The receptionist had just dropped an animal cracker into her mouth
from her cache behind the printer on her desk. The phone, of course, chose
that moment to chime in her earpiece.
"Good morning. Sparrow Mountain Real Estate Group. How may I direct your call?" The greeting was automatic, even if the words were a little slurred by the crumbs in her mouth.
Instead of her customary thank you and the efficient call transfer to one of the other eight phones in the small office, she knitted her face with a perplexed look. "This is Sandra Wells," she said in answer to the young man's query. She had received few phone calls at work in the four months since moving to Metropolis.
The young man sounded relieved to have reached her, but somehow hesitant. "Ms. Wells. Hi. My name is Pete. Pete Ross. Look, I'm trying to track down a friend of mine here in Smallville. I was hoping you might be able to help me? His name is Tyler Reed."
Sandra heard her own inadvertent gasp through the phone's earpiece. "What's happened to Tyler? Is he alright?" She knew it was a stupid question, considering the state he was in when she last saw him.
The voice on the other end became slightly dejected. "Yeah. I haven't heard from him in about a week. I guess that means you haven't, either."
She didn't think it was a question, but she answered anyway. "No. I'm sorry. I haven't heard from Tyler in months. How is he? Is he still . . . Does he still have the same problems?" She hoped that nobody was looking at her. She was trembling, now. She didn't want to think of it; she didn't want to think of him. Tense fingers toyed uneasily with her earpiece's coiled cord.
A long pause met her questions. The wait seemed to make her blouse more irritating against her skin, and her shoulder blades twitched to alleviate the discomfort. Eventually, though, he started talking again. "I'm . . . I'm not sure I'm the right person to ask. That's kind of Tyler's thing to talk about, y'know?" She squeezed her eyelids closed, and tried not to think of his words as a rebuke.
He seemed to try putting more optimism into his voice before he continued. "Look, I'm sure he's fine. Just in case, why don't I give you my number if you hear anything from him."
As she was writing down the phone number, a stray thought occurred to her. "Pete, can I ask you something? What made you call me?"
There was another pause, though more brief, before he answered. "I think . . . you may have been on his mind, just before he disappeared."
"What do you mean?" she asked, the unsteadiness in her hands entering into her voice.
"I took a friend over to his house. You know, to check things out. What we found . . . Well, it wasn't what we expected. His computer monitor was busted. I think there may have been blood on it." His voice didn't become more somber. He went through it like it was just a part of the story. "We hooked another one up to see what was on it before it got beat up." Sandra couldn't quite follow his logic. It sounded like he'd skipped over half the story, but she thought she was catching the gist of it. "And that's when we saw his e-mail. We figured he must have smashed it or something after he saw your letter. Either that, or he really hates spam mail, because that's all that was in there."
The earpiece was nearly yanked off her ear as her hands gripping its cord pulled it taught. She could feel the color rising in her face, and she didn't feel like she was completely in control of her muscles. "My e- mail!" she gasped out. She'd tried to say it as quietly as she could, but it still rang like a shout in her ears. "You didn't read it, did you?" The prickling along her neck and shoulders told her that several pairs of eyes were on her. She didn't give herself time to care. She swallowed quickly, trying to gulp down fretting nerves that were clutching at her.
"No! No, we wouldn't do anything like that," came his hasty reply. "To be honest, I don't think he did, either. I don't think any of his e-mails were open."
Her right hand came quickly to her forehead as she lowered her head in relief. Heat throughout her body evaporated, as though from a breeze, and her suddenly clenched breathing returned to normal.
After a few short moments of calming herself, she realized that it seemed to be her turn to talk, again.
"I'm sorry," was what she managed to say. "I didn't mean to . . . I'm sure you understand? I'm sorry." She knew she sounded awkward and lame, but decided not to make it worse by clearing it up.
"Hey, I'll call you back if I find out anything. I won't even tell Ty that I called, if you don't want me to."
"Thank you," she said quietly. She disconnected the call without saying goodbye. She just needed to get away from her desk.
Looking down, she saw that two calls had been on hold. With a handful of coworkers watching her, she dropped her earpiece to the desk, her fingers seeming to be without the strength to place it. She unsteadily rose to her feet, and made her way towards the building's elevators; not a single move carried any conviction.
She made no excuse as she left, not even looking anybody in the eye. But her purse still sat on the edge of her desk. Nobody in the office seemed that concerned.
* * *
The wood creaked uncomfortably beneath her as Martha climbed the stairs towards Clark's loft. She really didn't feel like she needed the barn commenting on her weight like that.
Her son was standing where he always stood, staring into the burnt hues of the evening's sky. For a moment, she just watched him, motionless. She wondered yet again what captivated him, what made him stare at the sky, sometimes for hours a night.
