist and sat down to wait with his charge. Clark stared out the window toward the bay, listening to the tinny sound of an old radio behind the counter playing some light jazz. After a few minutes, he turned and spoke. "I'm sorry I'm taking up all your time. You can go back if you want; I'll be okay by myself."

Harvey opened his mouth to speak, hesitating before he finally said, "No, that's okay. I…need to talk to Annie about something else, anyway. They sat in silence for a few minutes when suddenly Clark's ears pricked up at the sound of sirens in the distance. Harvey's cell phone rang a moment later. "Now it's working!" When he closed it, he looked at Clark apologetically as he got up. "I'm sorry; Bank of America on Powell just got robbed. I gotta go; just go with Annie when she comes out and she'll take good care of you. Good luck."

"Thanks, Harvey." Clark waited, watching as Harvey ran out the door. The radio in the back dissolved into static just as Clark got up to leave, having decided to follow Harvey and see if he could be of any help even without his abilities. When Annie came to the door a moment later to ask for Claude, the waiting room was empty.

Just as he reached the stoplight on the corner, it happened. One second, he was stepping off the curb next to an elderly man with a cane, as normal as the humans around him and the next, he felt the rush of power once more and he was back to Clark normal. And just in time, too, because a blue Porsche skidded around the corner and came to a screeching halt when it banged into Clark's right leg. Damage to the car was relatively minor since the driver had been braking but the driver leaped out, screaming at Clark when he saw the dent in his front bumper.

Clark grabbed the man by the front of his Armani shirt and pointed to his car. He'd had just about enough of speeding Porsches. "Stay outside the crosswalk!" He gave the vehicle a little tap with his left foot, shoving it backward until it impacted the front bumper of a big Ford truck.

The Ford's driver, a very large man well suited to drive such a big vehicle, jumped out and stomped over to the Porsche driver. Clark heard the truck driver yell, "Just what do you think you're doin', you little yuppie creep; that's my new truck!" and he couldn't help smirking as he disappeared from view and took off in search of the Bank of America.

Powell Street…I remember where that is. Then all he had to do was follow the police sirens and he was there in no time. Police officers and bystanders all dove for cover just as he arrived when a man wearing camouflage fatigues and a black ski mask started firing an AK47 from the cover of the Bank's front entrance. Watching from around the corner, he saw Harvey duck for cover behind a car then rush across the street and creep off down an alley. Clark guessed he intended to flank the criminals who'd retreated back into the bank and surprise them as they emerged. Before he dashed inside, he decided to stash his plaid shirt and tan jacket somewhere so he wouldn't be so easily recognizable. He gave the building a cursory x-ray as he stuffed his clothing down behind a trash can in the nearby alley then he turned and raced across the street and into the bank.

Everyone inside was face down on the floor as he came to a halt in front of the guy who'd been firing from out front. Doesn't this bring back some unpleasant memories? The man fired at Clark's chest, the SFPD logo on the front making a perfect target. Several of the bullets ricocheted toward the terrified customers but he caught them easily before turning back to the gunman.

"Who the fu-" Clark gave the gunman a perfectly timed tap on the forehead with his index finger and the man fell backward, instantly unconscious. He kicked the gun away then stripped off the man's black ski mask and quickly pulled it on. Oh yeah; very bad memories. But he needed the disguise.

There were four gunmen in all; in addition to the unconscious man, one was still inside around a corner near the vault, screaming for everybody to stay down and holding a man hostage. The other two were already out the back door and probably desperate now that things were not going according to plan. But his first priority had to be the hostage taker; he turned and came to a sudden halt to keep from running over a terrified woman who clutched her young daughter tightly, trying to shield her as much as she could. Tears streamed down her face when Clark reached out to her.

"No…please…please don't hurt her!" she sobbed.

"It's okay; no one's going to hurt you." The mother looked up, suddenly hopeful. "I won't let them hurt you." Shots rang out behind him and Clark whipped around faster than the eye could see, ready to intercept. This time he chose to melt the bullets with his heat vision; splatters of molten lead and shell casings hit the floor although one round hit Clark in the abdomen, leaving a singed hole in the white of the t-shirt over his belly button. Looking down, he picked the melted metal out of his navel and flung it to the ground. "Go up front; it's safer up there," he urged, gesturing behind him before dashing off toward the gunman. The silver gun barrel appeared around the corner and he fired off another double burst of heat vision, intending to melt it, too but the man retreated and he put two neat holes through a large formal portrait hanging on the rear wall of the bank instead. Oops. Behind him, the woman and her daughter edged around the counter and hurried to safety.

A second later, Clark seemed to appear out of thin air in front of the startled hostage and his captor. The man he held at gunpoint was none other than Joshua, who'd rescued Clark in the forest earlier. Well, now maybe I can return the favor.

The gunman stared at Clark for a moment before demanding, "Who the hell are you?"

"Let him go; the police are everywhere. You'll never get away with this." Clark moved closer, hoping to draw his attention away from his captive.

"But I've got a hostage and you…you're just in my way." The man fired several rounds which Clark plucked from the air; opening his hands, he displayed the flattened slugs in his palms before letting them slide off to the floor. With a low growl, the bank robber shoved his gun hard into the Joshua's ribs. "Back off!" He whirled around, pointing his hostage in a new direction only to find Clark standing right in front of him. "How'd you do that?" Raising his gun, he aimed it at Clark's forehead. "I don't know what kind of trick this is but I won't miss this time." In the blink of an eye, Clark snatched the gun from his hand, instantly crushing it; from his closed fist came a muffled explosion and a puff of smoke before he opened his hand and dropped the sooty remains of the gun to the floor. Then with a flick of his fingers he sent the gunman sprawling. The unconscious man slid into the open vault door and lay still.

Joshua still clutched his briefcase to his chest, shaking at his close call as he stared back at his rescuer. "Th-th-thanks. I was sure he was gonna shoot me."

Clark held his arm and guided him over to a chair. "I think you need to sit down. Better?"

Joshua nodded, still stunned by what he'd just seen. "How'd you-"

Smiling beneath his mask, Clark said, "Magic. Now stay here; the police are coming and I've gotta go." From Joshua's standpoint, Clark simply vanished as he raced back toward the front of the bank. Detective Antoine Babcock was just rounding the front counter, gun drawn and Clark ran right into him; he grabbed Antoine's arms to keep him from falling backward. "Sorry!" he said, steadying him.

Antoine started to yell, "Okay, buddy! SFPD! Freeze-" but found himself speaking to no one when the subject of his warning blurred out of existence in front of his startled eyes. Puzzled, he looked around the room for the masked suspect who'd just disappeared right in front of him. Glancing down, he noticed the barrel of his gun was no longer straight. "What the hell?"

Several more shots were fired outside as Clark headed for a rear door; poking his head out, he saw one of the crooks was down with a leg wound and although he had been abandoned by his friend, was still armed and firing at a police officer who had taken cover behind a building at the far end of the alley. Shutting the door behind him, he melted the lock to give himself time to work. Clark raced to the downed man, snatching the gun from his hand before he even realized it and crushed it. Throwing the ruined gun down, he pulled out one of the duct tape covered Ziplocs he'd stuffed back in his pocket and tore off several long strips. He wrapped the man's wound then tied his hands together and quickly carried him to the street, setting him down on the sidewalk in front of the officer waiting there before turning his attention to the other end of the alley.

