Author's note: Thanks to everyone who's reading and reviewing!
.Chapter Four: Mission
.By the time he turned to face principal Reynolds, Clark had forced the emotion off his face. Blank wall. Give him nothing. But his insides still twisted as if he'd missed a step on a steep flight.
"Fordman, nurse; Keller, my office." Reynolds' voice pounded like a hammer on coffin nails. "Now. Don't even think about running away, Mr. Keller, or I'll call the police."
He walked briskly away, but Clark lingered in place. This was no subtle defiance; it was panic. Reynolds was going to call his old man, who'd be pissed. Split and go home? Reynolds would call the police, and his old man would be furious. Run away altogether? Oh, God, yes. But then, when his old man would come home drunk and angry, who would stand between him and mom?
"Worm your way out of this," Whitney hissed behind him.
But Clark had gone over his options in life many a time before, and had already realized there was no way out. There was only the lesser evil, which, right now, was to follow Reynolds to his office.
Reynolds sat behind his desk and picked up the receiver. His finger hovered over the buttons.
"Have a seat, Mr. Keller."
Clark remained standing in the middle of the office.
Reynolds lowered the receiver, and his eyes narrowed. "Have a seat, Mr. Keller."
Clark dragged back the chair opposite the desk and slumped down. His gaze flicked to Reynolds' finger, which now dialed a number much longer than 911 and just as bad. Then Clark settled into his POW routine, gazing at a point over Reynolds' shoulder. Clark Keller. Unranked. Service number: zero.
It took his old man an eternity to get there. Clark twisted in his seat when the office door finally opened, and exhaled an amused snort. Marshal Keller was dressed in the Sunday clothes that he never wore on Sundays, his hair was neatly combed, and his cheeks, despite being sagging and veined, scorned the very idea of bristles. He even smelled of spearmint. And the Oscar goes to...
"Mr. Keller, thank you for coming," Reynolds said.
Clark turned forward again and suppressed a shudder when his old man stopped just behind him.
"Of course. I take my son's education very seriously."
Liar.
The principal nodded. "I'm afraid this isn't the first time Clark has used extreme violence in this school, Mr. Keller."
Marshal rested a hand on Clark's shoulder in an oh-so-fatherly manner. Clark tensed and clenched his teeth; his old man must be wearing the meteorite ring upside-down. Reynolds noticed nothing. Clark concentrating on not writhing, damnit, he would give neither of them the satisfaction. His world narrowed to the pain and sickness that washed through him, while flotsam of conversation drifted by.
"... You know how it is with adopted children..."
"... I can't allow..."
"... Already seeing a psychologist about these anger bursts..."
"... I understand your position..."
"... Just give him time. We believe in him..."
"... Very well..."
"... I'm truly sorry about the other boy..."
"... Won't suspend him, this time..."
"... I appreciate that."
The heavy hand lifted form Clark's shoulder. He bowed his head and gasped in some air. He would not be sick in front of these two.
"I assure you," his old man was saying, "this incident will not be taken lightly."
"Good," Reynolds said.
Clark glanced at him without raising his head. He was talking to me, jerk.
"Coming, son?" his old man said.
You're not my father, you sonofabitch. "Yes."
They didn't speak all the way to the car, and the silence pulsed between them like a warhead. His old man drove without a word. Clark rested his head against the passenger's window and gazed at the streets that rolled past. Streets that didn't lead home, he gradually realized, but damned he was if he asked where they were going.
His old man pulled up in an alley behind the recently opened Talon, and Clark turned to him in confusion. Marshal shifted to neutral, pulled the handbrake, killed the engine, and backhanded Clark.
"I don't understand you, boy. I asked two things of you this morning. Two things. Do you remember what they were?"
Clark licked the inside of his split lip, but even as he did, the skin knitted back together and only the taste of blood lingered. He met and held his old man's blue-eyed stare.
Marshal said, "Keep out of trouble and come straight home. Is that so hard?"
Then how come you never manage it?
"I said, is that so hard?"
Fuck you. "No."
"Then why are we here two hours after school closed? And why did I just have to save your ass again?"
"No one asked you to," Clark said automatically, and braced himself for another blow. It didn't come. His old man's warning finger hovered inches from his face.
"You get one thing straight, boy. Your mother and I took you in when anybody else would have let you die. We raised you, we sheltered you, we put up with your freakish behavior. But if you get me tangled with the police, boy, I'll tell all of Smallville exactly what you are. And I'll open a booth of giveaway meteor rocks. God knows I've got enough of those."
Clark swallowed hard and scrounged up some bravado. "What do you want, old man?"
Surprisingly, Marshal leaned back in his seat with a smile. "Time to bring in your paycheck, boy."
So that's what it's all about. Clark looked away, scowling. "I'm not stealing for you anymore."
"I don't care how you get the money. You think raising you comes cheap? You have to carry your own weight in the house, boy."
So that you can waste it at the Wild Coyote?
"I'm tired of having this discussion every time, Clark. I could have turned you in to the government, they would have paid me real nice. But I didn't. Now it's time for you to make it up to me. Get out of the car. Now."
At least this was an order Clark was glad to obey. His backpack came flying out after him. Clark picked up the dripping bag and slung it over his shoulder.
His old man leaned over to roll down the passenger's side window. "You're not coming back home without my money. And if you don't come back, I will tell the people of Smallville what's living in their midst." The engine started with a roar. "It's your choice, boy."
.:: To be continued ::