One reason, she knew, was that he'd had a home up there. Somewhere. And maybe he still did. A home without her and Jonathan. It was nothing new for her to think about. She'd faced that question for more than a dozen years, now.
Whatever his heritage, whatever his genetic or cultural birthright, Martha knew who Clark was. He was her boy, and spaceships and meteor rocks couldn't change that. She used to fear his birth parents, assuming he had any. She didn't fear what they might be able to do, just that they existed at all; they had a claim to her son. She had grown to realize, though, that whatever happened, she and Jonathan were his parents. That was enough for her.
He hadn't known about his origin for even a year, though. She wondered what had drawn him to the skies for so many years before.
She continued to watch him, and he continued to watch the sky. Neither one was in a hurry to move.
It was easy to be proud of him. His strength, his strange new powers, and his gifts didn't add at all to that pride. In fact, Martha suspected that her husband was secretly ashamed of their son's gifts. He was certainly scared, a great deal more than he'd ever let Clark see.
It was who Clark had become in spite of his differences that justified every sleepless night she'd ever spent, wishing for a child who could share what she and Jonathan had to offer. Clark had all of his father's idealism. It was idealism she didn't think existed growing up, a world as foreign to her as surely Clark's own must be. He also had most of her practicality, always trying to make sense of chaos, to use logic where less clear heads would find disaster. He lacked it only in affairs of the heart, and she desperately hoped the boy would learn to use sense there, too.
Between the idealism and the practicality, Clark had found his own identity. He was never satisfied with a bad situation. He could see the way that things should be, and he set about trying to make them that way. Though there was still the occasional time when he needed prodding, his belief in his own ability to change the world around him was acute. And who could blame him?
She liked to think she could see Clark for who he was. He would bring injustices to people's attention, he would fight any worthy battle regardless of the odds, and he would fight with the power of words before ever raising a fist. Even without his special gifts, Clark Kent would have been a force to be reckoned with.
Once, her husband had told her that Clark had called Jonathan and herself his two strongest gifts. She liked to believe he was right. She hoped that Clark believed it.
How could she not be proud?
"You know what the worst part of a hayloft is?" Clark suddenly asked without turning around. "There aren't any doors to knock on."
She caught herself smiling, and tried out a falsely stern face. Of course, he couldn't benefit from it since he still wasn't facing her. "Don't you forget who pays the bills around here. Or who lets them pile up."
The grin on his face as he turned around was twisted wryly. She got the impression he didn't think financial straits were a good source of humor. Frankly, neither did she. It had just slipped out, as many of her quips did.
"So what's up, mom? Did you find out about the juice stain on the carpet?"
"Yes. When you were seven. You weren't exactly subtle about hiding it, but covering it with the washing machine was certainly impressive."
For all the world, Clark's wide eyes, spread hands, and pitched voice made him look like he was trying to convince her of his earnestness. "I never in my life saw you and dad look under the washer. I thought I was pretty safe."
Martha let out a sigh and shook her head slightly. Something about farm- boys or nonsense or maybe even teenagers' wit may have been muttered under her breath.
Clark's expression clearly indicated how pleased with himself he was when it broke into a huge, toothy grin. "So if you're not here to yell at me about an eight year old stain, what brings you up here?"
She crossed the floor slowly and sat down on the ancient couch wrapped in blankets. "I'm worried about you, Clark. You really seemed like you wanted to talk about things last night, and then your friends showed up and I didn't hear another thing about it." She pursed her lips to wait for a response, but it didn't come. "What happened yesterday?"
Clark sighed and fell into an ugly red armchair. "Nothing happened, mom. Nothing that doesn't happen every week of my life, these days. It's really not that big of a deal." He was staring at the planks in the floor, not seeming at all comfortable.
"So then what did happen?"
He met her eyes and held them. "I scared myself."
Martha kept looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue. When he didn't, she asked, "What do you expect me to say, Clark? 'Your gifts are a part of you but they don't define you'? 'You should only really be scared when you stop caring'? Or maybe, 'Fighting your own fear is always the toughest challenge'?"
He rolled his eyes at her in perfect imitation of a North American Teenager. She hoped he'd perfect his impression of a Grown Adult, soon. "Isn't that what I normally get when I bring my fears to you guys?" he asked her.
"No, it isn't." She leaned forward and tilted her head slightly to the side. "That's your father talking. We don't talk like that, he does."
Clark blew out a huff of laughter. "In that case, you forgot, 'The cows aren't going to scare themselves."
Martha's mouth, which had been in a pout of concern, grinned back at her son. "Exactly."
"And, 'With great power comes great responsibility.' Where's that one?"
