Title: Fear
Author: Deja Vu
Summary:Fear can dominate a person's life, even if that person tries to stop it from doing so. Clark's master preys on fear. Can Clark escape him and finally be free?
Rating: No language, minor violence.
Disclaimer: This story is intertwined with the pilot episode of Lois and Clark and uses some dialogue and situations from the pilot (and perhaps a little from other episodes). All such dialogue and situations belong to the makers of Lois and Clark, not me. While I do not own Lois and Clark, this story is mine. :D

Fear.

He could smell fear.

The strong scent of animal-like sweat invaded his nostrils, mingling with his own odd inward sense of the fear itself.

But he didn't merely smell fear...

He could feel it...and taste its bitterness.

It was like his own private sixth sense, something he didn't try to feel or think about...It just happened.

Very strong...

The sense...

The taste...

The scent...

The fear.

Oh, the fear...

It always came back to the fear.

It was like the foul stench of a hundred decomposing corpses had all at once assaulted his nose...Like the taste of vomit on his tongue and the rough scratching of it against his throat as it came hurtling upward...Like a pounding headache—caused by a stampede of elephants—that simply refused to go away.

Sometimes his strange "sixth sense" made him feel as though he were a wild beast...

Often, he felt akin to a wild dog that was somehow able to sense that the humans nearby were frightened of what it might do with its teeth...or to a horse that knew it had an inexperienced rider on its back...

Animals were supposed to be able to sense fear. Not him.

And when most animals sensed that a person was scared, they readily took advantage of it.

But he didn't want to take advantage of anything. He just wanted to run away and hide...

Away from the fear.

He straightened, trying to appear menacing as he blocked the fear at least temporarily from his senses and emotionally bombarded brain.

He glared pointedly across at the man conducting business with his master.

The man was hiding it rather well, he reflected. But his fright was as obvious to Clark as it would have been if the man had possessed a giant sign on his forehead that told of it.

He gave an inaudible sigh.

Clark.

That was the only name he'd ever known...

Or, at least, the only name he could remember that was associated with himself.

His memories of his first eighteen years seemed to have been blocked from his mind. And yet, despite this seemingly unbreakable barrier, every few months he would have a quick flashback.

But not of scenes...nor of images.

Just emotions.

It was sometimes strange for him to think of his momentarily remembered past feelings as flashbacks, but they were all he had left of his former life...And he wanted to claim something.

He sighed softly again and tried to jog his memory. But it was pretty much pointless to even attempt it...

And yet...

Love.

Yes, he could remember love.

It was hard for him to describe exactly how he knew that what he had felt but a few times was love. Love was something that—other than with his rare flashbacks—he had never truly experienced.

His master had certainly never loved him.

Yes. His master.

Clark grimaced inwardly and then, because of it, experienced a brief pang of guilt, feeling that he had almost betrayed the man who had kindly taken him in after his amnesia had hit. It was his master that had helped him relearn how to speak and approach matters from an intelligent angle that belayed his mental youthfulness...And by doing so, his master had done so much more than he should have. Clark had no right to wish for more from him.

His master had graciously helped him in his time of need when no one else would. That which he had asked Clark to do in return was certainly an easy enough task for Clark to perform...

He wanted Clark to protect him with his life.

If Clark had been another man, perhaps it might have seemed to be too great of a request, even in exchange for the magnitude of help that his master had given him. But with his invulnerability, all it required was time, patience, acting...and total cooperation on Clark's part.

Clark gave a mental wince, remembering the last time that he had disobeyed his master's order to...dispose of someone...

It was a few years ago, on a dark, and strangely foggy, Metropolis night. He had been performing his typical "look big and mean" bodyguard duties when his master had pulled him aside, politely asking the man he was doing business with to excuse him. His master had softly made a request—although it was actually a command in disguise, as was typical with him—but Clark had been adamant in his refusal of the "request." He would not murder someone in cold blood. The man had done nothing to him—he had just displeased Clark's master by performing some minor task against his master's wishes...

His special abilities had been gone for a week.

The strange green rock that was kept around to keep him in line had been brought out, causing him to crumple to the ground in pain. After his skin had weakened enough, he had been injected with a mix that contained microscopic particles taken from the rock. The particles had been altered by his master's scientists so that the injection would keep him fully conscious...and suffering in agony.

The deadly particles (at least, they were deadly to him—they didn't seem to have any effect on other people) had also been changed to a form that would cause him a great deal of pain but wouldn't quite kill him, although at times he had wondered if Death were at his doorstep. Whenever he pleaded for his master to show mercy, he was ignored. When, during more lucid times, he ventured to ask his master about where he had found the meteorite, he had also been denied an answer. The rock simply remained an enigma to him.

His master had never again asked him to kill someone, but the cold look that had been in his eyes ever since had torn at Clark's heart. His master was the only family Clark had ever known...or, at least, that he could remember...That phrase was certainly becoming more popular in his mind every day.

Clark's master had kept his alien abilities a secret and had kindly hired him as a bodyguard, but he was only to be seen at certain times by certain people. That was the only role he played. His master had another servant as his second-in-command.

Clark had been serving his master for eleven long years. The earliest image he had was waking up in a bed with an excruciating headache. His master had taught him to communicate verbally, and when Clark had finally gotten a good grasp on the English language, his master had carefully explained Clark's situation and informed him that he had strange powers he would have to relearn, although the existence of his powers would have to be a secret between them. His savior had tried to teach him corrupt morals, but something deep inside Clark—perhaps what he'd been taught by his parents?—had resisted. His master wasn't happy with Clark's ethics, but he had Clark's services, so he grudgingly accepted them.

Clark had very briefly entertained thoughts of escape, but his remembrance of the painful meteorite that his master's scientists had dubbed "Element X" had quickly squashed the idea.

"Very well," his master closed.

Giving a slight bow, the man exited. Lex Luthor turned to Clark. "That went rather well."

When Clark only nodded in response, the other man raised a questioning eyebrow. Clark spoke up, glad that the scent of fear had mostly left the room with the man, although putrid remains of it stayed persistently behind. Hoarsely, he spoke, "Strong." He cleared his throat. "His fear was very strong."

Luthor nodded thoughtfully. "Good. I suspected as much." He smiled. "Fear helps keep them in line...Perhaps next time he will think twice before even contemplating the thought of double-crossing me."

Clark agreed, "He will." If the amount of fear he had felt from the man were anything to go by, the man would entertain no thoughts of stabbing his master in the back in a hundred lifetimes.

"As you know, tonight is my White Orchid Ball. I will have you fitted for a new tux, and you will need a haircut. Perhaps, if you are to appear in public..." Luthor surveyed him. "Yes. It wouldn't do to have my underlings recognize you, since they might get the wrong idea...Mmhmm." He nodded. "A slightly different haircut and...well, we might as well dye it. Brown...Yes, that will do nicely."

"As you wish," Clark said simply.

"Nigel," Lex called out.

A bookcase slid back, revealing Lex Luthor's thickly accented second-in-command, Nigel St. John. He was an ambitious and cultured man, but he was well-paid and knew better than to betray Luthor. "Yes, sir?"

"Clark's hair needs a trim, and it should be dyed brown." Lex briefly scanned his bodyguard again. "Light brown."

Clark grimaced inwardly. He hated having his hair dyed 'light brown.' It just didn't seem to fit him.

Bowing, Nigel answered, "Yes, sir."

Despite being Luthor's right-hand man, Nigel didn't know anything substantial about Clark's powers and alien origin. He merely knew that he was strong...

Very strong.

Clark reluctantly followed him out.