Shots were fired and Clark used his x-ray vision to follow the fourth man as he dragged someone back into the alley with him. His blood ran cold when he saw it was Harvey Leek. The guy pushed Harvey down to his knees with his face against the wall and aimed his gun at his head. At the crunch of gravel under Clark's feet, he turned and fired, hitting Clark in the chest several times, completely obliterating the remainder of the SFPD logo on his shirt. The rounds ricocheted off his body, the sound echoing down the alley as Clark turned to see whether he needed to catch them or if they would end up safely embedded in the aging brick walls. Then robber number four started screaming as he turned his attention back to his hostage, putting the gun up against his head again; this guy was clearly about to snap. In a heartbeat, Clark appeared next to the gunman, arms crossed, leaning casually against the wall of the building as he inquired, "So…how do you plan to get out of here with all these cops around? They've already got your friends." Clark leaned in close, waiting to grab the gun as soon as it was no longer pressed up against Harvey's head.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Just a fellow bank robber who wants to give you some good advice, one crook to another."

"I don't need no advice! I got a hostage! If they don't let me go, I'll kill 'im."

"Now see," Clark explained patiently, holding up his forefinger for emphasis as if he were speaking to a small child, "if you kill him then you don't have a hostage and there goes your leverage." Harvey turned his head ever so slightly, trying to see what was going on.

The man's brows furrowed as if the effort of thinking about this new concept was simply too great. He pushed Harvey's face hard into the wall again. "I got a hostage!" he repeated. "They gotta let me go."

"I can get you out of here but you have to let him go."

"Why?"

"Look," Clark said calmly, gesturing toward Harvey with both hands, "if you take him with you, you'll just have to watch him all the time, worry about him trying to run or take your gun away-"

"I'm keepin' my gun! No one takes my gun!"

"That's right. You keep your gun. Just let him go and I'll take you with me."

"I got demands!" he shouted, finally waving the gun around in Clark's direction.

"Well so do I; I'll just take that." Suddenly, Clark was holding the gun. The man howled with rage, lunging at Clark to retrieve his precious toy. Clark picked him up with one hand and tossed him across the alley. "Another piece of advice," he added, staring over at the man now lying unconscious on the pavement, "you are really not cut out for this." When he turned back around, Harvey was staring at him as he got to his feet. "You're okay, right?"

Harvey nodded and said breathlessly, "Yeah…I'm good."

"Then here." He handed the gun to Harvey. "He's all yours."

"Thanks…" Harvey croaked out but the alley was empty. He stood leaning against the wall for a moment as he stared at the unconscious man a few feet away. Looking around again he saw no sign at all of the masked man who'd just saved his life.

Clark shot through the alleyway, rattling the garbage cans as he quickly grabbed his shirt and jacket from behind them. Turning into another side alley and then another, he tried to put some distance between himself and the policemen at the crime scene. After a few blocks he slowed and stepped into a sheltered doorway to remove his mask and put his shirt and jacket back on. Without warning, someone wrapped a metal chain around his neck and cinched it tight. Clawing at the chain, he tried to get his hands underneath but his strength and invulnerability were gone again and there was nothing Clark could do about it.

"Who the hell are you?" inquired the heavily accented voice of the man who held the chain.

"Claude," he choked out. "I could talk better if you'd loosen the chain." This guy was going to crush his windpipe in about thirty seconds if he kept this up. "Please," he croaked.

"I don't care who you are!"

The chain got tighter and Clark squeaked out, "Well, you asked!" as he tried to get his fingers under the chain again.

"I just lost a lot of money because of you, you little bastard!" The man holding him grunted when Clark elbowed him hard, finally letting go of the chain. Before he could really get his breath, he felt the sharp bite of a blade between his ribs then sheer agony when his attacker twisted the knife for good measure.

Clark fell to the ground holding his side. He couldn't get his breath and there was a faint bubbling sound where he'd been stabbed. Gasping, he tried to crawl away from his assailant as his mind made its clinical analysis. Sucking chest wound. Looking down he added, Lots of blood; maybe nicked an artery. Not good.

The angry man grabbed the chain around his neck and yanked him back, slamming him against the wall; Clark's vision was going dim when he finally got a blurry look at the guy who'd caused him so much pain. "Does it hurt?" he sneered. When Clark failed to answer he put his heavy boot on the wound and leaned on it with all his weight. Blood bubbled over his lips and Clark groaned. "How 'bout now?" he asked, a nasty smile on his face when he stepped back. Remaining conscious was an effort but Clark tried to crawl away again, inch by inch down the dirty alley.

The guy was in front of him again; well, a baby could crawl faster than me right now.

"Where you goin'? I haven't had a chance to thank you for the nice threads." Looking up, he saw his shirt and jacket in the man's hand. "You won't be needing them, will you?" Clark had no energy left. "Still not talking? Well, then I'll just say my goodbyes." He delivered several hard kicks to Clark's side right where he had stabbed him and Clark passed out as his footsteps receded into the distance.

Another sharp jolt of pain brought Clark back to consciousness as someone pressed a hand to his injured side. "God!" he moaned then coughed, spitting out blood. Breathing was becoming quite difficult. Clark pushed his mask up freeing his mouth and nose. He felt a tug as someone tried to pull it off completely and grabbed it. "No!" he shouted, batting at the hand he felt; he tried to scramble backwards to get away.

"Okay, okay! Just…take it easy…you… Hang on…hold your hand here and press hard while I call for help." Clark barely opened his eyes to see who was saving his sorry ass this time. Harvey Leek was leaning over him. He pulled out his cell phone to call for help. "Joe, it's Harvey. I'm a few blocks northeast of the Bank in an alley that runs north off Jackson near the Cain Apothecary Shop; I've got a man who's been stabbed; sucking chest wound, some…broken ribs, possible arterial bleeding and it looks like someone tried to choke him. We need an ambulance in a hurry."

The radio crackled with the promise of help. Clark sat up and grabbed Harvey's arm, gasping out, "There's another one."

"Take it easy…another what?"

"Another bank robber; brown hair…heavy accent…Russian maybe…went that way, I think," he added, pointing vaguely behind him. Clark fell back, his breathing labored. Looking down, he lifted the cloth he'd been pressing to his side; underneath was a gaping wound surrounded, he was sure, by more broken ribs where he'd been kicked.

"This guy says there's another bank robber at large." Looking at Clark he added, "Joe, I need that ambulance right now; this guy's not in good shape at all. "Hey, leave that cloth on there!" Putting the phone away, he put Clark's hand and the makeshift bandage back on the wound.

"If I don't make it…" Judging by the look on Harvey's face, that possibility was entirely too likely.

"What? Something you wanna tell me?"

"Maybe; we'll see." He took a long shuddering breath.

Taking the cloth from Clark's hand, he pressed harder, asking, "That make it any easier to breath?"

"Yeah, that helps," he groaned. "But it hurts like hell."

"You're the guy who helped me at the bank." Clark remained silent. "You weren't one of the bank robbers, were you?"

"No." Clark heard sirens coming closer.

"Then what was all that back there about advice from one bank robber to another?"