She almost giggled, and said, "Somehow, I don't think that's his style."
Her smile faded a touch, though the color in her cheeks remained. She tried to steer back to the other day. "How did you scare yourself, Clark? What happened?"
"It wasn't anything big or important," he began. "It just bothered me."
His gaze slid from her to the ground as he continued. "I was at Lex's. Or on my way there, anyway. A truck was pulled off the road, and I went to see if there was somebody in need of help."
Martha tried not to smile at that, not wanting to interrupt the flow of the story.
"I saw somebody inside, watching the place through binoculars." He shook his head sadly, still staring at the floor. "Things kind of went crazy from there."
Concern briefly flashed across her face, and when he paused, she said, "Tell me what things went crazy. What scared you, exactly?"
"That's just it," he said. "I got so angry, I still can't remember exactly what happened."
He stood up, then, and paced along the floor of the loft. His footsteps echoed so loudly that Martha thought she could feel them through the couch beneath her.
"I remember how angry I got that somebody was spying on one of my friends. I know that he tried to run me over, but I don't remember if he hit me, or I fell under it, or what. I don't even know for certain how my jacket got ripped." As he continued recounting the story, his fingers ticking off the points he could and couldn't remember, he didn't look over at his mother once.
"Then I ripped off the truck's door, and I had him in my hands. For some reason, mom, seeing him just made me more mad." The memory had apparently renewed some of his ire, as his fists clenched silently, and his breathing increased.
She tried to stop the anger's progression by getting him to concentrate. "What was it about seeing him that upset you?" Seeing him like this, she was more than just concerned. She had to admit that she was a little scared of him, too.
"His face!" Clark spat. "His body was covered in scales, green near his head, red at his hands. I didn't know what he was."
Martha's jaw dropped and her eyes grew wide. She was genuinely shocked at his answer. "Clark Kent! You were raised better than judging somebody like that, and you know it!"
"I know, mom," he replied quickly. "I don't know what happened, or why. It's just that . . . I've seen so many strange things this last year. So many people with their own gifts, or just somehow twisted by the meteor rocks. Out of dozens of them, I can only think of three people who didn't try to hurt people: Ryan, Kyle Tippet, and Cassandra. So when I saw him . . ." he seemed unable to finish.
She stood quietly and walked over to her son. She put her hand on his shoulder, and stared into his eyes, her own filled with compassion. "You're forgetting one person: You."
Clark dropped his eyes, unable to hold her look. The color that rose in his cheeks told her how ashamed he was. "I don't know. That's the problem. How do I know that the same thing isn't going to happen to me?"
He turned around, and went to stand again at the spot from which he watched the heavens. When he talked again, it seemed mostly to himself. "Look at what the meteorites brought this town. Thirteen years of death, pain, and terror."
She was about to interrupt him, but he didn't give her a chance. "Chloe has a bulletin board in the Torch office that takes up an entire wall. It's hundreds of extraordinary and unexplainable articles of the strange things that have happened in Smallville since the day you and dad found me. And almost every piece on that wall is something bad."
"What sorts of bad things?"
"Bad things. I don't know." He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath before continuing. "Lana's parents, Coach Arnold, Eric Summers . . . Chloe's entire high school dating career. And I can't talk to dad about it. All he ever wants to do is find a way to blame Lex and his father for it."
He faced her again, but could only stare at her shoes. "Mom, I know that I wasn't responsible for everything that happened that day, or everything that's happened since. Everything else to come out of it, though, has been so bad, how can I assume that I'm any different?"
For a short while, she just stared at her son, trying to think of anything to say. Everything that occurred to her, however, sounded trite and empty, and was something he most certainly knew, anyway.
Eventually, she decided to say nothing. She walked to Clark and put her arms around him, holding him tightly. After a few moments, she felt his arms embrace her, as well. She was content to just hold her boy for a minute or two, hoping that he needed it half as much as she did.
Finally, she loosened her arms, and leaned back to look up at him. "You know, Clark, you've been saving people since the first day you got here. I should know; I was the first person you saved."
He smiled down at her as she turned to leave. "Don't stay up here too long," she called over her shoulder. "I'll start to think you're moping."
* * *
He finally thought he was lucid. Just the fact that he could think of that phrase confirmed that it was probably true.
The first thing Tyler wanted to know was where he was, followed closely on the heels by why.
He assumed he was still in the car, because he could hear the sounds of a highway, though it seemed at a distance. If he was, however, the vehicle was stopped. No purr of an engine rumbled beneath him.
