Restoration
The blue of the sky was mottled with the gray scab of rain cloud as it raced passed his wind screen and merged into the gray of the road, the tunnel of speed and sound through which he sluiced inchoate.
Suddenly his mind dropped from the orgasmic intensity of thoughtless instinct and hitched on a passing drift of memory. The brakes screeched and he was sitting with his head on the steering wheel as the front of the car veered dangerously close to the security barrier that overlooked a sluggishly flowing river of scum.
He opened the door of the car and stepped out warily -as if into a different world. The act of walking became a revelation; even breathing was a novel experience. The texture of the battered road was unusual and unfamiliar, while the light hurt his eyes as he squinted into a world that was suddenly a pastiche of many, shimmering with what if. He brushed away that thought for it was forever linked with death and guilt in his mind. Not just the emotions-the very words were rancid from overuse. They signified experience, dream, imagination and analysis, far too much meaning. Deathguiltdanger the square root of 9687,too easy -look instead at the bridge rail -looks like it's been recently mended. Yes, there's the joint between the old and the new. Inhale. Exhale. Get in the car and close the door carefully. Reverse, accelerate. Welcome to Luthorcorp plant no.3.
'Thanks, dad.
They told him that the island had caused a psychotic breakdown in him. Had to undergo medical supervision for months after. All that time was a blur.but that was a natural reaction to the strenuous conditions that his brain had borne, or so said the doctors. Loss of memory.lack of a coherent sense of past and present. Lack of certainty. Life was vague and he dealt with it either in a panicked rush like jumping into an ice-cold river, or else with the detached and patient weariness that was willing to put in all possibilities into the last two years--fratricide, parricide, suicide.
His father had filled in the first version of the two-year lacuna in his head with a tale of logic. He could see the man sitting opposite him in his suite at the sanitarium, hair in carefully arranged disorder, eyes gimlet sharp, every syllable well modulated, in every word sympathy-- the willingness to provide an anchor of truth and certainty in the wild upheaval of his life. That helped.it helped a lot. For as his father looked and spoke at him in his most convincing manner-conviction reinvented in his psyche with a certainty that was blinding. It was different from the blurred sequence of memories that troubled him at night, tendrils of thought that wavered between a real or imagined past, or the megrims of a fevered imagination. This thought was so certain, it came from such a deep, secure recess of his being that his brain did not even consider the possibility of its being a construction, a mirage. I do not trust this man. He seeks to manipulate me-- listen and learn but please don't get taken in .So he smiled and heard how he had turned over a new leaf in Smallville, had taken over the fertilizer plant and was turning it into a profitable venture.
'No, Lex, you were not always the ideal son. There were moments, son, when you tried to overthrow parental authority, seeing dragons in every friendly overture I made. There was that' he chuckled with tolerant amusement, perfect in the role of gentle parent in the face of a recalcitrant, oft- erring child, 'that business of Lexcorp, using employees to help fund a buyout from Luthorcorp.but you learnt your lesson soon enough and had started an automatic process just prior to your wedding that led to Lexcorp becoming a subsidiary of luthorcorp, as indeed it is now.'
'That is another painful episode I must speak with you about-- your wedding to Helen. I see that you do not remember, and it is just as well, for she was not in the least deserving of the love and honor you gave her. She tried to kill you son, and that I fear, may have caused this painful condition in you. Your plane crashed on the way to the honeymoon. She arranged it, son, she tried to murder you in cold blood. And you in your last coherent moment remembered that heinous betrayal, and no doubt it affected you severely, especially as you were stranded on a deserted island for over two months. The combination of the malarial fever that struck you down and the imposed solitary confinement led to a. a psychotic breakdown. When you were rescued you were delusional and had to be brought here, where you have remained since. Of course the press made a big deal of your return, and I could not let them know of your unfortunate condition, so that newspapers of the day report your going back to Smallville almost immediately. That was a blind that I arranged to keep you safe. Know this Lex, I will do anything to keep you safe. Trust me, son.'
He took Lex's hand between his own. 'You need fear nothing with your father with you."
'I know, dad' said he with a smile that came as easily and as earnestly as it did on the countenance that loomed before him.
'Well, I will have to leave you now. but I wish to tell you that you may resume your master's at Princeton if you so choose. Perhaps a couple of years of study will help you in rebuilding your strength.both mentally and physically.'
