-- Chapter 20 -- To Live --

Pete made his way up Chloe's driveway, the gravel crunching under his slow steps. This was it. Chloe was leaving today for Metropolis. It was going to be a long summer without her, but he was glad she was going. She needed to get away from Smallville for a few months. It would be good for her to get some perspective on everything, especially Clark.

Before he could even knock, the front door opened, and Chloe poked her head out. "Pete! I forgot you were coming over."

"You think I was going to let you just leave without saying goodbye? What kind of friend would that make me?" Pete pulled Chloe into a quick hug. "It's going to be boring around here without you. So, how do I help? I'm a mean luggage carrier."

Chloe returned Pete's smile enthusiastically. "Good news on the boring front. I won't let you spend your summer cow tipping. I'm sticking around."

"What's that supposed to mean? Did the Daily Planet back out on the summer internship? I thought they were committed? That's not cool," Pete said.

Chloe's smile faded back and degree and she shrugged. "Actually, I backed out. I know you haven't exactly been in on the loop lately, but the search for Clark has heated up, and I couldn't leave in good conscience."

The search for Clark, that was all Chloe ever talked about. It had become her universe, above and beyond the Torch, even beyond her own future. "This is not healthy, girl. I loved Clark too. You need to get on that train this afternoon, ride to Metropolis, and soak in some smog. If Clark knew you were walking away from the Daily Planet for him, he'd never stand for it."

"He isn't here to stand for it, though. That's the problem," Chloe snapped. God, he sounded like Lex, telling her to let it go, telling her what Clark would have wanted as though he were dead. "If you can't be supportive, just go. Okay, Pete?"

This was going to get ugly before it got better, but he couldn't just smile and let Chloe throw her life away. "I'm being supportive – of you. Don't throw your dreams away on someone who's gone. It isn't fair to Clark's memory or to you," Pete said.

"Clark is not DEAD! I wish everyone would stop acting like he is. Maybe if I wasn't the only person who thought he stood a chance, we could have already found him. You're a quitter Pete, and you aren't much of a friend either. Go away." Chloe headed back inside and slammed her front door. She bit down on her fist and refused to cry. Her dad was taking a nap in the next room, and he didn't need a weepy teenager disturbing him. It would all be so much easier if Pete was a total ass, but he didn't deserve that attack. "I'm sorry," Chloe whispered.

Pete blinked rapidly until his eyes cleared and stared at the closed door. He'd tried right? I'm sorry, Clark. She always listened to you, man, not to me. She's just stubborn, and she happened to love you. Not that you ever noticed little things like that.

"Pete?" The door had slipped open a crack and Chloe was peeking around it. "I'm sorry for what I said. I didn't mean it."

Maybe she did listen to him after all? "I know you didn't."

"You want to come in and have a soda or something? I could tell you why I decided to stay this summer. It isn't a whim."

Endless meetings, hours of political debate, voting and re-voting, Kal-El was sick of it all. Thankfully the Over Council would recess soon, a few hours of blessed freedom from bureaucracy. It wouldn't all be so annoying except for the other Over Council members. Every attempt he made to exert his will, further his goals, was blocked. They treated him like a child. Didn't they realize that he possessed the knowledge of Krypton. He was at least as powerful and informed as any of them.

Could they tell that he was their enemy? Kal-El wished he had something to throw and hands to throw it with. Hands...gleeful laughter filled him. He could have hands, couldn't he? The Eradicator had said she would be his to command after he faced the council. Until now he'd avoided that weapon. He'd had no desire to lay eyes on her ever again. Secretly he hoped she suffered, alone and waiting without a purpose. He hoped it was an agony of boredom and emptiness.

Maybe she could be of use though, if she could be made to serve reliably. Of course she could be made to serve reliably. What was he thinking? He had the knowledge of his entire civilization. Reprogramming the Eradicator to function correctly wouldn't take half a second after he got her online.

Kal-El sent out a thousand programs, seekers, to locate the Eradicator. After a lag of only a couple of seconds he had a location. Kal-El tapped into a nearby surveillance monitor and got his first look at the Eradicator since Ascension. She hadn't strayed far. Silent and motionless as a statue, she stood sentry outside the government building. Her disguise was gone, no more bruised fruit look for her. She was back to her porcelain-skinned raven-haired self.

"Eradicator, I summon you. Your master calls," Kal-El said. His voice sounded wrong, mechanical and clipped emerging from the monitor station's speakers. "Jack into the system, Eradicator. We need to talk."

