AN: Part three! Hee. Fresh off the press, so to speak. Really. Thought
up today (actually from a different Character's view point, which I'm glad
I changed). And was written out in about an hour or so. Mark did his
normal fanasticastic Beta job. This one isn't as angsty. Hee. But I hope
I've kept that deep feeling. Just another layer in the reverb world -
somewhere between part 1 & part 2. And it's not really focused on Chloe or
Clark other than in passing. What is the world coming too? *snicker*
Def. of "conflagration" - a large, destructive fire, an inferno.
------------------------------
"Conflagration"
by Chiri
------------------------------
He knew his way by heart. Down two flights of stairs, take a left to the corridor, take two rights, a left, and it was the third door from the right.
Somewhere along the line this pigeon hole became his. It was dark, dank, and it reminded him far too much of a science fiction television show he watched as a kid. The only exception was there wasn't any partner for him to work with - even when there were, they NEVER looked like Gillian Anderson.
He opened the door with a flick of his wrist, and breathed deep. The oder of this office reminded him of a mixture of a book store and some of his grade school classes. It smelled of all the paper, the wooden desks, even the permanent markers. He closed his eyes, breathing once more. If he took a deep enough breath, he swore he could smell something else.
Knowledge.
It was a tangible thing in this line of work. It could coat you, fly by you, saturate you. You spend your whole life time trying to find the key to a puzzle and never find it or stumble upon it while singing in your shower.
He hadn't intended when he first signed on that he would end up in some little hole in the ground. Looking around he realize that part of the reason he was in this room was the feeling of familiarity. Another was the way it seemed to flash back to simpler days.
Days when his whole world had been nothing but the simple life. It revolved around his academics and his sports, his family and friends, and his girl. He had been so wrapped up in life then. Wrapped up in her.
This room was a sanctuary. It could protect him as well as it could protect its collection. Between the knowledge in these files and the smallness of the room, there was no wonder why it reminded him of the Torch Office, even if he didn't visit them regularly back when he was in high school.
Whitney Fordman sighed and entered his room of the paranormal. He sure wasn't any David Duchovny, either. From the Marines and college he had shifted to Intelligence and onward into the FBI.
The hoards of files, photos, film, discs, and recordings could boggle the mind. He had read them all. This room had everything that Kansas had to offer on the strange, the weird.
It no longer unnerved him that his hometown took up over seventy-five percent of the room. He had seen enough to know that the meteorites of '89 was changing people - even in high school. It wasn't normal or usually allowed for agents to work on cases that could affect them. He knew something had to have been pulled.
A lightly tinted purple sheet of paper, crumpled, was still on his desk. He uncreased an re-read the familar words. The words telling him he could head the bureau if he wanted. All he had to do was agree to work for Lex.
He squeezed his hand into an unrelenting fist, the paper still in his palm. His body shook in anger. Never.
A few months ago, all kind of clippings showed up addressed to him. He was halfway through the first box when he realized where they were from. All relating to Smallville, all with the same pricked pages... all from the Wall of Weird.
He had poured through everything in his office after that. Whitney tore through every piece from Chloe's collection, any detail he could find. He let the information soak into him like a sponge. And one day, in the middle of looking through old police reports, it hit him.
He wondered why he didn't realize earlier. Briefly pondered why he was still alive after stringing Kryptonite around the world's savior.
Clark Kent was Superman.
After the initial shock wore off, he had laughed. Laughed until he cried. Kent - flying around in blue spandex and red Speedos with a huge "S" on his chest. An "S" not dissimilar to one Kent had worn as a teenager due to his own stupidity with a can of spray paint.
It all made sense now. Why Clark had blamed everything upon himself, why he had never been in sports, why he used to trip up when ever he was around Lana.
Lana Lang, who had off and married Peter Ross. Who was sleeping with Lex Luthor. Lana Lang, who was in no way the sweet girl he had once loved.
He had looked up people he had known. Pete had done well. Clark was a journalist with one Lois Lane. When he first lost track of Chloe in the files, he had briefly toyed with the notion that Lois and Chloe were the same. He had a whole list that would imply that to be true, if not for the fact that he knew it wasn't.