"Long story. Later…"

"Then tell me what happened here. Why'd he do this? Stabbing and choking is a bit of overkill don't you think? And what's this?" He indicated a waffle pattern of red marks all around the wound.

"Actually…it was choking first then the stabbing then the kicking…" he coughed and wheezed to get his breath before continuing, "that's how I got the broken ribs. Lugged boots. Didn't like my interfering with the robbery…made sure I knew just how unhappy he was." Clark began coughing again, blood flowing freely now from both his lips and his side. "Damn…"

The ambulance siren was very close then it grew fainter, the sound dopplering away to the west. Harvey was back on the phone yelling, "Tell 'em they missed us; I saw the ambulance go by heading west! We're in the alley! Hurry! I don't think this guy is gonna-" There was nothing but static from his cell. "Damnit!" He leaned over and said, "Man, I'm sorry…hang on; they'll come back."

Clark lay wheezing in the trash strewn alley, growing weaker. He grew still as the minutes ticked by.

"Is there anyone I should call?"

"Yeah. Give me…piece of paper…"

Harvey fumbled in his pocket for a paper and all at once, he realized the guy wasn't breathing; quickly checking, he couldn't find a pulse so he moved in, ready to start CPR though he wasn't sure it would really do any good. Suddenly a hand clamped onto his wrist as the man took a deep breath.

"It's okay; that won't be necessary."

Right before his eyes the man's chest wound closed up and the abrasions around his neck disappeared. In moments, all of the bruised and bloodied flesh had been replaced by smooth unbroken skin.

Harvey stared down at the blood covered handkerchief which had covered the man's wound. "Man oh man! What is going on…"

"I'm recovering." Clark sat up, now breathing almost normally.

"That's just not possible. You were bleeding…. You stopped breathing…you…you…"

"I can't explain it; another long story. And I've gotta go." He stood then spun around, disappearing once more into thin air. Harvey shook his head then ran toward the street but saw no sign of him anywhere. Clasping his hands over his head he blew out one long breath, turning to stare back down the alley where a man had been bleeding to death moments before. People just didn't lose that much blood then recover and jump up and walk, no make that run, away. Whatever had just happened here would remain a puzzle for Inspector Harvey Leek of the SFPD and how he'd ever explain it to anyone else was beyond him.

Clark Kent ducked into a deserted alley as soon as he was well away from Harvey, this time checking to make sure he was all alone before he removed his ski mask. He was about to pitch it into a dumpster but something told him to hang on to it; just in case he'd have further need of a disguise. Instead he stuffed it in his back pocket and took off towards the west, intending to zigzag across town x-raying the area in all directions as he ran, determined to locate the man who'd injured him. Thoughts of catching robber number five were uppermost in his mind; the man was dangerously unhinged and needed to be captured for that reason alone; that he'd been involved in the bank robbery was just icing on the cake. And truth be told, Clark wanted his clothes back; not only did he like that particular shirt and jacket but he could perhaps obscure his torn and bloody shirt beneath them until he could get upstairs to change when he got home. Somehow, he didn't think he wanted to tell his parents he'd been beaten and knifed in San Francisco and he certainly didn't want to admit being involved in the bank robbery even if he'd been catching felons this time instead of being one. It would just be best if he didn't have to mention any of this when he returned.

Years ago when he'd still been in grade school his mom had planned a trip to San Francisco, wanting to visit a cousin whom she hadn't seen in years and Clark had been so excited he'd read everything he could get his hands on about the city and especially the bridge for which it was famous. Much to his disappointment though he'd tried not to show it, the trip had fallen through at the last minute but he'd always hoped he'd be have the chance to go there someday. And now here he was. He hadn't gone very far when it occurred to him he could take advantage of high ground so he turned, heading back toward the Coit tower to get a look out over the city. At 210 feet, it wasn't as tall as the Transamerica Pyramid but it sat up high on Telegraph Hill and besides, he figured it would be easier to get to the top; he wasn't sure how far up or even if he could reach the upper floors of the pyramid without climbing the exterior of the building. The very thought made him shudder. Coit Tower was open to the public and he wouldn't have to waste time while trying to finagle his way to the top through what was sure to be the high security of buildings in the Financial District. Plus he was now a little closer to Telegraph Hill, he rationalized even if it took him away from his intended westerly direction.

In moments he was at the base of Telegraph Hill on Filbert Street. Threading his way through the tourists he zipped past a tour group, heading up the relatively unused stairs into the tower until he came to the observation deck. There he got an incredible panoramic view of the city and the bay around it. The glistening waters of the Golden Gate and the bridge that spanned it were magnificent in the late afternoon sun and he wished he had the time to fully enjoy it but he couldn't, not this time. He had to locate the fifth robber and then he had to head home and help his parents deal with the latest calamity he'd brought into their lives. And, super powerful alien being from another planet though he was, Clark Kent felt, though he hated to admit it, just a little bit homesick for his Kansas farm. Sighing, he looked out over the city again, searching for his quarry.

Staring back to the south he tried to plot exactly where he'd been and he was still sure his tormentor had headed west. Reluctantly, Clark took one more look around, admiring the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance then headed for the stairs. West. Something told him he still had to head west. Once he hit ground level, he came to a sudden halt by a bank of telephones in the lobby; snagging the only available phone, he tried to reach his parents but found nothing but static. Other people around him were swearing in disgust at this new communication wrinkle no doubt caused by the solar flares so he gave up and headed outside. He hesitated for a moment, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet as he stared westward, contemplating his path then he took off, resuming his zigzag pattern as he worked his way toward the California coastline and the waters of the Golden Gate.

Martha put down the phone. "I think it was Clark; I couldn't really hear anything but…but I just know it was him."

"Pete, see if you can call your house."

Pete was sitting next to the window, eyeing the X-Styles crew through a pair of binoculars. Setting them down, he tried to phone home without success. "Sorry, Mr. Kent. I thought someone picked up but there was just a lot of static. The solar flares must be messing up the phone lines again. The last thing I heard before the radio went out was that this round was gonna be worse than before." Pete picked up the binoculars for a moment then went over to the counter and wrote something down and handed it to Martha and Jonathan. The note said, "Maybe it's better that Clark doesn't call right now. They have a directional microphone for listening in on conversations at a distance." Pete pointed out the window.

Jonathan came over and Pete handed him the binoculars. "That sunnova-"

"Jonathan!"

Pete smirked as Jonathan headed for the door. "He has no right to-"

"You can't go down there. What are you going to do?"

"I'll…I'll…" he turned to his wife and hefted the old frying pan, patting its bottom.

Smiling, Pete wrote another note and showed it to the Kents. It said, "I've got a better idea. I can take out his equipment."

"How, Pete?"

"Trust me." Pete walked out the door and headed over to the barn.

Through the window, Jonathan and Martha watched as Pete briefly appeared in the loft where he was bending over, apparently looking for something. Finally, he stood, giving them a "thumbs up" through the window then disappeared from view. A few moments later, they saw him slip out a side door away from the prying eyes of Perry White and his crew; he was wearing Clark's huge Ultimate Master Blaster water cannon pack. Once a treasured possession, it had been relegated to a dusty trunk in the loft, along with other childhood mementos when Clark had grown beyond it. Jonathan hadn't seen it in years.

