AN: Well, phooey. The moment I decide to myself that this really is a stand-alone, the Muse displays her sense of comic timing and drops a chapter right into my lap, like my cat horking up a hairball right into my shoe. Except without the gaack-gaack-ffffffgaKKK-hrrrrch noises. But I bet they both have the same expression. Smug. Very, very smug.
And there's a pairing now.
***
Clark was able to make his way unseen into the ostentatious dwelling without being seen. He looked about with mixed relief that he wouldn't have to take any innocent lives and contempt at the kind of person who would willingly live in a place like this. A castle. Inappropriate to a democracy. Some people worked hard and became rich, which was the American way, but this was clearly meant to intimidate with lineage.
He opened the office door and saw the man he was supposed to kill. He was surprised at how young he appeared--the photographs had made him look much older, but Clark surmised that he wasn't more than five or six years older than himself. He wasted no time in this reflection, but crossed the room in a blur and had the young man by the throat and pulled away from the phone. A quick scan showed that he was unarmed.
He spoke, using the standard protocol that had been taught him. "If you inhale to call for help, I will kill you immediately. You represent too much of a threat to the people of this country, and I am here to stop you by killing you." He paused a moment to allow this to sink in, but to his surprise, the man seemed not only unafraid but unsurprised. "If you wish, you may have two minutes in which to pray, but I will not permit you to move."
The man almost seemed to smirk. "Did my father send you?"
Clark disliked this break from the expected, but answered. "No."
"What are you?" The eyes were examining him, seemingly unconcerned with nothing other than that study.
Clark decided to apply the formula given to him to respond to pleas. "You may have two minutes to pray, but if you do not wish to, you do not have to. I will kill you immediately. It will be painless."
The lips crooked in another smile. "Consider knowledge my religion. Would you deny me the right to practice it?"
The argument seemed frivolous, but unless they were a disguised attempt to escape, he was to honor varying practices. Clark nodded.
"Are you human or a robot?"
"Neither."
"Then what are you?"
"I don't know."
"You move so quickly, how do you do it?"
"I always have."
"But how?"
"I don't know."
"How fast can you move?"
"Approximately 750 miles an hour on the ground."
"And...not on the ground?"
"My fastest flying speed is still unclocked."
The man shook his head. "You are amazing. But you don't know anything about yourself?"
"I know what I need to know."
An almost mocking tone. "And what is that?"
"I know my duty, and how to carry it out."
The man's voice changed to a throaty murmur. "You've never wanted to know anything more about yourself? About why you're so different? Where you come from? How you can look so normal and yet you're not? You've never wondered that?" Icy eyes seemed to glint at him, and for a moment, Clark had the sensation that it was this man, not he, who controlled the situation.
It was unexpected. It terrified him. He remained silent, counting the few seconds left. Thirty...twenty nine...twenty-eight...
The man's eyes finally shifted from his, and to an object on the desk. Clark turned his head to look, in case whatever it was presented a threat to his goal. He turned back angrily to the man and tightened his grip as he felt his target's neck move, and seized the object.
It was nothing more than a picture. That was all right, then. Several of his targets had wished to look at those. He didn't know what impulse it was that drove him--when he returned to report, he would ask the counselor who debriefed him--but he turned it so that the target could look at it full on. Still more inexplicably, he asked his own first question.
"Who is it?"
The man's eyes were soft, now. "My mother."
Clark looked at the smiling woman, with her red hair and fine-boned features. "She's beautiful," he said, and then realized he'd have to report this to his superior officer as well.
The young man didn't look away from the photograph, but seemed to be waiting. Clark realized that he'd lost track of the time. Another error to report. He waited another fifteen seconds to be certain that he had allowed the target the fair amount of time, then turned, not releasing his grip, as the door opened. His failure would mean another victim. Finish, quickly, now. Kill this one, catch the other and kill whoever it was.
He squeezed, hard, but just as he felt the throat under his hand begin to collapse, something struck him. Unable to believe what was happening, he felt his grip weaken and his hands fell to his sides. The target, gasping and choking, dropped to the ground, not yet dead. A young woman was pummeling him with all her strength, and he stumbled under the attack.
"Let him go, let him go!" she screamed, and as he fell next to the target, she straddled his chest, pummeling him. Her long dark hair and rage-contorted face as she hurled her furious words and blows made her seem like some kind of witch-figure, he thought, as he felt his strength continue to weaken. The last thought in his mind was of how deeply he'd failed.
***
Lex Luthor had never expected to hear Lana Lang calling anybody a "bastard," let alone "a rotten mother-fucking no-good bastard," but that was the sound that greeted his return to consciousness. She was still hitting his assailant, who now seemed barely conscious, eyes closed, his only motions occasional flinches and winces that didn't even seem directly related to the blows.
"Lana, it's okay," he tried to say, but what came out was more a movement from a symphony of scratchy sounds. He also wanted to ask her how she'd over-powered a super-humanly strong being, but that was more complicated.
She hadn't even seen that he was conscious again, and since she couldn't hear the miniscule noises he could make, instead he buried his hand in her thick, glossy hair. The familiar sensation was apparently enough to get her attention.