It had been a long morning. The *President* had called him in for a special meeting about his proposal. He could head the FBI... if Whitney could explain what revelations he had about Smallville, Kryptonite, and Clark Kent. Pete had seemed to be stewing as he looked out the window. Chloe had sat there giving him a blank stare in utter silence.
His mind wouldn't drop the fact that four Smallvillians were in the Oval Office. Whitney wasn't sure whether it was Lex Luthor's sick way of keeping them all underneath his thumb yet again or whether it was the billionaire's compulsive behavior to know everything about the sleepy little town. Or better yet, were they all just pawns in the President's endless chess game with Superman, the one where Lex thinks he will win and be hero so it doesn't matter what he does to achieve his goals? He knew for sure now that Lex had sent him the Wall, and the implication of that left him sick.
He had said no.
Whitney wasn't dumb as everyone thought. And he wasn't as naive or as stupid as he had been in high school. He knew there had to be some 'dark' thing that Lex would pull out on him sooner or later. More likely, sooner. He figured by morning, Whitney Fordman would be gone, just as Chloe Sullivan had been, and only brought back when he was needed. When he would be submissive, when he would be of use.
He pulled out two large bottles of bourbon from his desk. No one noticed or cared if there was alcohol in his office as long as the work got done. Work, heh. Yes, it would work.
Lex worked fast. Whitney would work faster.
The papers were old, dry. The actual problems would be making sure the computers would catch. There wasn't time to disassemble anything. Using his thumb as a stopper, he liberally doused the office and its equipment in the high proof liquid. When he ran out he smashed the bottles against the wall, not like anyone would care. Or hear, he was the only one on this level anyway.
He pulled out his Zippo. Sometimes being a chain smoker had its benefits. He lit it, bringing it to the trail and watching flames fan out over his office. Blue-white flames licked the floor and metal before orange plumes sprung out from the file folders. He watched for a few moments lighting up, while doing so.
Whitney walked down the hallway, the crackles of the fire claiming more and more of Smallville's mystery. At the end of his hall -- though he supposed it wasn't his hall any longer -- he pulled the fire alarm and proceeded out to the sun. He knew he needed to hide. Maybe he would be considered dead, maybe he would be hunted down. He wasn't sure. But the fire... it had felt like a release.
A release from Lex. From Smallville. From Superman. From Chloe's old passion. From *knowing.*
As he started up his Dodge Ram, he was pretty sure the saying was true. Ignorance was bliss. And he was going to try his damnedest to forget.
-end- - end -
Def. of "conflagration" - a large, destructive fire, an inferno.
------------------------------
"Conflagration"
by Chiri
------------------------------
He knew his way by heart. Down two flights of stairs, take a left to the corridor, take two rights, a left, and it was the third door from the right.
Somewhere along the line this pigeon hole became his. It was dark, dank, and it reminded him far too much of a science fiction television show he watched as a kid. The only exception was there wasn't any partner for him to work with - even when there were, they NEVER looked like Gillian Anderson.
He opened the door with a flick of his wrist, and breathed deep. The oder of this office reminded him of a mixture of a book store and some of his grade school classes. It smelled of all the paper, the wooden desks, even the permanent markers. He closed his eyes, breathing once more. If he took a deep enough breath, he swore he could smell something else.
Knowledge.
It was a tangible thing in this line of work. It could coat you, fly by you, saturate you. You spend your whole life time trying to find the key to a puzzle and never find it or stumble upon it while singing in your shower.
He hadn't intended when he first signed on that he would end up in some little hole in the ground. Looking around he realize that part of the reason he was in this room was the feeling of familiarity. Another was the way it seemed to flash back to simpler days.
Days when his whole world had been nothing but the simple life. It revolved around his academics and his sports, his family and friends, and his girl. He had been so wrapped up in life then. Wrapped up in her.
This room was a sanctuary. It could protect him as well as it could protect its collection. Between the knowledge in these files and the smallness of the room, there was no wonder why it reminded him of the Torch Office, even if he didn't visit them regularly back when he was in high school.
Whitney Fordman sighed and entered his room of the paranormal. He sure wasn't any David Duchovny, either. From the Marines and college he had shifted to Intelligence and onward into the FBI.
The hoards of files, photos, film, discs, and recordings could boggle the mind. He had read them all. This room had everything that Kansas had to offer on the strange, the weird.