It had been in the summer before eighth grade and just after Clark had experienced his sudden and astonishing growth spurt when Clark Kent and Pete Ross had, in an ever escalating squirt gun arms race, acquired bigger and better water weaponry as they plotted world conquest and practiced their marksmanship on each other and, occasionally, the Kent livestock. Finally, Clark had brought home the Ultimate Master Blaster water canon, capable of carrying two gallons of water with a purported range of 100 feet. It was the nuclear option in the world of water guns and Pete, always determined to keep up with his best friend who now towered over him, couldn't wait to get one. In short order water wars had spread beyond the confines of the Kent farm as Pete and Clark fought their way across the Lowell County countryside and the outskirts of Smallville itself.

The dry creek bed, overgrown with weeds and bushes, snaked its way behind the Kent property and on across several neighboring farms, providing the perfect path and plenty of cover for two mischievous boys. Through it, they could even gain access to the new housing developments being built by LuthorCorp for its workers. One hot afternoon late in August, Pete and Clark had followed the creek bed all the way to Luthor Meadows, watching as movers unpacked a van outside one of the newest homes, waiting for a target to present itself.

Clark rested his water canon on the bottom rung of a split rail fence and took aim through the rear door of the moving van. Noticing the Metropolis license plate on the back, he wondered why they were here. Not too many people moved from the big city to Smallville…so they, like so many others here were probably transfers from one of the big LuthorCorp facilities in Metropolis to the fertilizer plant which had recently expanded on the outskirts of town. Through the screen door of the house he could see people; the movers, an older man about his dad's age. A girl…probably his daughter, with long blond hair appeared in the open doorway. Clark stared, taking in the newcomer and wondering what she would be like. The girl wore cargo shorts with a special pocket for her cell phone which she pulled out as he watched and her bright green t-shirt said City Girl on the back for anyone who was dense enough not to notice how different she was. She even wore some kind of knee high, thick soled boots. Combat boots. Who wore combat boots with shorts?

She was holding a copy of the Daily Planet in her other hand and she waved it around in an animated fashion to emphasize whatever point she was making as she carried on her cell phone conversation. Clark, who'd always had exceptional hearing, tried to listen in.

"Yes! We're in the absolute middle of nowhere!" She threw out the hand that held the newspaper in an expansive gesture that seemed to indicate everything around her. "There's nothing but corn everywhere you look!"

Just as he suspected, she was snooty like everyone from Metropolis, unwilling to appreciate the beauty of a small town.

"I wonder if I can even get the Daily Planet here. The Ledger's their local paper…what kind of name is that?"

"My great, great grandfather started the Ledger!" Clark muttered under his breath, bringing his water canon to bear on the back of the blond head.

Pete elbowed him, aware his friend had better hearing than anyone he knew. It had already gotten them both in trouble. "Are you listening in? You're gonna get in trouble again." But he leaned in and asked, "What's she saying?"

"She's dissing our newspaper. Like it's no good if it's not the Daily Planet!"

"Maybe she's just homesick. How would you feel if you came here and left all your friends behind?"

"Well…she's probably a snob like everyone else in Metropolis."

"Your mom's from Metropolis," Pete pointed out, ever the voice of reason.

"Well…that's different."

"How?"

"Mom's…older."

"Geez!"

"Besides," Clark added, seeking to shore up his argument, "look at her boots."

"What about 'em?"

"Who wears big boots like that with shorts?"

"What's wrong with that? You wear boots with everything."

"That's different. I live on a farm." The urge to target the back of that blond head was becoming almost irresistible.

"You, who live your life in plaid, are now the dictator of fashion?"

"Well…look at her…shorts…they're…" he stopped, suddenly embarrassed, for some reason.

"You're staring at her butt?" Pete started to giggle.

"Am not!" Clark replied petulantly, elbowing his friend in return.

"Are, too!" Clark elbowed him again. "Well, I think she looks cute."

After a long moment, Clark grudgingly admitted, "Maybe. But I bet she's still a snob."

"Why don't we go introduce ourselves?"

"No!" he whispered loudly. "We're on a mission, remember?"

"Right…we're gonna keep Smallville safe from the Metropolis invaders."

Clark hunkered down and waited. The girl wandered out of sight then, a couple of moments later, the blond head reappeared and he aimed, zeroing in on the very back of it.

"You're gonna get us both in trouble!" Pete clutched as his arm, tugging in another attempt to dissuade him but Clark shook him off and sighted down the barrel of his water canon again. His aim was always perfect; he couldn't possibly miss. There was just something about that girl…he really wanted to…he felt compelled to-

"Unh!" he exclaimed in surprise as a stone ledge on which he'd placed his foot gave way just as he was about to fire and he tumbled backward into the creek bed, taking Pete with him.

The noise and subsequent yelping brought the blond haired girl running outside and over to the fence, her own 357 Magnum, Squirty Harry water gun, at the ready. She let loose a quick burst at the rustling bushes on the far side of the old creek, just missing the two boys as they scuttled away into the underbrush, unhurt but humiliated. Clark, who had fallen with his finger still on the trigger, had managed to squirt himself in the crotch. Pete had laughed hysterically as they fled away toward the safety of home. As they approached the back field of the Kent farm, they'd had to crawl into a dense thicket that ran parallel to the dry wash when they'd spotted Lana Lang riding her pony along the high bank on the far side of the creek bed. Clark had been immediately terrified Lana would see him and think he'd wet his pants.

"Why don't you squirt Lana?" Pete taunted.

"She's…delicate or something…'cause her parents died." Clark stammered, continually puzzled and embarrassed by his tendency to feel sick and lightheaded around Lana Lang; he guessed it was a crush.

"And what? She'd melt?" Clark elbowed him but Pete continued. "She's no fun, is what," Pete whispered back as they scrambled farther into the bushes. That blond girl had a squirt gun; I'll bet she'd be fun." Clark smacked him on the shoulder as they burst from the other end of the row of bushes and ran toward the barn. A day later, Pete broke out in a terrible rash from his encounter with the hedge which had turned out to be poison ivy and Clark smugly considered it suitable revenge for Pete's remarks about the ethereal Lana Lang. It had been shortly thereafter that Jonathan had finally reined the boys in when Martha recounted several women at Fordman's Department Store complaining about their hanging laundry being mysteriously soaked before it could be brought inside and odd puddles of water appearing near open windows, doors and on car seats on otherwise dry, cloudless days. Not long after that, school had started, the water wars had been forgotten and the Ultimate Master Blaster water gun and been put away for good.

Now, Jonathan watched as Pete carried his old weapon of choice as he ran behind fences and woodpiles, from outbuilding to outbuilding, from tree to bush, finally crawling into a thick hedge of flowering Forsythia that ran behind the barn and past some outbuildings. Except for some slight rustling that might have been the wind Pete made no noise at all. He slowly made his way around until he had flanked the van then, lying perfectly still, he waited for a good shot.

Just as a flock of geese flew close overhead, honking and flapping over the field to the east, Pete made his move. Perfect aim, perfect shot; all those years of playing Masters of the Universe and Warrior Angel come to fruition with a perfect bullseye on the remote power pack and a good long squirt on the microphone itself.

Perry White threw the gear down abruptly, yelping out loud when he received a shock as the equipment shorted out. "Damned geese pissed on my mike!" he shouted.