'I will think about it dad' said Lex.
And as Lionel turned towards the door, asked 'What happened to her?'
'To whom?
'H..helen?' The name struggled to emerge from the mire of dumped files.
'She will never trouble you again, Lex. I took care of the matter. She need not concern you any longer.'
'Is she dead?
'If she has your luck-- no, if not, probably.
AN: These are new perceptions of old characters for New!Lex.
Lex.
Lionel's last visit confirmed what the invidious realityfest in his brain had already been telling him-it was time to leave Belle Reve. Time to start a new search for his new place in this world that hurtled along without his consent, absolute contempt in its utter denial of his existence.
Ghalib-e-khasta ke bager kaun se kaam bund hain royiye zaar-zaar kya, keejiye hai hai kyon
[AN: this is an attempted translation, and gives very poor sense of the poetry. Ghalib wrote in Urdu and in court Persian. What work of the world ceases without Ghalib Why bewail and bemoan ]
Words from the nineteenth century Moghul court poet came to him-- he was astonished once again by the vast array of thoughts and facts that flooded up from the hidden recesses in his brain. Here lay the hope that the answer to his problem, to all his problems, laid within him-- beyond the canker of the effacing drugs. He asked for his laptop and went on the website of the newspaper that he hated-used to hate-- most. In the search tab: Lex Luthor And it came up, fragments of his life-real, unreal, imagined, vicious, tolerant, humorous .excessive. He scrolled down the stories to the familiar waters of Jan 2001.Clicked on the link. The story came up. There he was-leather-clad, oblivious, his arm around David Furnish, Liz Hurley in the background. New Year at Elton John's country house in Hampshire. He remembered that. but there was much else he did not.
Lana
The car parked on a very familiar stretch of road. The physical space was embedded in some inviolate cubicle of his brain, where the acid of his breakdown had not spewed chaos. The sense memory came flooding back, flooding across the drug-leeched barrenness, overwhelming him with its intensity, as no space had done since his release. The plant held no character, it was designed not to, whilst the mansion had been scrubbed of it-- but here in this place, a public coffee house, with its smells of espressos long since drunk, and chocolate cooling in the murmur of conversation, pregnant with the essence of patchouli and cassia. subtle tendrils of meaning, invaded his ganglions and set them quivering. The ache of an unfamiliar familiar, the painful denial of basic cognizance, that proof of his sentience, absented itself anew with a physical grinding of his senses. The familiar agony in his head brought him back to reality, or what was to him the most acceptable reality. The unfamiliarity was not complete. Where was the girl who hovered as a certain presence in this haven of kitsch? Where was the Princess?
The Princess lay all broken in the hospital, her horse had broken her spine. Poor Lana, always the victim. But that was what all princesses were, victims from their very conception-- inevitable literary device, really.
He was still undecided whether he should be upset by the forced absence of the Talon's mistress and his business partner. A latent part of him wished he felt more strongly-stronger grief for an associate who had to all accounts been a pleasant one. But the truth was that at this moment Lana Lang was just a name that filled in a barely perceived gap in the wholeness of his ghost memory of the Talon; he no longer related to her as a person, no longer wanted to. The other part of him decided it was unseemly to be indifferent to the plight of someone who, he was told had been a close acquaintance, and he forced himself to do the 'decent thing'. He was aware that there was a huge gap between his natural inclinations and rational calculations and the perceived 'decent'. Why he bowed to the dictates of conventional morality was a point he was still pondering. He rather suspected it had a lot to do with seeking approval, seeking popular approval. Lex was realizing that Lex was not a nice person, he was not bad, just ordinary-self-seeking and quite self-absorbed.
Lana still stayed with the Sullivans, he had got his assistant to inquire while he got a coffee at the Talon. When his car pulled up, he noted that there were no other vehicles in the front. It looked like Chloe Sullivan was away. He knocked on the door and waited, watching the patterns of the slight cracks on the door, his mind taking solace in close observation. There was a long wait, then sounds of movement from within. Slow progress to the door and it was opened.
There was Lana Lang, pale, tragic, pretty. He looked at the crutches-- incongruous with the swathes of black silk that brushed them as the slight girl leaned forward in the awkward pose of the invalid. 'Lex!' Nothing but pleasant surprise in the tone.
'How are you? Do come in.'