It no longer unnerved him that his hometown took up over seventy-five percent of the room. He had seen enough to know that the meteorites of '89 was changing people - even in high school. It wasn't normal or usually allowed for agents to work on cases that could affect them. He knew something had to have been pulled.
A lightly tinted purple sheet of paper, crumpled, was still on his desk. He uncreased an re-read the familar words. The words telling him he could head the bureau if he wanted. All he had to do was agree to work for Lex.
He squeezed his hand into an unrelenting fist, the paper still in his palm. His body shook in anger. Never.
A few months ago, all kind of clippings showed up addressed to him. He was halfway through the first box when he realized where they were from. All relating to Smallville, all with the same pricked pages... all from the Wall of Weird.
He had poured through everything in his office after that. Whitney tore through every piece from Chloe's collection, any detail he could find. He let the information soak into him like a sponge. And one day, in the middle of looking through old police reports, it hit him.
He wondered why he didn't realize earlier. Briefly pondered why he was still alive after stringing Kryptonite around the world's savior.
Clark Kent was Superman.
After the initial shock wore off, he had laughed. Laughed until he cried. Kent - flying around in blue spandex and red Speedos with a huge "S" on his chest. An "S" not dissimilar to one Kent had worn as a teenager due to his own stupidity with a can of spray paint.
It all made sense now. Why Clark had blamed everything upon himself, why he had never been in sports, why he used to trip up when ever he was around Lana.
Lana Lang, who had off and married Peter Ross. Who was sleeping with Lex Luthor. Lana Lang, who was in no way the sweet girl he had once loved.
He had looked up people he had known. Pete had done well. Clark was a journalist with one Lois Lane. When he first lost track of Chloe in the files, he had briefly toyed with the notion that Lois and Chloe were the same. He had a whole list that would imply that to be true, if not for the fact that he knew it wasn't.
It had been a long morning. The *President* had called him in for a special meeting about his proposal. He could head the FBI... if Whitney could explain what revelations he had about Smallville, Kryptonite, and Clark Kent. Pete had seemed to be stewing as he looked out the window. Chloe had sat there giving him a blank stare in utter silence.
His mind wouldn't drop the fact that four Smallvillians were in the Oval Office. Whitney wasn't sure whether it was Lex Luthor's sick way of keeping them all underneath his thumb yet again or whether it was the billionaire's compulsive behavior to know everything about the sleepy little town. Or better yet, were they all just pawns in the President's endless chess game with Superman, the one where Lex thinks he will win and be hero so it doesn't matter what he does to achieve his goals? He knew for sure now that Lex had sent him the Wall, and the implication of that left him sick.
He had said no.
Whitney wasn't dumb as everyone thought. And he wasn't as naive or as stupid as he had been in high school. He knew there had to be some 'dark' thing that Lex would pull out on him sooner or later. More likely, sooner. He figured by morning, Whitney Fordman would be gone, just as Chloe Sullivan had been, and only brought back when he was needed. When he would be submissive, when he would be of use.
He pulled out two large bottles of bourbon from his desk. No one noticed or cared if there was alcohol in his office as long as the work got done. Work, heh. Yes, it would work.
Lex worked fast. Whitney would work faster.
The papers were old, dry. The actual problems would be making sure the computers would catch. There wasn't time to disassemble anything. Using his thumb as a stopper, he liberally doused the office and its equipment in the high proof liquid. When he ran out he smashed the bottles against the wall, not like anyone would care. Or hear, he was the only one on this level anyway.
He pulled out his Zippo. Sometimes being a chain smoker had its benefits. He lit it, bringing it to the trail and watching flames fan out over his office. Blue-white flames licked the floor and metal before orange plumes sprung out from the file folders. He watched for a few moments lighting up, while doing so.
Whitney walked down the hallway, the crackles of the fire claiming more and more of Smallville's mystery. At the end of his hall -- though he supposed it wasn't his hall any longer -- he pulled the fire alarm and proceeded out to the sun. He knew he needed to hide. Maybe he would be considered dead, maybe he would be hunted down. He wasn't sure. But the fire... it had felt like a release.
A release from Lex. From Smallville. From Superman. From Chloe's old passion. From *knowing.*
As he started up his Dodge Ram, he was pretty sure the saying was true. Ignorance was bliss. And he was going to try his damnedest to forget.
-end- - end -