Another perfect shot arced through the open rear doors of the X-Styles van, hitting a bank of computer consoles inside. A huge shower of sparks spewed out the back of the van and the tech inside hastily jumped down, shouting, "Damn it! Someone's in the bushes!" Pointing, he vaulted over the nearby fence in pursuit.

"Uh oh!" Pete scuttled backward until he could manage to turn around then ran as fast as he could for the safety of the farmhouse. Years of sneaking around the Kent farm as he and Clark hunted one another gave him a definite advantage and the X-Styles people were left ranting and raving far behind. This time he took the long way around, finally sneaking into a small crawl space under the side porch where a window into the basement proper still sat, unused since the last time Pete and Clark had acted out their childhood fantasies. Pete slithered inside, carefully locking it behind him.

He appeared triumphant at the top where Jonathan gave him a "high five" as the door flew open.

"Good one, Pete!"

"Bet that fixed 'em good! I think I took out their satellite uplink, too."

"Okay, Joe; explain to me what happened at the bank one more time," inspector Nash Bridges asked his partner and close friend, Joe Dominguez, as he herded his yellow Barracuda through the busy San Francisco streets. "Because from what I've got so far, this sounds pretty wonky to me."

"Well…everyone I talked to inside the bank claimed the robbers threatened to start shooting people if they didn't get their money pronto. The guy with the AK 47 had everybody face down on the floor and was picking people at random and telling them when they'd be shot when a guy appeared out of nowhere and disarmed him."

"What do they mean by out of nowhere? How did he get through the police cordon and into the bank? He had to have been another one of the robbers. Maybe…" he waved one hand around toward Joe, "maybe they had a falling out or…or maybe this guy just wanted his money and refused to go along with murdering people at the bank."

"Crook with a conscience? Everyone who was up front when they came in said there were only four guys in camo and black ski masks. They also said the guy up front seemed surprised to see this other guy and acted like he didn't know who he was. One of the tellers said she saw the guy from behind and described him as a young white male with dark hair, blue jeans and a white t-shirt. Definitely not wearing camouflage like the other guys. But nobody got a real good look at him-"

"Because he put on the robber's ski mask."

"Right. But why would he come into the bank with no disguise if he was one of the robbers then put on a disguise after he waylaid one of his friends."

"Well…" another vague gesture accompanied a sigh. "you got me there, Joe."

"Okay…the guy up front had an AK 47?"

"Yeah; he was loaded with ammo; could have been a real bloodbath."

"So, how'd this guy take him out?" Joe was silent for a moment. "Joe?" he prodded.

"They claimed he…just appeared, the bank robber shot at him, apparently missed then this guy took the AK 47 out of his hand and…and knocked him out."

"And then there's Harvey's story…which, from what I got, is also pretty weird."

"Well, there he is so let's just ask him for a full report." Nash pulled over in front of the Cain Apothecary Shop, specializing in herbal remedies according to the well worn sign, and got out.

Harvey and Antoine were waiting at the mouth of the nearby alley; Harvey was looking strangely agitated.

"Okay, Harvey; I hear the bank robbery was up there on the weird scale; you wanna tell me what happened?"

"Well, there was a guy with an AK 47-"

"I already heard about him; what about the bank official who was held hostage in back by the vault?"

"That would be one Joshua Montoya, junior vice president of the Powell Street Branch of Bank of America. Mr. Montoya had just arrived at the bank and was going to his office when one of the robbers decided he'd make a good hostage. At that point a guy in a white t-shirt and black ski mask showed up and tried to talk the guy into giving up and turning his hostage loose but he wouldn't go for it; the robber fired at him with a semi-automatic and then, according to both the gunman and his hostage, the guy in the t-shirt caught the bullets in his bare hands."

"What kind of-"

"I know, I know, but there's more. Now, Mr. Montoya said the guy who had him was holding a gun to his side, told the interloper to back off and did a 180 to get away from him, aiming him in the opposite direction and this guy in the t-shirt was somehow standing in front of them again. Montoya said the t-shirt guy got real close, like he wanted the gunman to aim at him. And he did; put the gun right up against this guy's forehead and Montoya swears the gunman started to pull the trigger but before he could, the guy in the t-shirt just took the gun away and crushed it in his fist. Mr. Montoya said he didn't even see the gun change hands. One second the gunman had it and the next it was gone and the other guy had it."

Antoine spoke up next. "There were some flattened bullet fragments back by the vault and something that looked like it might have been a gun."

"Might have been a gun?"

Antoine nodded. "Mostly metal fragments and gunpowder residue but there was what appeared to be the tip of a gun barrel." Shrugging, he added, "I know how that sounds…"

"I want those bank tapes as soon as possible. Antoine, you get 'em. And Harvey-"

"Nash…" Antoine interrupted, "there's something else…"

"What is it?"

"I…uh…well…" Antoine rubbed his head nervously.

"Spit it out, Toine."

"My gun…it…I heard shots fired from the back of the bank and I was coming around the front counter with my gun drawn…"

"For Pete's sake will you just tell me?"

"A guy who matches the description of the t-shirt man by the vault ran into me. I almost fell over backward but he…he grabbed me to keep me from falling, said, 'Sorry,' and then…then…"

"What?"

"He was gone before I finished yelling for him to stop…"

Nash stared at him. "What do you mean he was gone? Don't tell me he just-"

Shaking his head, he said, "Disappeared. He just disappeared. And look at this." He held up his gun, displaying its bent barrel.

"You are not trying to tell me he bent your gun, are you?"

Antoine threw out his arms in exasperation. "I don't know! It wasn't like this when I went into the bank and I noticed it right after he bumped into me."

Closing his eyes, Nash muttered, "I have a headache." He was silent for a moment. "Okay…here's what I want to happen-"

"Nash…"

"What is it, Harvey. I suppose you have a wild tale to tell me, too?"

Visibly wincing, he nodded. "Yeah…I guess mine's even weirder."

"Alright, Harvey; let's hear it. I'm all ears. What did you see that should have been on X-Styles?"

Rubbing his neck in agitation, Harvey stared up at the sky for a moment then back down the alley behind them. "Okay…first outside the bank…the third and fourth robbers came out the back into the alley. I shot one of 'em in the leg and he went down but the other guy was still on his feet so I retreated back around the corner to wait. Ronnie was at the other end of the alley so I figured these guys weren't goin' anywhere. When they finally stopped firing, I yelled for them both to put their guns down and get on the ground then I tried to peek around the corner and the guy was right there. He put his gun to my head and dragged me back into the alley with him. He got me back down by the bank door and told me to get on my knees against the wall. About a minute later, I heard someone walk up; I could see some big boots out of the corner of my eye and the guy who had me started shooting at whoever it was."

"So…he wounded the guy?"

"Well…it sounded like he hit something 'cause shots were ricocheting off the walls but the guy was still standing there and he didn't appear to be injured…then he tried to convince the guy to let me go. Said he could help the guy escape but only if he'd leave me behind. He was also quick to explain that if I got shot he wouldn't have a hostage anymore then he started pointing out all the reasons why it would just be a hassle to take me along so he should just cut me loose."

Intrigued, Nash asked, "Which were?"

