~ Disclaimer; not mine. I'm a fencer myself - it's how I stumbled onto Smallville, surfing the channels, stopped to watch the fencers, stayed to watch when one took off his mask!~

~between Brave New World I & II, for obvious reasons, if you've read 'em.~

Interlude: Impasse

LEX

Fencing with my father. Not verbally. Epee today, and I have the advantage of being lighter on my feet, offset by his longer reach.

Parry, attack, counter-attack, retreat. A metaphor for our relationship.

Epee requires concentration, dedication, precision timing.

Parry in sixte, lunge.

Better than foil, a larger target. Better than sabre, avoiding the sheer power of the blade swinging at my face.

Get my lead foot back in time to avoid a touch, take the opportunity to try and make a hit on his extended arm.

He used to win every time, draw me into attacking. I know better now.

Low quarte, semi-circular parry. Beat him back. Disengage. Retreat. Let him chase me.

All in silence. Let the bastard be the first to speak.

Blade on blade on blade. Feint, cut over, thrust.

No drink, no drugs, no parties. Plenty of exercise and fresh country air. I'm fitter, faster, stronger than I was. Attack, twist and recover as the blade passes my chest.

"Lex, Lex, you do like to take risks." The voice is low, mocking as always, but I can hear a new note. Now he will list my faults, my failures.

I don't even flinch when he mentions Mother.

Lunge in seconde. No broken time here, pull my arm back, feel the blade go past, parry, attack.

I can see his eyes through the mask. No longer detached, but concentrating. And a little puzzled. This has never happened before, has it, father? He's putting weight behind his arm now, taking me seriously.

"When I sent you to the factory, Lex, I expected you to fail me again. Embarrass me. Instead...you have done well."

Try and wrong foot me with praise? Saw that coming. Beat, lunge. Is this where he asks me to come over to the Dark Side? Too late for that. Semi-circular parry, close in, hilt to hilt, disengage.

I have friends now. People who know me at my worst, encourage me to be better.

"And how is your little...romance progressing?"

That was incredibly obvious, Dad. Parry octave, beat, lunge.

"But...a local?"

Don't go there. Drop my arm, encourage him to think I'm tiring. Blade up to engage, actually force him back a step.

He can't touch me anymore. I have all the love and encouragement that I need in my life. My 'local' is my strength, my conscience.

Short, vicious flurry of blows. I don't retreat, though the force of the encounter numbs my hand. Parry, counter-parry and -thrust-.

I hit him in the chest. He hits me in the shoulder.

Impasse.

He's breathing heavily when he takes off the mask. I'm not. I salute him, put my sword back in the rack, walk away.

Now he gets to wonder - did I let him hit me?