There was an uncomfortable moment as she shuffled to one side of the hall as he walked past her. She closed the door behind her. He trailed behind as she made her painful progress to the living room. He was conscious of acute discomfort as she struggled to lean her crutches against the couch as she lowered herself to the cushions. He did not want to offend her by offering to help.
'Do sit.' She was aware of his scrutiny, must be conscious of the sentiment of awkward distress that people had around invalids.
'The crutches are new; I only got out of the wheelchair last week. Still not used to them.' she said breaking the silence.
'Lana,' he said 'I am sorry.' It was the conventional thing to say, and she acknowledged the convention with a smile.
She was quite beautiful, her pain highlighting the beauty of her face, easing out the plumpness of childhood into the planes of womanhood.
'It's much better now than I thought. Than anyone thought. After the accident they thought I would never walk again. Your father helped with the treatment. Now they say I will barely limp after a couple of months.' There was hardly any trace of tears in the voice.
'I am glad to hear that. Let me know if I can do anything.
'What with the covering manager for the Talon provided by Mr. Luthor, and everyone being so helpful, I am quite spoiled.' she dimpled at him. 'But I'm sure I'll find you something to do. I always do.'
Although the mention of Lionel's name had sent alarm bells ringing in his head, her gentle manner put him at ease, and he felt himself smiling at her. When he left, he knew why he had first invested in the Talon, and he had an immense curiosity to meet Clark Kent again.
Chloe
As Lex's car sped out of the Sullivans' drive, he spotted a red Beetle going the other way. He raised his hand in acknowledgement to the blonde driver, who responded with a wave and a smile. He looked in the rear-view mirror after a while and was unsurprised to see the Beetle determinedly following in the wake of the Porsche. He smiled and accelerated further towards the mansion. A few minutes later, he was equally unsurprised to hear his butler announce a Miss Chloe Sullivan at the door, who had no appointment but was certain that 'Mr. Lex Luthor would like to see me', quoted the butler. Lex sat down in his chair behind his Spartan desk and asked for the girl to be sent in. She came in shortly after, bag in tow, preceded by a big grin.
'Hi Lex!'
'How are you Miss Sullivan? As fanatical as ever in the quest of a story?' He watched the wattage of the smile dim for a moment but it resumed its effulgent intensity when he softened his words with a smile.
'Not just a story. I came to check up on a friend. My experiences of getting stories in this castle are none too pleasant, as you will recall.'
He did not, first hand, but back issues of the Inquisitor and the Torch had filled him in regarding the young reporter and an attempted robbery at the castle that ended with her falling out of the first floor window.
'Come Miss Sullivan, we both know the satisfaction of mixing business with pleasure. May I get you something.some hot chocolate?'
She brightened at the sound of that and he called the kitchens as she made herself comfortable before him, divesting herself of her coat and the various wires that trailed from her person. Ipod and earphones off, camera out, Dictaphone in evidence, and notebook in place she waited for him to turn to her.
'Well, I though it would be nice to get a piece on the return of the town's favourite son for the Torch. Or you could just turn me out on my ear.' Her finger was poised on the record button of the Dictaphone as she looked at him hopefully.
'I trust I will never be known to be so inhospitable.' he responded, as her finger flicked the button to 'on'.
'Well Lex, its nice to see you are better, but we would all like to know where you have been these past months.'
'As you know, I was confined to a deserted island over the summer, where I suffered from bouts of malarial fever and malnutrition. It seems the malarial fever was of a deviant kind that leads to degeneration of the central nervous system over a period of time. Thankfully for me, a medical checkup at Luthorcorp was able to diagnose the symptoms I had been showing after my rescue and I was asked to undergo a complete course of treatment to prevent the recurrence of the problem. I may say I am completely recovered now, and indeed, have never felt better.'
'That is good to know. You must have been greatly affected by the death of your wife so soon after your rescue-almost as if it were fated that you should never be together.'
'That was a very painful episode and I fear I may never be able to speak about it.'
'I understand. Perhaps you would like to speak about the future of Lexcorp now that you have accepted employment at your former competitor Luthorcorp?'
'Businesses are never run on sentiment alone, Miss Sullivan. Lexcorp was formed when I thought the period was right for fresh startups in the field, as well as in the interests of the employees to start a new company. But the business environment has changed, and I may say that Lexcorp is very happy to function as a subsidiary to Luthorcorp in an arrangement that is beneficial to both entities and in the best interests of the employees.