"Oh…that I might try to run away or take his gun and that really ticked him off. This guy was very attached to his gun. Anyway, so the guy in the t-shirt told him he could keep his gun and he got real close; the minute he aimed his gun away from me, he took it. And it was just like the other guy said. I didn't even see the gun change hands; it was just instantly in the t-shirt man's hand. Then t-shirt guy picked the robber up with one hand and tossed him away like he was a rag doll. Like it was nothing. The bank robber was out cold and after asking me if I was alright, he handed me the gun and…and…"

"I can guess this part. He just disappeared."

"I swear, boss, he was there one second and gone the next. I didn't see him even run down the alley; he just…wasn't there anymore."

Joe looked around and asked, "So what happened here, Harv? Where's the guy who needed the ambulance?"

"I…think it was the guy from the bank."

"Okay, this is getting confusing. Which guy?"

"The guy who disappeared."

"Mr. Bulletproof?"

"Yeah…except…that's the even weirder part. I…had this feeling I should look around; it bothered me that there wasn't a getaway car close and I thought maybe there was a driver somewhere who'd gotten spooked. So I was driving down Jackson, going real slow and thought I heard something; I went back there and found a guy down in the east-west alley. Choked, stabbed and beaten; bleeding heavily and it was an ugly wound. Whoever attacked him made a point to be particularly cruel. I called for an ambulance and I think he…well…he stopped breathing."

"He's dead?"

"Nooooo…he…he…"

"Out with it, Harvey! What?"

"Healed himself, I guess. I watched his wounds close and he got to his feet and took off."

"What do you mean? He stopped bleeding?"

"Yes, no…more than that; the knife wound closed up and his side looked like it had never been injured. It looked like time lapse photography of a wound healing except it happened in real time in maybe a minute or less. I swear."

"Harvey, is it possible…never mind. Just…so there's no body and no evidence? Was there any blood?"

"Yeah…there was blood everywhere but…Nash…people just don't recover instantly when they lose that much blood! I still can't believe he got up and just ran off like that!"

"Sometimes, people run off when they're injured; they get adrenaline overload and take off before they even register how badly they're hurt; you know that, Harvey. Maybe that's what happened. Check hospitals and clinics for anyone matching this guy's description."

"Alright; and I want you and Antoine to ask around the neighborhood and find out if anyone saw anything; start here with the Apothecary shop. Then get those bank tapes and meet us back at the SIU. We'll be there as soon as we can. And…let's talk this over again before you file a report, if you get my drift. Okay?"

The two detectives nodded and headed off to ask some questions as Nash and Joe walked back to the car. The Cuda's powerful engine roared to life and they shot out into traffic.

Clark sat dejectedly, looking out over the ocean, as far west as he could go without getting his feet wet. He had been so sure earlier that the trail led west across the city and now… Despite his best efforts, he'd seen no sign of the man he'd been chasing and had nothing to show for his mad dash through San Francisco except a magnificent view of the Golden Gate Bridge. Well, that was something, anyway. The sun was low in the west and Clark knew he needed to think about heading home. He couldn't continue the search forever and as he stared out at the bay he told himself he'd been foolish to think he could find one man in a city so large even with his special abilities. All his intuition to the contrary, the guy just wasn't here. Hopefully, the SFPD would find this guy before he could hurt anyone else. Or maybe his partners in crime would give him up to cut a deal. It bothered him but the reality was he had to get back to Smallville.

Turning to the north he surveyed the great bridge and decided he's walk across since he was here. The cries of the gulls and the smell of the sea were a counterpoint to the traffic on the bridge, wilderness and civilization meeting here at the edge of the continent. Walking slowly, he watched in fascination as the birds overhead dipped and soared around the bright orange towers of the bridge. Again he had that feeling that he would someday join them but for the moment he was earthbound still. Clark started to walk a bit faster, thinking he'd head east from the north end of the bridge when something below him caught his eye and he trained his vision on a boat far below, anchored just off a dock near a building beneath the south end of the bridge. A man was sitting quietly in the late afternoon sun, a fishing pole hanging over the side of his small boat. Another man walked down a ramp and got onto the boat and…he was wearing Clark's shirt and jacket! And then-crap! He slugged the fisherman and tossed him over the side into the bay.

Looking back to the near end of the bridge, Clark judged the distance if he raced back on foot. He was quick but by the time he threaded his way down to the shore he was afraid it would be too late. He saw no one else close by to offer aid so there was no help for it; he had to jump. Shutting his eyes, he groaned at what he was about to do. Praying that his abilities didn't leave him in mid jump, he climbed up and threw himself out into space.

"Why are we coming all the way out to here to get a book about the Golden Gate Bridge? You can get 'em anywhere."

"Cassidy's getting it for a friend in Arcata and she wants this particular book and this is the only place in whole city that has it. And I'm being the good Dad and picking it up for her. That way maybe she'll feel guilty and buy me a big screen TV when she puts me in the Grumpy Old Dads Home."

"Like next week?"

"Maybe, if this weird stuff keeps up." The police radio crackled with a report of a jumper off the Golden Gate Bridge. "Man, I hate the jumpers. Okay, Joe, tell 'em we're close. We'll be there in five; I can see the docks from here."

"Five George thirty-one responding; we're about five minutes away."

As they got out, a jogger came up. "I saw a guy jump from the bridge! Right down there!'

"Okay; calm down; did you see what happened?" Nash asked, scanning the water.

"I was jogging along when I saw a guy in jeans and a t-shirt climb up and jump off. He didn't say anything, he just threw himself over the side."

Joe pointed toward the water east of the south tower. "Look…there's someone in the water…there's a boat nearby…give me those binoculars. Maybe the guy in the boat's gonna try and fish him out-"

Nash pulled over and they jumped out. "Hand me the binoculars, Joe." Training them on the rescue scene, he frowned. "Joe, is it my imagination or is that Eldon Sistrunk on that boat?"

"Eldon?" Joe took another look. "I'll be damned! It is Eldon; the jumper's still alive and it looks like Eldon's handing him an oar…I never figured Eldon for the Good Samaritan type."

"Whoa! No he's not! He's trying to cave his skull in with it." Nash and Joe took off running along the shore. "Police! Eldon! Stop that! Put that oar down!"

"Eldon! Don't-" Shots echoed off the water. "Damn! Now he's tryin' to shoot the guy. Pulling out their weapons, they ran along the shore trying to keep up with the boat.

Nash yelled again, "Eldon! Stop! Throw down your weapon!

"And drop the oar!" Eldon turned, firing at them and they ducked down behind a concrete trash receptacle at the water's edge when Eldon fired again. "Looks like Eldon's pissed."

"Eldon's always pissed." They jumped up and ran again when Eldon returned his attention to the man who was now climbing into the boat despite the hail of bullets. From their cover they watched, Nash training his binoculars on the boat. "Damn! I can't believe Eldon missed him at that range. He's…Eldon just broke the oar over his head and…the guy just knocked Eldon out! I'm impressed." Adjusting the binoculars, he tried to get a better look at the guy. "Wish he'd turn around so I could get a look at his face-"

Joe spotted the ambulance turning into the parking lot. "There's the ambulance."

Nash and Joe edged out from their hiding place and walked closer to the water's edge. "Here, you take a look."

"What's he doing now…he's pulling something black out of his pocket…it's a ski mask; he's putting on a ski mask!"