His hands were handcuffed behind him, and his ankles seemed similarly restrained. He was on his back, and his position was so awkward that he couldn't even move around to feel how large of a space he was in. From the way his breath echoed in his ears, however, he decided it must have been about the size and shape of an unlined coffin. Rather than intimidating him, the thought would have made him laugh, if he weren't scared of whatever might be waiting outside the box.
Small rivulets of sweat were streaming from his head, neck, torso and thighs. He was grateful that he wasn't upright, where the sweat might drip into his eyes, driving him wild. Ever since he changed, his eyes were particularly sensitive, and even something simple like sweat could incapacitate him completely.
The sweat was, however, gathering at his sides, and sliding around to his back. The itching from that alone was a silent torture. As he waited in silence for long minutes, that torture only increased.
Desperately, he tried to remember how he had gotten here, but he couldn't. His body felt bruised and broken. He knew he'd been in a scrap, but he could not remember a single detail from when or where it may have happened. He supposed it had something to do with shock, and hoped it would come back to him quickly.
Finally, he heard a nearby noise. A car door slammed, followed a few seconds later by another. Both were about the same distance away above his head. Then another opened and closed by his feet. This one shook him, so he assumed he'd been right about being in a car, and somebody had either just entered or just left it.
"I'm a very busy man," a voice said coolly. It came from near the first car, and did not appear to be approaching. "Couldn't this at least have waited until the weekend?" Tyler balked at this. He'd thought today was Saturday, and wanted to know what day it was, as well as where he'd been. "Just because I pay you to perform a certain service for me does not give you license . . ."
The talker was cut off by a second voice, this one right beside him. "I wouldn't have called you down here if it wasn't important. I appreciate your essential nature to the order of the world, but can we please get this done without the lecture?"
There was a temporary gap in the conversation, and Tyler couldn't imagine what looks may have filled it. "What I appreciate, Mr. Wylie, is not being interrupted." It was the first speaker, again, and if his voice had been cool before, it could freeze entire suns, now. "You have exactly one minute to explain why I'm here before you're out of a job. And when I fire people in your line of work, they don't exactly get a severance package. You'll be in the same trouble you were in when I found you."
"You pay me to deliver goods that don't want to be delivered," Mr. Wylie began. "Generally, these goods are people."
Tyler could hear gravel crunching beneath feet before the first voice replied. "You're telling me what I already know. You're also very good at your job. I'd hate to have to lose you because you can't come to the point." There was more crunching, the owner of the other voice apparently approaching.
Mr. Wylie didn't sound concerned. He sounded, in fact, a little cocky. "You also know that there was a fight outside your home yesterday, Mr. Luthor."
For a moment, Tyler thought he may have been talking to Lionel Luthor, himself, as ridiculous as it seemed. Then he remembered a story about Lex Luthor moving to Smallville a few months before Tyler had gone into hiding. It made more sense, he assumed, but was still no less ridiculous, especially given the nature of the conversation.
"Further, you know that the fight involved a friend of yours, and somebody wearing a green mask," Mr. Wylie continued.
The voice that Tyler guessed belonged to Lex Luthor became one of both surprise and suspicion. "How do you know that? I don't like people making themselves familiar with my business, Mr. Wylie."
The same cocky attitude was still present when Mr. Wylie replied. "But it's my business to do your hunting for you. I didn't like that you gave the job to your own incompetent security." If he was indeed talking to Lionel or Lex Luthor, Tyler couldn't imagine anybody talking to them with as much contempt as this Mr. Wylie was.
Unfortunately, the conversation started to make sense to him at about that point. There was a fight outside this man's house, and one of his friends had been involved. The Luthor guy had sent his security to track down the man in the green mask. Mr. Wylie had set about his own manhunt . . . but instead of coming up with a man in a green mask, he'd come up with Tyler. He knew what was coming next.
"You have five seconds, Wylie, before your life has absolutely no value."
The clank of a tailgate dropping proceeded Tyler's box sliding towards the direction of Mr. Luthor. He tried not to make any sound, but failed when the box was dropped to the ground, and his head was driven into the wall of the box.
He heard several latches being undone, and then he screamed as bright lights pierced his eyes. Out of reflex, his hands struggled against the handcuffs so he could cover his face.
Eventually, though, his eyes adjusted for him to see. The light wasn't so bad, as it was dusk, and he was apparently under a freeway overpass. As soon as he registered that fact, however, he realized he was looking into the bald visage of Lex Luthor.
"Congratulations, Mr. Wylie," Lex said. "Very few people ever manage to impress me."
Lex kept staring down at Tyler, but hadn't acknowledged his presence. "Close the box and take him to the factory. We'll talk more there." Lex looked back to Wylie, and Tyler, too scared to move, much less talk, followed his look.
Half a year ago, Tyler's life had changed in the space of a few hours.