'And this decision has nothing to do with your failing health?
'My health, Miss Sullivan, has never been better.'
Her hand flicked the button of the recording device to off.
'Its clear that your prolonged absence hasn't led to a sudden change in your interview manner. Your stonewalling is in excellent form.'
'One is glad to be constant.' he countered. 'How is the wall of weird coming up?'
'Why does everyone open there conversation with me with that? That was rhetorical. I fear I may be outgrowing the Wall. Leaving behind childhood pursuits y'know.'she nodded sagely at him.
'Concentrating on excellent adult themes-like writing for the Daily Planet at seventeen. Hardly an achievement to be shrugged at.' He looked at her keenly, waiting for her reply, for he felt more than ever that there was more to Chloe than the ability to blackmail sundry small officials and the tenacity of a bulldog when it came to getting a story.
Chloe looked discomfited and then shrugged. 'I was lucky-at the right place at the right time, I may say.nothing like patenting a new aerodynamic form of solid fuel aircraft at 16.'
'Do I have to ask how many restricted access codes you broke to find out about the Lexwing?'
'You probably know already, so no.' she grinned at him. 'Is it true that you have suppressed the invention because most of your mother's trust fund is invested in conventional fuel?'
'Where did you get that from?
'Conspiracytheory.net.' she said with a straight face.
'I don't think I need dignify that with an answer.' he said. 'And now, Miss Sullivan, I must attend to more pressing, though less pleasurable affairs.'
'Uh. Thanks for the impromptu, Lex.'
As Chloe picked up the various bits and pieces of her trade and left, Lex was convinced that she had not suspected that he had been confined to an asylum, or that he had no real memory of her or of Smallville. He had done his homework well.
Pete
He did not know how long it would have taken him to figure out the fundamental problem in the narrative so far unfolded by his father, had he not met who had been one of his most implacable enemies in Smallville at the Talon the next day. Pete Ross-- representative of the disgruntled Smallville citizenry that hated the Luthor name with unrepentant staunchness. Lex had no intention of stopping to converse with the young man to have his animosity displayed in public, but something in the young man's expression arrested his steps.
'Mr. Ross.' said Lex acknowledging the seated figure at one of the Talon's booths. Pete looked at him with a curious expression-it was almost wary, furtive. Lex was reminded of his prepubescent days when he tried to outstare masters at his boarding school, wondering all the while what misdemeanor of his had been unearthed. Except he had never looked so nakedly guilty. Instinct told him to pursue the advantage.
Lex slid into the seat opposite with fluid ease. 'I know we haven't been the best of friends, but I think we both have enough backbone to allow for fresh starts.'
'I. I have to go.. gotta run some errands for my mom.
'Please Mr. Ross, have we ever talked other than in monosyllables? I noticed you declined to attend my wedding. again.' He remembered seeing the photographs; also remarkably, his best man had failed to attend. 'Perhaps next time.'he spoke softly, persuasively.
'Look, I really don't want to come here and be forced to talk to you just coz you own the place. I come here coz a friend of mine worked awfully hard to make this place run.
'Ah. The beautiful Miss Lang. I am glad she is recovering well. It was a horrible accident.
'Accident? She's crippled because of you! I don't know what your game is man-but I ain't afraid of you. You think your dad has everyone in his pocket huh! I know you've been to a loony bin you psycho. And what's more you should have stayed there. You half kill a girl, and all she can do is thank you.what twisted logic is that? Don't tell me you did not throw Lana under that stallion.you freak!
As Pete stormed out, Lex was left bereft of all thought. With immense slowness the Talon was re-peopled with talking, laughing and brooding individuals. Sound carried once again and the air returned from a turbid viscosity to breathable fluidity.
He got up slowly and made his way outside and back to the mansion in a daze that refused to resolve itself beyond 'what else have I forgotten?' For the first time he was dealing with the possibility that he had not forgotten- perhaps he had been made to forget. The concern on the part of his father to make it appear that he had been convalescing from a severe bout of malaria and not a psychotic breakdown, turned from an investor confidence ploy to one with far more sinister implications. Also, it implied a conspiracy to make him believe that he had not been to Smallville between his return from the island and his release from Bell Reve. It followed therefore that whatever had happened in that time threatened his father, hence the elaborate steps to prevent him from uncovering the real flow of events. It indicated that not only was most of the staff in the conspiracy, so were Lana Lang and Chloe Sullivan.