"Lex," she whispered, tears coming to her eyes, and she drew him close, starting a thorough kiss and then realizing he was in no condition to respond with his usual enthusiasm. "I was just bringing the Talon reports and saw..."
He was able to talk, he realized, as his throat began to hurt rather than to feel as though it didn't exist, and immediately regretted saying what he did. "Your necklace. It's glowing." It was doing more than that, it seemed to be casting light. But still, what a thing for a boyfriend to say to the girlfriend who just saved his life. From a big scary non-robot non-human, probably twice her size and half-again her weight.
She looked down at it. "It's never done that before...I wonder if it has something to do with..." She looked at the figure underneath her.
"Let's see," he croaked. She let him take it off and he lightly touched the stone to his attacker's face. He immediately groaned, as if it hurt him. Touching him with the chain provoked no additional response.
"Keep holding it there. No, better give it back to me. You call the police," she said.
"No." God, talking hurt. He got to his feet, waited until the room seemed to steady itself again, and went to the desk, where he got a pen and paper. He scribbled. "No. I think he might be some experiment of Dad's. I'm going to get some more meteor fragments and lock him up with them, then see just why Dad sent me a new friend to play with."
"But, Lex-"
He continued to scribble. A way to interrupt without actually talking. "Besides, love, I want to find out what makes him tick. Or whatever he does."
"I don't like it, Lex."
"Come on." He tried to smile beguilingly at her. "I'll throw in a special tour of the dungeons!" he added, in what he hoped was a persuasive scrawl.
She nodded, reluctantly. "But only if he stays under control."
Lex thanked a God he was starting to believe in again that Enrique was either the least curious man in the world or the best able to disguise any hint of curiousity. His voice betrayed nothing when Lex picked up the house phone and told him to deliver all the pieces of meteor that Lex had found, duct tape, an ice pack, and the handcuffs from the back of the third dresser drawer, and leave them outside the office door. Lex wondered for a moment if his attacker wasn't the only non-human, when Enrique knocked, announced, "It's all ready, Mr. Luthor," and didn't even turn around when Lex opened the door.
"I just hope he doesn't write speculations about our love life and post them to the Web somewhere," he thought to himself, as he handcuffed the prone figure, lifted his shirt, placed several pieces of meteor on his chest, and wound several layers of duct tape over them, then rolling him over to repeat the same process on the back. Then he put the ice pack on his neck, and nodded tiredly as Lana suggested that they rest a few minutes before locking "that" up. She accompanied the word with a kick.
***
A/N.
Yes, Lana's a bit more aggressive here, but I think growing up without Clark around would make her a bit more independent. How she and Lex got together will come in the next chapter.
Dammit, Muse, stop *snickering* like that. It's...it's ungracious, that's what it is!
And there's a pairing now.
***
Clark was able to make his way unseen into the ostentatious dwelling without being seen. He looked about with mixed relief that he wouldn't have to take any innocent lives and contempt at the kind of person who would willingly live in a place like this. A castle. Inappropriate to a democracy. Some people worked hard and became rich, which was the American way, but this was clearly meant to intimidate with lineage.
He opened the office door and saw the man he was supposed to kill. He was surprised at how young he appeared--the photographs had made him look much older, but Clark surmised that he wasn't more than five or six years older than himself. He wasted no time in this reflection, but crossed the room in a blur and had the young man by the throat and pulled away from the phone. A quick scan showed that he was unarmed.
He spoke, using the standard protocol that had been taught him. "If you inhale to call for help, I will kill you immediately. You represent too much of a threat to the people of this country, and I am here to stop you by killing you." He paused a moment to allow this to sink in, but to his surprise, the man seemed not only unafraid but unsurprised. "If you wish, you may have two minutes in which to pray, but I will not permit you to move."
The man almost seemed to smirk. "Did my father send you?"
Clark disliked this break from the expected, but answered. "No."
"What are you?" The eyes were examining him, seemingly unconcerned with nothing other than that study.
Clark decided to apply the formula given to him to respond to pleas. "You may have two minutes to pray, but if you do not wish to, you do not have to. I will kill you immediately. It will be painless."
The lips crooked in another smile. "Consider knowledge my religion. Would you deny me the right to practice it?"
The argument seemed frivolous, but unless they were a disguised attempt to escape, he was to honor varying practices. Clark nodded.
"Are you human or a robot?"
"Neither."
"Then what are you?"
"I don't know."
"You move so quickly, how do you do it?"
"I always have."
"But how?"
"I don't know."
"How fast can you move?"
"Approximately 750 miles an hour on the ground."
"And...not on the ground?"
"My fastest flying speed is still unclocked."
The man shook his head. "You are amazing. But you don't know anything about yourself?"
"I know what I need to know."
An almost mocking tone. "And what is that?"
"I know my duty, and how to carry it out."
The man's voice changed to a throaty murmur. "You've never wanted to know anything more about yourself? About why you're so different? Where you come from? How you can look so normal and yet you're not? You've never wondered that?" Icy eyes seemed to glint at him, and for a moment, Clark had the sensation that it was this man, not he, who controlled the situation.