In the space of just one look, his life was destroyed.
"BEN!?"
"Good morning. Sparrow Mountain Real Estate Group. How may I direct your call?" The greeting was automatic, even if the words were a little slurred by the crumbs in her mouth.
Instead of her customary thank you and the efficient call transfer to one of the other eight phones in the small office, she knitted her face with a perplexed look. "This is Sandra Wells," she said in answer to the young man's query. She had received few phone calls at work in the four months since moving to Metropolis.
The young man sounded relieved to have reached her, but somehow hesitant. "Ms. Wells. Hi. My name is Pete. Pete Ross. Look, I'm trying to track down a friend of mine here in Smallville. I was hoping you might be able to help me? His name is Tyler Reed."
Sandra heard her own inadvertent gasp through the phone's earpiece. "What's happened to Tyler? Is he alright?" She knew it was a stupid question, considering the state he was in when she last saw him.
The voice on the other end became slightly dejected. "Yeah. I haven't heard from him in about a week. I guess that means you haven't, either."
She didn't think it was a question, but she answered anyway. "No. I'm sorry. I haven't heard from Tyler in months. How is he? Is he still . . . Does he still have the same problems?" She hoped that nobody was looking at her. She was trembling, now. She didn't want to think of it; she didn't want to think of him. Tense fingers toyed uneasily with her earpiece's coiled cord.
A long pause met her questions. The wait seemed to make her blouse more irritating against her skin, and her shoulder blades twitched to alleviate the discomfort. Eventually, though, he started talking again. "I'm . . . I'm not sure I'm the right person to ask. That's kind of Tyler's thing to talk about, y'know?" She squeezed her eyelids closed, and tried not to think of his words as a rebuke.
He seemed to try putting more optimism into his voice before he continued. "Look, I'm sure he's fine. Just in case, why don't I give you my number if you hear anything from him."
As she was writing down the phone number, a stray thought occurred to her. "Pete, can I ask you something? What made you call me?"
There was another pause, though more brief, before he answered. "I think . . . you may have been on his mind, just before he disappeared."
"What do you mean?" she asked, the unsteadiness in her hands entering into her voice.
"I took a friend over to his house. You know, to check things out. What we found . . . Well, it wasn't what we expected. His computer monitor was busted. I think there may have been blood on it." His voice didn't become more somber. He went through it like it was just a part of the story. "We hooked another one up to see what was on it before it got beat up." Sandra couldn't quite follow his logic. It sounded like he'd skipped over half the story, but she thought she was catching the gist of it. "And that's when we saw his e-mail. We figured he must have smashed it or something after he saw your letter. Either that, or he really hates spam mail, because that's all that was in there."
The earpiece was nearly yanked off her ear as her hands gripping its cord pulled it taught. She could feel the color rising in her face, and she didn't feel like she was completely in control of her muscles. "My e- mail!" she gasped out. She'd tried to say it as quietly as she could, but it still rang like a shout in her ears. "You didn't read it, did you?" The prickling along her neck and shoulders told her that several pairs of eyes were on her. She didn't give herself time to care. She swallowed quickly, trying to gulp down fretting nerves that were clutching at her.
"No! No, we wouldn't do anything like that," came his hasty reply. "To be honest, I don't think he did, either. I don't think any of his e-mails were open."
Her right hand came quickly to her forehead as she lowered her head in relief. Heat throughout her body evaporated, as though from a breeze, and her suddenly clenched breathing returned to normal.
After a few short moments of calming herself, she realized that it seemed to be her turn to talk, again.
"I'm sorry," was what she managed to say. "I didn't mean to . . . I'm sure you understand? I'm sorry." She knew she sounded awkward and lame, but decided not to make it worse by clearing it up.
"Hey, I'll call you back if I find out anything. I won't even tell Ty that I called, if you don't want me to."
"Thank you," she said quietly. She disconnected the call without saying goodbye. She just needed to get away from her desk.
Looking down, she saw that two calls had been on hold. With a handful of coworkers watching her, she dropped her earpiece to the desk, her fingers seeming to be without the strength to place it. She unsteadily rose to her feet, and made her way towards the building's elevators; not a single move carried any conviction.
She made no excuse as she left, not even looking anybody in the eye. But her purse still sat on the edge of her desk. Nobody in the office seemed that concerned.
* * *
The wood creaked uncomfortably beneath her as Martha climbed the stairs towards Clark's loft. She really didn't feel like she needed the barn commenting on her weight like that.
Her son was standing where he always stood, staring into the burnt hues of the evening's sky. For a moment, she just watched him, motionless. She wondered yet again what captivated him, what made him stare at the sky, sometimes for hours a night.