Concisely, as if on a mental PowerPoint screen, the points bulleted into his consciousness. By the time he reached the mansion, he was bathed in nervous sweat, his arms shaking from the exertion of steering the car. He parked in the cavernous garage and decided to take the door at the back of the garage that led to the kitchens. As he walked past the vast array of cars that stood marking the passage of time in his life, he came across an unusual vehicle-a red truck. It was unusual enough in the garage full of sports cars to attract even his rattled attention. He stopped and opened the door. On the front seat, cool and grim in the half-light of the overhead lights, lay a sword. Attached to the hilt was a note. He recognized his own hand.
To my friend Clark, in memory of my time in Smallville. Lex.
Slowly he drew the sword out of the car and shut the door. He unsheathed the weapon. No blinding moment of truth, no revelation in a kaleidoscope of images, only the faint association with Devilicus. Devilicus always carried a sword; everyone knew that.He brushed aside the tormenting whisper of elusive remembrance, concentrating instead on the formation of a plan of action. It was time to give Clark his present.
The blue of the sky was mottled with the gray scab of rain cloud as it raced passed his wind screen and merged into the gray of the road, the tunnel of speed and sound through which he sluiced inchoate.
Suddenly his mind dropped from the orgasmic intensity of thoughtless instinct and hitched on a passing drift of memory. The brakes screeched and he was sitting with his head on the steering wheel as the front of the car veered dangerously close to the security barrier that overlooked a sluggishly flowing river of scum.
He opened the door of the car and stepped out warily -as if into a different world. The act of walking became a revelation; even breathing was a novel experience. The texture of the battered road was unusual and unfamiliar, while the light hurt his eyes as he squinted into a world that was suddenly a pastiche of many, shimmering with what if. He brushed away that thought for it was forever linked with death and guilt in his mind. Not just the emotions-the very words were rancid from overuse. They signified experience, dream, imagination and analysis, far too much meaning. Deathguiltdanger the square root of 9687,too easy -look instead at the bridge rail -looks like it's been recently mended. Yes, there's the joint between the old and the new. Inhale. Exhale. Get in the car and close the door carefully. Reverse, accelerate. Welcome to Luthorcorp plant no.3.
'Thanks, dad.
They told him that the island had caused a psychotic breakdown in him. Had to undergo medical supervision for months after. All that time was a blur.but that was a natural reaction to the strenuous conditions that his brain had borne, or so said the doctors. Loss of memory.lack of a coherent sense of past and present. Lack of certainty. Life was vague and he dealt with it either in a panicked rush like jumping into an ice-cold river, or else with the detached and patient weariness that was willing to put in all possibilities into the last two years--fratricide, parricide, suicide.
His father had filled in the first version of the two-year lacuna in his head with a tale of logic. He could see the man sitting opposite him in his suite at the sanitarium, hair in carefully arranged disorder, eyes gimlet sharp, every syllable well modulated, in every word sympathy-- the willingness to provide an anchor of truth and certainty in the wild upheaval of his life. That helped.it helped a lot. For as his father looked and spoke at him in his most convincing manner-conviction reinvented in his psyche with a certainty that was blinding. It was different from the blurred sequence of memories that troubled him at night, tendrils of thought that wavered between a real or imagined past, or the megrims of a fevered imagination. This thought was so certain, it came from such a deep, secure recess of his being that his brain did not even consider the possibility of its being a construction, a mirage. I do not trust this man. He seeks to manipulate me-- listen and learn but please don't get taken in .So he smiled and heard how he had turned over a new leaf in Smallville, had taken over the fertilizer plant and was turning it into a profitable venture.
'No, Lex, you were not always the ideal son. There were moments, son, when you tried to overthrow parental authority, seeing dragons in every friendly overture I made. There was that' he chuckled with tolerant amusement, perfect in the role of gentle parent in the face of a recalcitrant, oft- erring child, 'that business of Lexcorp, using employees to help fund a buyout from Luthorcorp.but you learnt your lesson soon enough and had started an automatic process just prior to your wedding that led to Lexcorp becoming a subsidiary of luthorcorp, as indeed it is now.'
