I pointed my car in the direction of home and promptly got distracted.
Springtime in Smallville is completely the most amazing thing I've ever seen. It always seems to happen right when you're absolutely positive that one more day of grinding, monochromatic winter'll be a bullet point on your suicide list of reasons to end it all.
That's always when something gives in the weather and the days get longer. Crocuses push through the dirt into still-cold air and I invariably find myself wanting to spend an entire day at least driving around town in a giddy, spring-induced haze, poking each individual flower back into the earth until it's safer and warmer for them to come up. 'Chloe' means 'blooming,' but my thumb's always been much more black than green. Maybe brown on a good day. Either way, I'm in a bad position in terms of telling plants to do anything. Overnight almost, the landscape is dotted with purple and yellow and white and purple-veined white, and then the trees turn out their tender, chartreuse leaves. You can get lost in it, just watching. Everything seems to happen so fast it's like all the plants are busy unrolling new shoots and flowers as soon as your back is turned.
I'd left the town proper when there was a huge noise and a flash to my left. Shocked, I jerked the wheel to the right, skidding onto the shoulder. I coaxed the car back to the road, stealing a quick look in the direction the sound had come from. A thick plume of smoke was climbing over the treetops. It looked heavy and black and greasy; almost solid, rising in cumulus rounds from the general direction of Dr. Richter's house.
The car drifted onto the shoulder again before I registered that it was off the road at all. I braked hard, hopped out and almost lost the damn thing until I realized I hadn't set the parking brake.
I pounded up the driveway, sliding a little on the gravel. Two things kept chasing each other in my brain: Whatever made that smoke is bad. Whatever made that smoke is news. I was actually concentrating much more on not getting winded than the deeper ethical dilemma inherent in bad versus news.
Allowing for the fact that I was digging, two-handed, in my bag for my camera and cell phone, I made it to the top of the driveway in record time. Before I could accidentally dial 911 into the viewfinder, the sight of Dr. Richter's car brought me to a screeching halt. The metal was blackened and there were flames licking all around it and inside. It looked almost exactly like one of the buildings in the background of Bosch's hell.
Just living in Smallville should prepare you for a lot of things. I mean, it's like the weirdness capital of the Midwest at least, if not the country. I've seen more freaks and mutants and genetically altered stuff than even the most rabid paranormal investigator could hope to see in a lifetime. Only Dr. Richter's car wasn't like that at all, because he was a (relatively) ordinary man and this wasn't conspicuously the result of meteor freaks. For a horrible moment I just stood there, blinking hard like the dark figure in the driver's seat was just a shadow that I could sweep away.
Then...
Then everything seemed to slow and my legs folded under me. I sat down hard on the gravel driveway. Tiny pebbles dug into my palms. Shock had me pretty well paralyzed, which is embarrassing to admit because I always figured on being the strong one in any given situation. Then, the wind changed direction, blowing a cloud of bitter smoke into my eyes. I scrambled halfway to my feet, coughing, crab-walking under the worst of the smoke until I got clear. I punched in '911' and told the dispatcher to get someone, anyone, up here, like, yesterday.
I'm afraid I might have been screaming a little and swearing a lot. Something happened in my head that felt like Sprite -- there were these thoughts, all these things I knew I should say, bubbling around, but they disappeared before I could tell what they were.
This is what I thought of, only it wouldn't have been useful to the dispatcher: Dr. Richter works at the plant with my dad. I knew him some. He's a biotech chemist who always asked me about school and the Torch. I liked him. He was just so endearingly dweeby. His graying, sandy hair was manic (almost like Doc Brown's from Back to the Future only with more color). Every time I saw him, he was wearing an unironic plaid bow tie that I hadn't seen before. Sometimes Dad and I got fliers in the mail from him with a web address on them. I went once. Dr. Richter breeds pygmy hedgehogs and names them after characters from Tolkien. The hedgehogs are $100 each.
I held onto my memories of Dr. Richter and they strengthened something inside me. There was no way I could just sit around like a moron while I waited for the cavalry. Quickly, I stripped off my shirt and held the damp part over my mouth while I inched closer to the driver's side door. I can't say for sure what I was doing because I knew there was no way in hell that Dr. Richter wasn't...
But what if he had been? People survive these horrible things when no one thinks they can.
The car was unbelievably hot. I could see him inside. The outline of his profile was muffled by blowing smoke. If I'd dared to remove the makeshift mask, I'd have shouted to him that everything was going to be fine. It's what my dad used to tell me those first few months after Mom left. Wanting to say those words then, I realized with painful certainty that Dad had been using them as much for himself as for me.
There was one of those push-button handle mechanisms between me and Dr. Richter. I didn't remember until a few seconds after I curled my hand around it that metal conducts heat superbly. It was one of those hot/cold pains and I fell back onto the driveway again. I was suddenly freezing except for my hand, which felt like it was on fire. Everything was numb. Everything was dim. I was somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness and I dreamt that I saw Dr. Richter turn his head and look at me. He pressed his own burnt hands against the glass.
Sirens were screaming in the distance. They throbbed. My hand throbbed. Hold on. Hold on.
* * *
(short) author's note: I've never written a SV fic before, so constructive criticism is always welcome. Of course, I could have picked an easier place to start than with Chlex, right? I wanted to write something that was (relatively) current to the SV universe, but I wanted to avoid the whole love triangle issue and the Helen issue -- so viola! a fic set 1 1/2 years in the future. Does that make it futurefic? Eh. I hope you enjoy it.
scifichick774: I had the hardest time with Lex! Mostly because I see him as a very very controlled person and writing from Chloe's POV it's hard to get into his head. That makes him puzzling (in a good way), but also difficult (for me) to write.
Tandy: Thanks for the encouragement. I really appreciate it since this is my first exploration into the SV universe.
Renee: I'm glad you find it at least a little witty. I can never tell if what I'm writing is at all humorous or just dumb. Eep. I'm quite fond of the Chlex, but it's tricky since the characters haven't really had a significant conversation since...uh...the first season? Sigh.
onescape: Woo! I've always thought that any potential Chlex relationship should feature snappy dialogue as one of its main components. I'm trying my best at it.
Alwaysright: I know you from that epic Evo-thing I was writing for so long! Hi! I'm thrilled to hear that you found their interaction believable. I really want everyone to stay in character.