One reason, she knew, was that he'd had a home up there. Somewhere. And maybe he still did. A home without her and Jonathan. It was nothing new for her to think about. She'd faced that question for more than a dozen years, now.
Whatever his heritage, whatever his genetic or cultural birthright, Martha knew who Clark was. He was her boy, and spaceships and meteor rocks couldn't change that. She used to fear his birth parents, assuming he had any. She didn't fear what they might be able to do, just that they existed at all; they had a claim to her son. She had grown to realize, though, that whatever happened, she and Jonathan were his parents. That was enough for her.
He hadn't known about his origin for even a year, though. She wondered what had drawn him to the skies for so many years before.
She continued to watch him, and he continued to watch the sky. Neither one was in a hurry to move.
It was easy to be proud of him. His strength, his strange new powers, and his gifts didn't add at all to that pride. In fact, Martha suspected that her husband was secretly ashamed of their son's gifts. He was certainly scared, a great deal more than he'd ever let Clark see.
It was who Clark had become in spite of his differences that justified every sleepless night she'd ever spent, wishing for a child who could share what she and Jonathan had to offer. Clark had all of his father's idealism. It was idealism she didn't think existed growing up, a world as foreign to her as surely Clark's own must be. He also had most of her practicality, always trying to make sense of chaos, to use logic where less clear heads would find disaster. He lacked it only in affairs of the heart, and she desperately hoped the boy would learn to use sense there, too.
Between the idealism and the practicality, Clark had found his own identity. He was never satisfied with a bad situation. He could see the way that things should be, and he set about trying to make them that way. Though there was still the occasional time when he needed prodding, his belief in his own ability to change the world around him was acute. And who could blame him?
She liked to think she could see Clark for who he was. He would bring injustices to people's attention, he would fight any worthy battle regardless of the odds, and he would fight with the power of words before ever raising a fist. Even without his special gifts, Clark Kent would have been a force to be reckoned with.
Once, her husband had told her that Clark had called Jonathan and herself his two strongest gifts. She liked to believe he was right. She hoped that Clark believed it.
How could she not be proud?
"You know what the worst part of a hayloft is?" Clark suddenly asked without turning around. "There aren't any doors to knock on."
She caught herself smiling, and tried out a falsely stern face. Of course, he couldn't benefit from it since he still wasn't facing her. "Don't you forget who pays the bills around here. Or who lets them pile up."
The grin on his face as he turned around was twisted wryly. She got the impression he didn't think financial straits were a good source of humor. Frankly, neither did she. It had just slipped out, as many of her quips did.
"So what's up, mom? Did you find out about the juice stain on the carpet?"
"Yes. When you were seven. You weren't exactly subtle about hiding it, but covering it with the washing machine was certainly impressive."
For all the world, Clark's wide eyes, spread hands, and pitched voice made him look like he was trying to convince her of his earnestness. "I never in my life saw you and dad look under the washer. I thought I was pretty safe."
Martha let out a sigh and shook her head slightly. Something about farm- boys or nonsense or maybe even teenagers' wit may have been muttered under her breath.
Clark's expression clearly indicated how pleased with himself he was when it broke into a huge, toothy grin. "So if you're not here to yell at me about an eight year old stain, what brings you up here?"
She crossed the floor slowly and sat down on the ancient couch wrapped in blankets. "I'm worried about you, Clark. You really seemed like you wanted to talk about things last night, and then your friends showed up and I didn't hear another thing about it." She pursed her lips to wait for a response, but it didn't come. "What happened yesterday?"
Clark sighed and fell into an ugly red armchair. "Nothing happened, mom. Nothing that doesn't happen every week of my life, these days. It's really not that big of a deal." He was staring at the planks in the floor, not seeming at all comfortable.
"So then what did happen?"
He met her eyes and held them. "I scared myself."
Martha kept looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue. When he didn't, she asked, "What do you expect me to say, Clark? 'Your gifts are a part of you but they don't define you'? 'You should only really be scared when you stop caring'? Or maybe, 'Fighting your own fear is always the toughest challenge'?"
He rolled his eyes at her in perfect imitation of a North American Teenager. She hoped he'd perfect his impression of a Grown Adult, soon. "Isn't that what I normally get when I bring my fears to you guys?" he asked her.
"No, it isn't." She leaned forward and tilted her head slightly to the side. "That's your father talking. We don't talk like that, he does."
Clark blew out a huff of laughter. "In that case, you forgot, 'The cows aren't going to scare themselves."
Martha's mouth, which had been in a pout of concern, grinned back at her son. "Exactly."
"And, 'With great power comes great responsibility.' Where's that one?"
She almost giggled, and said, "Somehow, I don't think that's his style."