'That is another painful episode I must speak with you about-- your wedding to Helen. I see that you do not remember, and it is just as well, for she was not in the least deserving of the love and honor you gave her. She tried to kill you son, and that I fear, may have caused this painful condition in you. Your plane crashed on the way to the honeymoon. She arranged it, son, she tried to murder you in cold blood. And you in your last coherent moment remembered that heinous betrayal, and no doubt it affected you severely, especially as you were stranded on a deserted island for over two months. The combination of the malarial fever that struck you down and the imposed solitary confinement led to a. a psychotic breakdown. When you were rescued you were delusional and had to be brought here, where you have remained since. Of course the press made a big deal of your return, and I could not let them know of your unfortunate condition, so that newspapers of the day report your going back to Smallville almost immediately. That was a blind that I arranged to keep you safe. Know this Lex, I will do anything to keep you safe. Trust me, son.'
He took Lex's hand between his own. 'You need fear nothing with your father with you."
'I know, dad' said he with a smile that came as easily and as earnestly as it did on the countenance that loomed before him.
'Well, I will have to leave you now. but I wish to tell you that you may resume your master's at Princeton if you so choose. Perhaps a couple of years of study will help you in rebuilding your strength.both mentally and physically.'
'I will think about it dad' said Lex.
And as Lionel turned towards the door, asked 'What happened to her?'
'To whom?
'H..helen?' The name struggled to emerge from the mire of dumped files.
'She will never trouble you again, Lex. I took care of the matter. She need not concern you any longer.'
'Is she dead?
'If she has your luck-- no, if not, probably.
AN: These are new perceptions of old characters for New!Lex.
Lex.
Lionel's last visit confirmed what the invidious realityfest in his brain had already been telling him-it was time to leave Belle Reve. Time to start a new search for his new place in this world that hurtled along without his consent, absolute contempt in its utter denial of his existence.
Ghalib-e-khasta ke bager kaun se kaam bund hain royiye zaar-zaar kya, keejiye hai hai kyon
[AN: this is an attempted translation, and gives very poor sense of the poetry. Ghalib wrote in Urdu and in court Persian. What work of the world ceases without Ghalib Why bewail and bemoan ]
Words from the nineteenth century Moghul court poet came to him-- he was astonished once again by the vast array of thoughts and facts that flooded up from the hidden recesses in his brain. Here lay the hope that the answer to his problem, to all his problems, laid within him-- beyond the canker of the effacing drugs. He asked for his laptop and went on the website of the newspaper that he hated-used to hate-- most. In the search tab: Lex Luthor And it came up, fragments of his life-real, unreal, imagined, vicious, tolerant, humorous .excessive. He scrolled down the stories to the familiar waters of Jan 2001.Clicked on the link. The story came up. There he was-leather-clad, oblivious, his arm around David Furnish, Liz Hurley in the background. New Year at Elton John's country house in Hampshire. He remembered that. but there was much else he did not.
Lana
The car parked on a very familiar stretch of road. The physical space was embedded in some inviolate cubicle of his brain, where the acid of his breakdown had not spewed chaos. The sense memory came flooding back, flooding across the drug-leeched barrenness, overwhelming him with its intensity, as no space had done since his release. The plant held no character, it was designed not to, whilst the mansion had been scrubbed of it-- but here in this place, a public coffee house, with its smells of espressos long since drunk, and chocolate cooling in the murmur of conversation, pregnant with the essence of patchouli and cassia. subtle tendrils of meaning, invaded his ganglions and set them quivering. The ache of an unfamiliar familiar, the painful denial of basic cognizance, that proof of his sentience, absented itself anew with a physical grinding of his senses. The familiar agony in his head brought him back to reality, or what was to him the most acceptable reality. The unfamiliarity was not complete. Where was the girl who hovered as a certain presence in this haven of kitsch? Where was the Princess?
The Princess lay all broken in the hospital, her horse had broken her spine. Poor Lana, always the victim. But that was what all princesses were, victims from their very conception-- inevitable literary device, really.
He was still undecided whether he should be upset by the forced absence of the Talon's mistress and his business partner. A latent part of him wished he felt more strongly-stronger grief for an associate who had to all accounts been a pleasant one. But the truth was that at this moment Lana Lang was just a name that filled in a barely perceived gap in the wholeness of his ghost memory of the Talon; he no longer related to her as a person, no longer wanted to. The other part of him decided it was unseemly to be indifferent to the plight of someone who, he was told had been a close acquaintance, and he forced himself to do the 'decent thing'. He was aware that there was a huge gap between his natural inclinations and rational calculations and the perceived 'decent'. Why he bowed to the dictates of conventional morality was a point he was still pondering. He rather suspected it had a lot to do with seeking approval, seeking popular approval. Lex was realizing that Lex was not a nice person, he was not bad, just ordinary-self-seeking and quite self-absorbed.