"Lemme see…" Nash took the binoculars back again. The man turned around obligingly now and waved at his audience. "Yeah, hi there!" Nash yelled, waving back. "Why don't you just come on in and we'll talk?" But he turned, fired up the motor and headed the boat eastward along the shore. "Where's he going with Eldon? Come on, Joe."

Racing back to the car, they found the ambulance in the parking lot where the EMTs were examining an elderly Chinese man. "What happened here, guys?"

"This man says he was fishing from his boat and a man jumped on board and threw him out."

"He was yelling; very angry! He hit me and threw me in the water. Another man jumped in and saved me from drowning."

"Where did he come from?" Joe asked.

"Not sure. But he carried me to shore and made sure I was okay then ran back to the water. He said he'd try to get my boat back."

Another jogger leaned in. "He jumped off the bridge! Man, I didn't think people could survive that kind of fall."

"Normally they don't."

"Uh, officer…"

"What?"

"Is that the boat over there?" he said, pointing down to a path that ran along the bay, father up the hillside from the road that wound its way along the Presidio grounds on the bay's northern edge. A small motor boat was sitting on the path, its tipped angle allowing a clear view of the hogtied inhabitant. One Eldon Sistrunk was lying unconscious inside, his hands and feet strapped with duct tape.

"Couldn't happen to a nicer guy." Grabbing his shoulders, Nash hauled him out of the boat and slapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. "Come on, Joe, grab his feet."

"What if he comes to? This guy kicks like a mule." Joe reached down and tried to get his handcuffs around his ankles. "No good; his ankles are too thick."

"Yeah, just like his head." Nash looked back toward the parking lot. "Well…" he turned and called out to the paramedics. "Hey, guys! You got anything for making plaster casts?"

Clark raced along the shore for a while then cut across town, this time making a beeline for the Embarcadero and the new underwater tunnel. There was nothing to keep him now that he had captured the fifth bank robber and retrieved his clothes except the fact that he'd lost his wallet. Maybe he could spot his wallet if the currents hadn't carried it out too far and he could avoid the hassle of getting his license and other IDs replaced. Clark had, from an early age, held an instinctive dislike for anything that involved dealing with officialdom in any capacity. Long before he'd learned the truth about his origins, he'd hated standing in line to get signed up for anything, always shy when asked questions of a personal nature. Getting his first library card when he signed up for the summer reading club in grade school had even been a trauma of sorts and even though he was better now, it was the type of situation he liked to avoid whenever possible. Besides, he told himself, it bothered him to leave any evidence of his visit behind. Well, it was worth a shot. In moments he arrived at his destination and looked around for the best way of getting down to the water.

Attempting to appear casual, Clark sidled up to the wall over which he'd tossed his wallet. Climbing up, he leaned out, trying to look straight down but a security guard grabbed his arm and told him to get off the wall. Mumbling, "Sorry," Clark walked around the corner of the building and waited until the guard was out of sight. Then he swung down beneath the walkway, once again stuffing his jacket and shirt out of sight and climbed down to the water's edge below. Another x-ray view revealed his wallet sitting on a ledge just above the clear tunnel. A Dungeness crab scuttled along the rocks at the shore, eyeing him curiously as he eased into the water and slipped below the surface.

It was actually quite peaceful; the sea enveloping him, shielding him from the prying eyes of the humans on the surface. For a moment, he hung suspended, floating on the currents of this underwater world, enjoying the solitude. His intense study of the city had included the ocean on its shores and the myriad creatures that inhabited it. Staring into the rocky promontory under which the Underseum had been built, he spotted an aptly named Monkeyfaced eel hiding in the shadows. Far below he saw an octopus oozing into an old bucket that had come to rest on the ocean floor, apparently, the best he could do in the tight San Francisco housing market. Apparently, housing was tight even here. A large Bat Ray zipped in front of him, startling him out of his reverie and he moved on, swimming over to his wallet while trying to remain out of sight.

Just as he reached out for it something bumped him and the current pushed the wallet off its perch and sent it floating out and down over the tunnel. Turning to see what had bumped him he found himself staring into the cold black eyes of a shark. The shark bumped him a second time then shot past him, scooping up the wallet before turning to come after Clark. The creature lunged, opening up its huge jaws filled with razor sharp teeth. Latching onto Clark's arm, it shook its head, trying to tear off a piece of it. Using his other arm, he opened the massive jaws then reached in to grab his wallet. Yuck! The shark gnashed its teeth, doing its best to subdue its unruly meal but couldn't bite off a chunk no matter how hard it tried. Clark smacked the shark hoping to discourage it but it refused to let go so he pried its mouth open again and withdrew his arm. He turned to go but the shark made one more attempt to get a piece of his arm and this time he gave it a roundhouse punch right on its gruesome nose, hard enough fling it away; he then swam back to the surface. Climbing out, he shook himself, grabbed his clothes and raced away toward the Bay Bridge. Kansas sounded pretty good and Clark Kent wanted to go home.

Antoine ran into the SIU holding several video cassettes. "I got 'em!"

Nash got up and headed below deck to have a look and talk to his men in private. The four of them huddled around the TV to review the bank tapes.

"Okay…the four of them come in, order everybody down on the floor and leave this guy up front while the other three spread out…he goes to the door and fires…then he comes back and starts yelling. Here; back up…frame by frame…look…there's a blur and then t-shirt guy appears and confronts the robber."

"Where did he come from?"

"Maybe he was hiding behind that counter…"

"There…go back, Harv; damn! The angle's bad and I still can't quite see him from the front. Here…the gunman aims at the guy in the t-shirt… By God he did shoot him! Point blank! Right in the chest with an AK!"

"And he didn't even flinch. He just grabs the gun and…look! He taps the guy on the forehead and he collapses."

"There…he leans down and takes the robber's mask and puts it on; his face is covered when he stands up."

"Check his shirt; there's a big hole in the front of it now but there's no blood."

Rubbing his chin for a moment, Nash finally said, "Okay, maybe he's wearing a vest and we just can't see it. Maybe it's…disguised, you know, a breast plate made to look like skin. Like a movie prop."

"Boss, I admit I was shaken up but I didn't see anything like that outside the bank...or later; it looked like real skin to me."

"Maybe he took it off and that's how he got hurt. That's assuming it was the same guy. Alright, alright, go on."

"Here's the tape from the vault area, same deal; he just appears then confronts the robber with the hostage, talks to him and the guy shoots him. Slow it down, Harvey; frame by frame again."

"It gets blurry for a split second then this guy holds out his hands and drops something onto the floor. Look at the robber's face. Hell, look at Montoya's face; he looks just as shocked as the robber. Okay here; look at this. The bank robber yells at t-shirt guy and turns around with his hostage and Mr. Bulletproof disappears then reappears in front of him."

"Run that again."

"Same. Disappears, reappears." Harvey rewound and played it again several times, each time with the same result. He's either teleporting or he moves really fast."

"Okay, go on."

"Now, this guy gets right up close and just lets the guy put the gun to his head. Then…here we go: the gun is suddenly in Mr. Bulletproof's hand. And here we see…he closes his fist, there's a puff of smoke…and when he opens it-no more gun. Okay, here's the frame by frame."

Repeatedly watching the tapes provided no additional insights. Nash steepled his fingers and tapped his chin with them for a moment. "Could the tapes have been altered?"