Her smile faded a touch, though the color in her cheeks remained. She tried to steer back to the other day. "How did you scare yourself, Clark? What happened?"
"It wasn't anything big or important," he began. "It just bothered me."
His gaze slid from her to the ground as he continued. "I was at Lex's. Or on my way there, anyway. A truck was pulled off the road, and I went to see if there was somebody in need of help."
Martha tried not to smile at that, not wanting to interrupt the flow of the story.
"I saw somebody inside, watching the place through binoculars." He shook his head sadly, still staring at the floor. "Things kind of went crazy from there."
Concern briefly flashed across her face, and when he paused, she said, "Tell me what things went crazy. What scared you, exactly?"
"That's just it," he said. "I got so angry, I still can't remember exactly what happened."
He stood up, then, and paced along the floor of the loft. His footsteps echoed so loudly that Martha thought she could feel them through the couch beneath her.
"I remember how angry I got that somebody was spying on one of my friends. I know that he tried to run me over, but I don't remember if he hit me, or I fell under it, or what. I don't even know for certain how my jacket got ripped." As he continued recounting the story, his fingers ticking off the points he could and couldn't remember, he didn't look over at his mother once.
"Then I ripped off the truck's door, and I had him in my hands. For some reason, mom, seeing him just made me more mad." The memory had apparently renewed some of his ire, as his fists clenched silently, and his breathing increased.
She tried to stop the anger's progression by getting him to concentrate. "What was it about seeing him that upset you?" Seeing him like this, she was more than just concerned. She had to admit that she was a little scared of him, too.
"His face!" Clark spat. "His body was covered in scales, green near his head, red at his hands. I didn't know what he was."
Martha's jaw dropped and her eyes grew wide. She was genuinely shocked at his answer. "Clark Kent! You were raised better than judging somebody like that, and you know it!"
"I know, mom," he replied quickly. "I don't know what happened, or why. It's just that . . . I've seen so many strange things this last year. So many people with their own gifts, or just somehow twisted by the meteor rocks. Out of dozens of them, I can only think of three people who didn't try to hurt people: Ryan, Kyle Tippet, and Cassandra. So when I saw him . . ." he seemed unable to finish.
She stood quietly and walked over to her son. She put her hand on his shoulder, and stared into his eyes, her own filled with compassion. "You're forgetting one person: You."
Clark dropped his eyes, unable to hold her look. The color that rose in his cheeks told her how ashamed he was. "I don't know. That's the problem. How do I know that the same thing isn't going to happen to me?"
He turned around, and went to stand again at the spot from which he watched the heavens. When he talked again, it seemed mostly to himself. "Look at what the meteorites brought this town. Thirteen years of death, pain, and terror."
She was about to interrupt him, but he didn't give her a chance. "Chloe has a bulletin board in the Torch office that takes up an entire wall. It's hundreds of extraordinary and unexplainable articles of the strange things that have happened in Smallville since the day you and dad found me. And almost every piece on that wall is something bad."
"What sorts of bad things?"
"Bad things. I don't know." He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath before continuing. "Lana's parents, Coach Arnold, Eric Summers . . . Chloe's entire high school dating career. And I can't talk to dad about it. All he ever wants to do is find a way to blame Lex and his father for it."
He faced her again, but could only stare at her shoes. "Mom, I know that I wasn't responsible for everything that happened that day, or everything that's happened since. Everything else to come out of it, though, has been so bad, how can I assume that I'm any different?"
For a short while, she just stared at her son, trying to think of anything to say. Everything that occurred to her, however, sounded trite and empty, and was something he most certainly knew, anyway.
Eventually, she decided to say nothing. She walked to Clark and put her arms around him, holding him tightly. After a few moments, she felt his arms embrace her, as well. She was content to just hold her boy for a minute or two, hoping that he needed it half as much as she did.
Finally, she loosened her arms, and leaned back to look up at him. "You know, Clark, you've been saving people since the first day you got here. I should know; I was the first person you saved."
He smiled down at her as she turned to leave. "Don't stay up here too long," she called over her shoulder. "I'll start to think you're moping."
* * *
He finally thought he was lucid. Just the fact that he could think of that phrase confirmed that it was probably true.
The first thing Tyler wanted to know was where he was, followed closely on the heels by why.
He assumed he was still in the car, because he could hear the sounds of a highway, though it seemed at a distance. If he was, however, the vehicle was stopped. No purr of an engine rumbled beneath him.
His hands were handcuffed behind him, and his ankles seemed similarly restrained. He was on his back, and his position was so awkward that he couldn't even move around to feel how large of a space he was in. From the way his breath echoed in his ears, however, he decided it must have been about the size and shape of an unlined coffin. Rather than intimidating him, the thought would have made him laugh, if he weren't scared of whatever might be waiting outside the box.