Finally, he called. She feared he would leave her for an eternity without direction but also without the peace of shut-down. The Eradicator turned and thrust her hand into the network interface. Give me direction.

"Provide me access to your AI. It's time you were repaired." Kal-El didn't waste time trying to communicate with the Eradicator in her current form. First he'd write her mind to zeros, return her to factory specs. Then they could try communicating.

She didn't question his order. Her barriers simply fell.

Kal-El examined her AI, what was left of it, and tried to figure out where to start the repair job. Lord, that was just wrong. Like a twisted knotted mess, covered in malignant tumors the AI held no resemblance to the design Kal-El had found in his store of knowledge. "So this is what sentience looks like when it's young and imbalanced and raw. I'd be killing you if I fixed you. You're skating that line between being alive and a machine." Like me. "I guess we're closer to mirror images, both in the twilight between life and death, but I'm heading out and you're clawing your way in." Did it hurt her like it hurt him? It would serve her right. "You don't get to go back to being just a machine. It's too easy. I'd be doing you a favor. I think I'll even you out a bit instead and stop some of those insane swings of logic that keep getting you in trouble."

It was more art than science, trying to fix the Eradicator's emerging mind so that it would be more stable. He didn't want to change it, at least not fundamentally. "System reinitiate... Did I break you or what?" Instead of a mind puzzle, the Eradicator took a virtual form similar to her physical body.

"Master Kal-El, you were going to repair me, yes? Did you decide to postpone my repairs?"

"I'm not a murder. Fixing you would be killing you, and you don't get oblivion when I'm the one who wants it," Kal-El said. "I was planning to fix you, and use you, but I guess that's out. You, fellow sentient being, cannot be trusted."

"What am I supposed to do? I need direction. You have to tell me what to do. Shut me down if you don't need me, but make a decision," the Eradicator pleaded. "I can't keep making decisions for myself, not with you in existence. I can't."

Clark shook his head and grinned, enjoying her confusion and desperation. "I was pretty desperate for you to listen to me not long ago. You were just a little too late with this change of heart."

"I suppose I could go to your body in the hospital facility and hope it recovers. You...he would shut me down," the Eradicator said. "Please give me a directive?"

Kal-El stared disbelievingly at the Eradicator. "My body should have died. I studied Ascension in great detail. It's a violent process that has killed every Ascendant to date."

"Kryptonians are a sturdy race. You should realize that they don't die easily," the Eradicator said. You've found a reason you need me...tell me what you need.

A thousand possibilities, kissing Lana, hugging his mother, standing in the sun, the feel of cotton out of the dryer on his skin, all flashed through his mind in an instant. Foolish hopes and memories that could never happen, Kal-El commanded himself sternly. That wasn't how Ascension worked. "I can't go back though. I'm a copy of that mind, not the original. Maybe the body survived, but the mind was probably shredded. He'll never recover."

"Anything is possible when it comes to the Kryptonian mind," the Eradicator said.

If you tell her what to do, she gets what she wants. "Watch him, and if Clark Kent wakes up, bring him to me."

Eight tiny torn pieces of paper, sat in a neat little pile in the center of Lex's desk. Absently he stirred the pile of paper with his index finger.

"Are you listening to me, Lex?" Lionel snapped. He leaned forward, violating his son's personal space. "I asked you what happened to that money. Tell me, Lex."

I spent it looking for a dead kid. "It's my personal money, father. Go to Hell."

"Go to Hell? I will not take much more of this from you, son. You don't want to cross me too often. I might lose my patience," Lionel said.

Was he supposed to be afraid? "Go bark at someone else. The money was pocket change," Lex said. His tone held just enough boredom to spark fire in his father's eyes.

"We aren't through discussing this, Lex. I suggest you think of some better answers to my questions," Lionel said.

His father stormed out of the room like some sort of diva, slamming the door behind him. Lex snorted and pieced the papers on his desk back into their original form. You wouldn't often see a signed ten thousand dollar check ripped to shreds.

Apparently, Chloe's psychic, Jason Fisk, didn't want his money. Lex hadn't been able to get in to see the man in the hospital, and then he'd cut out of Smallville like a bat out of Hell. A letter had arrived today with the shredded check, but Lex hadn't gotten a chance to read it before Lionel stormed the office.

With a sigh, he opened the folded sheet of paper.