"Bank security claimed no one had touched them until we took custody."

"What about the blurry frames? That's possible evidence they were altered, isn't it?"

"I don't think so, Nash. The whole frame didn't blur, just a small area around this guy, whoever he is."

"Harvey, special effects work is possible with almost any video camera…is it completely outside the realm of possibility?"

"No, it's not but that kind of thing takes time; I honestly don't think anyone could have altered those tapes in the short time after the robbery. Plus, they'd have to adjust the time stamp to match the editing and that takes even more time; I just don't think so."

"And that doesn't explain your encounter with this guy in Chinatown. Are you sure about what you saw, Harv?"

"Swear to God, boss; it was just like I said."

"And what about the guy who jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge?" asked Joe. "You gotta admit he looked like the guy on these tapes. And it looked like Eldon tried and failed to shoot him, too."

"And brain him with an oar."

"Nash…"

"What, Antoine?"

"There's something else you might wanna see."

"Oh? And what would that be?"

"A tape from the Underseaum." Handing the tape to Harvey, he added, "I think this might be our guy. I picked up my sister there a little while ago and everybody was going nuts. People were saying they had watched a man attacked by a shark near the end of the glass tunnel and my sister caught it on tape."

"Do I wanna see this before I eat?" Nash grimaced at the thought.

"Just watch; the shark loses. It's kinda murky but it's a dark haired guy in what looks like a white t-shirt and…see…a shark bumps him a couple of times and comes back for a bite."

"He's not even trying to get away…look! He just waits for it. Eeewww…" Harvey winced when the shark bit down on the man's arm. "Now watch this…the guy grabs hold of the sharks nose with his free hand then opens the shark's mouth and looks inside. The shark bites down again and you'd think he'd be flailing around but he just stares at it then he smacks it with his other hand trying to make it let go. Then he pries its jaws open again, pulls his arm out and turns to leave. When it tries to take another bite he punches it in the nose so hard he knocks it backward. It looks…stunned for a moment…and it takes off. Then the guy just swims away." Antoine stopped the tape. "Do you have any idea how much force it would take to pry a shark's jaws apart?"

"A helluva lot," Nash observed.

"And there's no blood in the water."

"Yeah, even though the shark tried to rip his arm off repeatedly, there's no blood at all." Nash rubbed his lips, thinking for a moment. "Okay…so this guy's fast and sharkproof as well as bulletproof."

"And he can leap off high bridges-"

"About that, boss…" Harvey had a pained look on his face.

"There's more?"

"With all this going on, I didn't say anything but…I was eating lunch up by the Bay Bridge this afternoon and I found this guy…kid, really, wandering around. He…was lying in a pile of ruble next to the path that runs along the water and he seemed sorta out of it so I brought him back with me and took him over to the clinic to get checked out. He said his name was Claude and claimed he couldn't remember anything else. No IDs or anything."

"And…"

"I…when I first saw him I got the weirdest feeling that he fell from the bridge but that's not possible. I mean, maybe if you hit the water but not if you hit hard ground."

"Harvey…" Joe said, skeptically, "you don't seriously think- Nashman, this kid was a few quarts low. He couldn't possibly be the same guy!"

"What did he look like?"

Joe was silent for a moment before answering. "Well, he did have dark hair and he was wearing a white t-shirt under a flannel shirt and a tan jacket. We felt sorry for him and gave him an SFPD t-shirt."

Harvey walked back to the locker room, returning with the discarded shirt in question and set it in on the desk. Nash looked at it then gingerly picked something off the tattered front. "What's this?"

Everyone leaned in to get a closer look. Finally, Joe said, "Looks like a sheath from a cat's claw." It was easily two inches long. "He said a cat scratched him."

"Well," Nash said, as he examined it more closely, "that was one big kitty cat." Rising, he took the claw and the shirt and led his fellow detectives back upstairs.

Just as they passed by Harvey's desk a sudden disturbance made everyone turn.

"Quick thinking, Nash."

Two uniformed officers were bringing Eldon Sistrunk from the lock-up to be transferred to the central facility downtown; wearing a full body cast, he was pretty much immobilized except for a little wiggling. He was sputtering like a mad cat as he passed by although he did manage to give everybody the finger as he passed by.

Nash waved, smiling. "Yeah, bye to you, too, Eldon. See you in court!"

Clark Kent was finally home. After a sudden power outage on the south side of Lake Tahoe as he was following good old US Highway 50 once again then another short circuit when he reached Colorado Springs, he'd given up and bought a bus ticket with the very last of his money and placed a collect phone call to tell them he was coming. Sitting at the back of the nearly empty bus, Clark had put his shredded t-shirt on backwards, hoping to conceal the damage. It had been nearly four AM when the bus finally arrived, pulling over at the rural intersection where his dad sat waiting in his truck. His dad's face had been a welcome sight indeed. When he got home, he'd gone upstairs to shower and change as quickly as he could, hiding his t-shirt from his parents. Hopefully, they wouldn't ever have to find out most of what happened to him.

Clark sat on the edge of his bed for a few minutes, trying to collect his thoughts before heading downstairs again. Just as he reached the top of the stairs he heard his mom gasp and his dad called out for him. When he rounded the corner, they were sitting in front of the TV watching a newscast from KPAZ's sister station in San Francisco where apparently there had been a bank robbery the day before in which a mysterious man in a ski mask had disarmed four bank robbers and rescued a bank full of hostages as well as a police officer before disappearing into thin air according to eyewitnesses. A camera was now offering a close-up of an oil painting depicting the first president of the Bank of America in San Francisco which had inexplicably been found to have two neat holes apparently burned into it after the robbery. The commentator suggested that the robbers might have had political motivations for their vicious assault hence the damage to this heirloom painting. Also, melted bullet fragments had been found embedded into the expensive mahogany floor of the bank, something the police were at a loss to explain. Someone thought to ask Police Lieutenant Maggie Sawyer of the Metropolis PD whether she thought the man at the bank was the infamous Urban Legend from the summer of 2003 but she refused to comment.

The scene then switched to a reporter standing in front of El Capitan in Yosemite Park. He was pointing to a very deep and oddly shaped depression at its base and a large crack which ran up the vertical face of the granite from it. Smiling for the camera, the man turned to stand in front of the rock face and, raising his arms, showed that his body fit into the depression, more or less. Newly discovered and unexplained were the words he used and he added that the top of it looked like an impression of a human face pressed into the hard rock.

Finally, the reporter went to the Yosemite Village Lodge where he pushed a mike into the face of a man who worked there and who claimed he'd seen a man materialize out of thin air next to a plate of sandwiches and snatch a sub, leaving a twenty dollar bill in its place. "We tried to catch him but he got away. Had the biggest green eyes I ever saw; them aliens always have big eyes." The man started to expound on his various theories regarding alien invasions before the camera abruptly cut off and the anchorman moved on to other matters, including the miraculous survival of a man who had jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge and then saved another man from drowning in the bay below. His mom muted the sound and turned to stare at him.

"Is there a little more to your adventure in California than you mentioned?"

"Well…" he trailed off, not sure how much he should admit. Especially the part about-

"Clark, you know we're always proud of you for helping people but…please tell me you didn't crack El Capitan."

Clark winced, his shoulders slumping in a clear admission.

Nothing ever got past Mom.