Small rivulets of sweat were streaming from his head, neck, torso and thighs. He was grateful that he wasn't upright, where the sweat might drip into his eyes, driving him wild. Ever since he changed, his eyes were particularly sensitive, and even something simple like sweat could incapacitate him completely.
The sweat was, however, gathering at his sides, and sliding around to his back. The itching from that alone was a silent torture. As he waited in silence for long minutes, that torture only increased.
Desperately, he tried to remember how he had gotten here, but he couldn't. His body felt bruised and broken. He knew he'd been in a scrap, but he could not remember a single detail from when or where it may have happened. He supposed it had something to do with shock, and hoped it would come back to him quickly.
Finally, he heard a nearby noise. A car door slammed, followed a few seconds later by another. Both were about the same distance away above his head. Then another opened and closed by his feet. This one shook him, so he assumed he'd been right about being in a car, and somebody had either just entered or just left it.
"I'm a very busy man," a voice said coolly. It came from near the first car, and did not appear to be approaching. "Couldn't this at least have waited until the weekend?" Tyler balked at this. He'd thought today was Saturday, and wanted to know what day it was, as well as where he'd been. "Just because I pay you to perform a certain service for me does not give you license . . ."
The talker was cut off by a second voice, this one right beside him. "I wouldn't have called you down here if it wasn't important. I appreciate your essential nature to the order of the world, but can we please get this done without the lecture?"
There was a temporary gap in the conversation, and Tyler couldn't imagine what looks may have filled it. "What I appreciate, Mr. Wylie, is not being interrupted." It was the first speaker, again, and if his voice had been cool before, it could freeze entire suns, now. "You have exactly one minute to explain why I'm here before you're out of a job. And when I fire people in your line of work, they don't exactly get a severance package. You'll be in the same trouble you were in when I found you."
"You pay me to deliver goods that don't want to be delivered," Mr. Wylie began. "Generally, these goods are people."
Tyler could hear gravel crunching beneath feet before the first voice replied. "You're telling me what I already know. You're also very good at your job. I'd hate to have to lose you because you can't come to the point." There was more crunching, the owner of the other voice apparently approaching.
Mr. Wylie didn't sound concerned. He sounded, in fact, a little cocky. "You also know that there was a fight outside your home yesterday, Mr. Luthor."
For a moment, Tyler thought he may have been talking to Lionel Luthor, himself, as ridiculous as it seemed. Then he remembered a story about Lex Luthor moving to Smallville a few months before Tyler had gone into hiding. It made more sense, he assumed, but was still no less ridiculous, especially given the nature of the conversation.
"Further, you know that the fight involved a friend of yours, and somebody wearing a green mask," Mr. Wylie continued.
The voice that Tyler guessed belonged to Lex Luthor became one of both surprise and suspicion. "How do you know that? I don't like people making themselves familiar with my business, Mr. Wylie."
The same cocky attitude was still present when Mr. Wylie replied. "But it's my business to do your hunting for you. I didn't like that you gave the job to your own incompetent security." If he was indeed talking to Lionel or Lex Luthor, Tyler couldn't imagine anybody talking to them with as much contempt as this Mr. Wylie was.
Unfortunately, the conversation started to make sense to him at about that point. There was a fight outside this man's house, and one of his friends had been involved. The Luthor guy had sent his security to track down the man in the green mask. Mr. Wylie had set about his own manhunt . . . but instead of coming up with a man in a green mask, he'd come up with Tyler. He knew what was coming next.
"You have five seconds, Wylie, before your life has absolutely no value."
The clank of a tailgate dropping proceeded Tyler's box sliding towards the direction of Mr. Luthor. He tried not to make any sound, but failed when the box was dropped to the ground, and his head was driven into the wall of the box.
He heard several latches being undone, and then he screamed as bright lights pierced his eyes. Out of reflex, his hands struggled against the handcuffs so he could cover his face.
Eventually, though, his eyes adjusted for him to see. The light wasn't so bad, as it was dusk, and he was apparently under a freeway overpass. As soon as he registered that fact, however, he realized he was looking into the bald visage of Lex Luthor.
"Congratulations, Mr. Wylie," Lex said. "Very few people ever manage to impress me."
Lex kept staring down at Tyler, but hadn't acknowledged his presence. "Close the box and take him to the factory. We'll talk more there." Lex looked back to Wylie, and Tyler, too scared to move, much less talk, followed his look.
Half a year ago, Tyler's life had changed in the space of a few hours.
In the space of just one look, his life was destroyed.
"BEN!?"