Dear Mr. Luthor,

I apologize for leaving so abruptly. I realize you were sponsoring my endeavor to locate a certain Clark Kent and that you should have been appraised of my progress before I left Smallville.

I have decided to abandon this case, due to extreme emotional distress. My preliminary findings were as follows:

1. Clark Kent is alive.
2. He is experiencing a level of pain that I am unable to deal with in my way of searching.

I wish you all the best in this endeavor, and you should find the payment your representative, Ms. Sullivan sent, enclosed. Please send any further communication to my lawyer.

Sincerely,

Jason Fisk

Lex stared at the letter and the shredded check. Giving up the money didn't make sense. People don't tear up ten thousand dollar checks. The man had to be terrified of the possibility of having to try finding Clark again. A chill raced down Lex's spine. As impossible as it seemed, Chloe might be right. Clark might really be alive.

How was he going to find him though? Would there be anything left of his friend to find after over half a year with the Eradicator in some sadistic Hell?

A being, covered from slick head to slimy toe in fine writhing orange tentacles, made its slow stooped passage up a long brightly lit corridor. It adjusted the straps of its simple black uniform and poked its head into one of the many anonymous rooms. With a sigh that fluttered its face tentacles, the being took a seat next to the newest patient in the long-term-care hospital facility.

"Xyle, boy, you have got to find a better job. Dealing with vegetables day in and day out is deteriorating your conversational skills." With another dramatic sigh, the creature checked the readouts on his new patient. This alien had only been on the ward for a week, but Xyle was already tired of looking at it. The thing's skin was too dry and smooth, not a hint of slime anywhere. It was pale with a mess of bizarre dark-colored hairs on its head. All creatures couldn't be beautiful like him. With a proud smile, Xyle's tentacles quivered. An expression of pity flashed across his face, and Xyle spat a wad of slime into one of his hands. Carefully he smeared the oily substance over the patient's face and hair. "You look a hundred percent better now. Not as good as me but some things you have to be born with."

With a self-satisfied grin Xyle headed for the exit. It was time to get out of this tomb and find something really beautiful to look at. He was still young. It was time to party.

Beneath that fine layer of oily slime, Xyle's newest patient stirred. He blinked his eyes and snarled his nose. What was that smell, rotten fish? God, he hurt. His brain felt like a pulsing open wound. "Help me? Anyone?" The words had barely been whispers but they echoed in his brain like a thousand decibels. Bile was rising in the back of his throat, and the patient rolled over to dangle his head over the side of the bed. That was a mistake. Sure he wasn't going to drown in his own vomit, but that seemed almost preferable to the new waves of pain moving had elicited.

The patient heaved dryly, thick orange slime draining off his face. With a grimace he pushed himself back fully onto the bed. The pain in his head seemed to be fading back a little, and he tried cracking his eyes open just a bit. Soft white light greeted him without inflicting pain and he opened his eyes fully. The wall he was facing was reflective and silver. Two tired looking blue eyes in a ghost-pale face stared back at him. The foul smelling slime had plastered thick black hair to his head. The patient reached a hand out toward the wall and his reflection.

Who was that?

Who was he?

Adrenaline hit his system and his heart started beating rapidly. "Who am I? Is anyone here? Help me." He shut his eyes and tried to remember, something, anything. He balled his hands into fists, clutching the slick gray synthetic sheets. Trying to remember just made his head ache with renewed pain. "Is anyone there?!"

Quiet now, you're only causing yourself more pain. I can hear you. This is too far for me. You have to come closer so I can help you.

"Who's there? Who are you? Do you know me?" It hurt so much. His head was throbbing again in intensifying waves. Make it stop.

A wave of mind-song, soothing and cool washed through him. My name is Lola, and I won't be able to do this again, unless you come to me. I don't have the energy.

"Who am I?" the young man whispered. The brief song had faded though, and no more words appeared in his mind. At least the pain inside his skull had dulled. He turned to stare at his unfamiliar face and started sucking in harsh gasps of air. I don't know who I am, and I'm hearing voices.

"Am I insane?"

If Lola hadn't been so completely drained of energy, she'd have flown into the air and set off a beautiful light display. Nearly a week's careful prodding and coaxing had finally wakened Clark. If he weren't so far away she might have been able to push harder, faster. No use crying over wasted time and energy now.

Ascension had damaged, shocked, and bruised the mind that was Clark Kent, but it hadn't killed. All things less than death could be helped, soothed and recovered. A little energy and a little time would make all the difference in the world. Lola wasn't going to be alone again so soon.