It was unexpected. It terrified him. He remained silent, counting the few seconds left. Thirty...twenty nine...twenty-eight...
The man's eyes finally shifted from his, and to an object on the desk. Clark turned his head to look, in case whatever it was presented a threat to his goal. He turned back angrily to the man and tightened his grip as he felt his target's neck move, and seized the object.
It was nothing more than a picture. That was all right, then. Several of his targets had wished to look at those. He didn't know what impulse it was that drove him--when he returned to report, he would ask the counselor who debriefed him--but he turned it so that the target could look at it full on. Still more inexplicably, he asked his own first question.
"Who is it?"
The man's eyes were soft, now. "My mother."
Clark looked at the smiling woman, with her red hair and fine-boned features. "She's beautiful," he said, and then realized he'd have to report this to his superior officer as well.
The young man didn't look away from the photograph, but seemed to be waiting. Clark realized that he'd lost track of the time. Another error to report. He waited another fifteen seconds to be certain that he had allowed the target the fair amount of time, then turned, not releasing his grip, as the door opened. His failure would mean another victim. Finish, quickly, now. Kill this one, catch the other and kill whoever it was.
He squeezed, hard, but just as he felt the throat under his hand begin to collapse, something struck him. Unable to believe what was happening, he felt his grip weaken and his hands fell to his sides. The target, gasping and choking, dropped to the ground, not yet dead. A young woman was pummeling him with all her strength, and he stumbled under the attack.
"Let him go, let him go!" she screamed, and as he fell next to the target, she straddled his chest, pummeling him. Her long dark hair and rage-contorted face as she hurled her furious words and blows made her seem like some kind of witch-figure, he thought, as he felt his strength continue to weaken. The last thought in his mind was of how deeply he'd failed.
***
Lex Luthor had never expected to hear Lana Lang calling anybody a "bastard," let alone "a rotten mother-fucking no-good bastard," but that was the sound that greeted his return to consciousness. She was still hitting his assailant, who now seemed barely conscious, eyes closed, his only motions occasional flinches and winces that didn't even seem directly related to the blows.
"Lana, it's okay," he tried to say, but what came out was more a movement from a symphony of scratchy sounds. He also wanted to ask her how she'd over-powered a super-humanly strong being, but that was more complicated.
She hadn't even seen that he was conscious again, and since she couldn't hear the miniscule noises he could make, instead he buried his hand in her thick, glossy hair. The familiar sensation was apparently enough to get her attention.
"Lex," she whispered, tears coming to her eyes, and she drew him close, starting a thorough kiss and then realizing he was in no condition to respond with his usual enthusiasm. "I was just bringing the Talon reports and saw..."
He was able to talk, he realized, as his throat began to hurt rather than to feel as though it didn't exist, and immediately regretted saying what he did. "Your necklace. It's glowing." It was doing more than that, it seemed to be casting light. But still, what a thing for a boyfriend to say to the girlfriend who just saved his life. From a big scary non-robot non-human, probably twice her size and half-again her weight.
She looked down at it. "It's never done that before...I wonder if it has something to do with..." She looked at the figure underneath her.
"Let's see," he croaked. She let him take it off and he lightly touched the stone to his attacker's face. He immediately groaned, as if it hurt him. Touching him with the chain provoked no additional response.
"Keep holding it there. No, better give it back to me. You call the police," she said.
"No." God, talking hurt. He got to his feet, waited until the room seemed to steady itself again, and went to the desk, where he got a pen and paper. He scribbled. "No. I think he might be some experiment of Dad's. I'm going to get some more meteor fragments and lock him up with them, then see just why Dad sent me a new friend to play with."
"But, Lex-"
He continued to scribble. A way to interrupt without actually talking. "Besides, love, I want to find out what makes him tick. Or whatever he does."
"I don't like it, Lex."
"Come on." He tried to smile beguilingly at her. "I'll throw in a special tour of the dungeons!" he added, in what he hoped was a persuasive scrawl.
She nodded, reluctantly. "But only if he stays under control."
Lex thanked a God he was starting to believe in again that Enrique was either the least curious man in the world or the best able to disguise any hint of curiousity. His voice betrayed nothing when Lex picked up the house phone and told him to deliver all the pieces of meteor that Lex had found, duct tape, an ice pack, and the handcuffs from the back of the third dresser drawer, and leave them outside the office door. Lex wondered for a moment if his attacker wasn't the only non-human, when Enrique knocked, announced, "It's all ready, Mr. Luthor," and didn't even turn around when Lex opened the door.
"I just hope he doesn't write speculations about our love life and post them to the Web somewhere," he thought to himself, as he handcuffed the prone figure, lifted his shirt, placed several pieces of meteor on his chest, and wound several layers of duct tape over them, then rolling him over to repeat the same process on the back. Then he put the ice pack on his neck, and nodded tiredly as Lana suggested that they rest a few minutes before locking "that" up. She accompanied the word with a kick.
***
A/N.
Yes, Lana's a bit more aggressive here, but I think growing up without Clark around would make her a bit more independent. How she and Lex got together will come in the next chapter.
Dammit, Muse, stop *snickering* like that. It's...it's ungracious, that's what it is!
