Author's Note: Sorry about the long break guys…in that period I've

moved back home, readjusted to American life and tried to get my life

in some sort of order…plus I couldn't really think of a good way to

conclude the story but I've thought of one now. But don't worry! This

isn't the end…there's still the epilogue!

Pete walked up to Stan's house, trying to act calm. Really, he didn't

feel that way at all. Here he was, being sent off to the jaws of doom

by his best friend. "I don't see why you can't do this, Clark," Pete

hissed out the side of his mouth. "Sorry, but I told you. I have to be

over here or else he might get suspicious," Clark replied from his

hiding place in the bushes. Pete rolled his eyes. Who cared? Clark

wasn't afftected by Depression Boy. It wouldn't matter if they did it

the other way around 'but noooo, I'm always the one who gets to head

off the various freaks of the week. I'm always the one who gets hurt

before Clark rushes in to save the day,' Pete thought bitterly as he

neared the door of the run-down old shack. 'Uh oh.' Pete paused as he

realized what was happening to him. Stan must be around here, nearby.

He hesitated for a second and then knocked on the door. It sprung open

almost as though someone had been expecting him.

"Whadya want?" A dirty man with a crutch in one hand and long

scraggly hair asked Pete and Pete felt himself flinch backwards

involuntarily. "Er, I wanted to see Stan," he said, trying dearly not

to loath the person in front of him. "Whaddya mean you wanna see Stan?

Don't nobody want to see Stan. Ya think I'll just let you come in here

and say you wanna see Stan and you can see him? Hah!" Spittle flew out

of the man's mouth at this and landed on Pete's cheek. He wiped it off

grimly. He really hadn't expected anything different. "Like they'd a

let you do that in Danang. Nossir. In Danang, you didn't just parade in

here like a belladonna and expect to see who you wanted to see. You had

the Cong alround them. Not that it matters. Don't matter to no one no

more. I lost my leg in Danang because of one of those fools. And where

was my parade, huh? Where was my parade?" The man leaned in so close to

Pete that he was having trouble not recoiling. The stinch was unbarable

and Pete's nose was rapidly in danger of coming in contact with his. "I

just want to see Stan!" Pete repeated and, like an angel heralding its

call, Stan appeared behind the door clutching a heavy history book and

slammed into the back of the creepy old man's head, who then to the

ground with a dissatisfying thump. Stan stared at the body blandly,

then looked at Pete with the same expression. "Oh." He said lamely.

"It's you." Pete stared at Stan wide-eyed. "Dude, you just killed your

father," he said, disbelieving. Stan merely shrugged. "Yeah, I know.

It's the most use my history book has been all year." He kicked the

cadaver in the side lazily and Pete was amazed to find that he didn't

feel quite as despaired as he usually did. "So, um, I came to find

out…" Pete searched around for a worthy excuse. "Um, if you wanted to

help with layout tomorrow." Stan merely stared at Pete and Pete felt a

rush of despair spring at him. 'Uh oh,' Pete thought. 'Here it comes.'

"My father just died. Do you think I want to help with layout?" "Well,

you didn't seem too terribly put off by it. I mean, you killed him

yourself."

"That doesn't mean I don't care!" Stan shouted. "Everyone just thinks I

don't care! Everyone! No one cares about Stan though! Who cares what he

thinks, huh? No one?" Pete felt himself start to crumple under the

barrage of negative thoughts coming at him. "I—can't—" he stammard but

at that moment, Clark burst out of the bushes and tackled Stan in such

a way that would have made the new football coach wonder exactly why

Clark wasn't on the football team. Stan hit the ground with a thud and

Clark sat up on top of him, pinning him down.

"It figures," Stan said simply.

"What figures?" Clark asked.

"That you would do this. It's just like you."

"Stan, you hardly even know me."

"I know. But it's just like you and everyone else on this world. Let's

all go pick on Stan and beat him up! He's an easy target."

From his place by the shack's door, Pete called out, "Trust me, Stan,

you are NO easy target."

Clark nodded. "Why are you the way you are, Stan? Why do you depress

everyone you meet?"

Stan shrugged. "Does it matter?"

"Yes, it does. You killed someone Stan."

"She killed herself. I just happened to be the one to point out that

she had nothing to live for. It's not my fault she agreed with me."

Clark suddenly found his positioning on top of Stan very uncomfortable

and rolled off to sit next to him. "Yes it is. You radiate depression.

Everyone who's around you can't help but become depressed. Why?"

"Is it the meteor rock?" Pete called from a distance.

Stan shrugged. "Hell if I know. I hardly remember it. Who would want

to? Ugly thing."

"Your dad worked at Luthorcorp," Clark suggested, hoping this would get

some reaction out of him, but Stan merely shrugged. "That would depress

anyone."

Clark sat there for a moment at a loss for words. He was simply

unreachable. Then again, he realized, most of these meteor freaks he

dealt with were. Finally Stan spoke. "I'll tell you something." His

voice was quiet as a whisper but it resonated in the air. "I'm not any

more different than you or Pete or anyone else in this world is. You

all hate it. You all get pissed and depressed sometimes. If sometimes

things seem pretty well, it's merely because you haven't been looking

for what's wrong. You're choosing to ignore it. Ever since the meteor

shower came down, I haven't been able to ignore it. It's always there.

But I have noticed," his voice dropped down another decibel. "That ever

since those tests were done on me, I've been able to make others see it

just like I have. Now they all know the truth."

Clark felt a horrible knot form in his stomach. "What do you mean? What

truth?"

"That they're all like me. Inside everyone, there's that little piece

of them that wants to hate everything and see the disadvantages and

short ends of every deal. I just uncover it. I let them see it. What

they do with it is there business."

"I can't let you keep hurting people, Stan," Clark said, his voice

taking the form of a plea. If only he would understand.

"I'm not hurting anyone. I'm just bringing out the piece of them that

is just like me." He laughed. "There's a little piece of me inside

every sod in this world. They're only waiting for me to show them where

it is."

"What about Clark?" Pete called. "You haven't made him depressed." This was meant as

a challenge but Clark felt a twinge of worry that it might make Stan realize that Clark

wasn't like everyone else but Stan laughed again. "That's because he's depressed enough

on his own. He doesn't need my help." Then, Stan took one last shallow breath and

closed his eyes, leaving Clark and Pete there to stare at his body and wonder if his

depression and inability to share it with Clark had killed him at last.