Lana still stayed with the Sullivans, he had got his assistant to inquire while he got a coffee at the Talon. When his car pulled up, he noted that there were no other vehicles in the front. It looked like Chloe Sullivan was away. He knocked on the door and waited, watching the patterns of the slight cracks on the door, his mind taking solace in close observation. There was a long wait, then sounds of movement from within. Slow progress to the door and it was opened.
There was Lana Lang, pale, tragic, pretty. He looked at the crutches-- incongruous with the swathes of black silk that brushed them as the slight girl leaned forward in the awkward pose of the invalid. 'Lex!' Nothing but pleasant surprise in the tone.
'How are you? Do come in.'
There was an uncomfortable moment as she shuffled to one side of the hall as he walked past her. She closed the door behind her. He trailed behind as she made her painful progress to the living room. He was conscious of acute discomfort as she struggled to lean her crutches against the couch as she lowered herself to the cushions. He did not want to offend her by offering to help.
'Do sit.' She was aware of his scrutiny, must be conscious of the sentiment of awkward distress that people had around invalids.
'The crutches are new; I only got out of the wheelchair last week. Still not used to them.' she said breaking the silence.
'Lana,' he said 'I am sorry.' It was the conventional thing to say, and she acknowledged the convention with a smile.
She was quite beautiful, her pain highlighting the beauty of her face, easing out the plumpness of childhood into the planes of womanhood.
'It's much better now than I thought. Than anyone thought. After the accident they thought I would never walk again. Your father helped with the treatment. Now they say I will barely limp after a couple of months.' There was hardly any trace of tears in the voice.
'I am glad to hear that. Let me know if I can do anything.
'What with the covering manager for the Talon provided by Mr. Luthor, and everyone being so helpful, I am quite spoiled.' she dimpled at him. 'But I'm sure I'll find you something to do. I always do.'
Although the mention of Lionel's name had sent alarm bells ringing in his head, her gentle manner put him at ease, and he felt himself smiling at her. When he left, he knew why he had first invested in the Talon, and he had an immense curiosity to meet Clark Kent again.
Chloe
As Lex's car sped out of the Sullivans' drive, he spotted a red Beetle going the other way. He raised his hand in acknowledgement to the blonde driver, who responded with a wave and a smile. He looked in the rear-view mirror after a while and was unsurprised to see the Beetle determinedly following in the wake of the Porsche. He smiled and accelerated further towards the mansion. A few minutes later, he was equally unsurprised to hear his butler announce a Miss Chloe Sullivan at the door, who had no appointment but was certain that 'Mr. Lex Luthor would like to see me', quoted the butler. Lex sat down in his chair behind his Spartan desk and asked for the girl to be sent in. She came in shortly after, bag in tow, preceded by a big grin.
'Hi Lex!'
'How are you Miss Sullivan? As fanatical as ever in the quest of a story?' He watched the wattage of the smile dim for a moment but it resumed its effulgent intensity when he softened his words with a smile.
'Not just a story. I came to check up on a friend. My experiences of getting stories in this castle are none too pleasant, as you will recall.'
He did not, first hand, but back issues of the Inquisitor and the Torch had filled him in regarding the young reporter and an attempted robbery at the castle that ended with her falling out of the first floor window.
'Come Miss Sullivan, we both know the satisfaction of mixing business with pleasure. May I get you something.some hot chocolate?'
She brightened at the sound of that and he called the kitchens as she made herself comfortable before him, divesting herself of her coat and the various wires that trailed from her person. Ipod and earphones off, camera out, Dictaphone in evidence, and notebook in place she waited for him to turn to her.
'Well, I though it would be nice to get a piece on the return of the town's favourite son for the Torch. Or you could just turn me out on my ear.' Her finger was poised on the record button of the Dictaphone as she looked at him hopefully.
'I trust I will never be known to be so inhospitable.' he responded, as her finger flicked the button to 'on'.
'Well Lex, its nice to see you are better, but we would all like to know where you have been these past months.'
'As you know, I was confined to a deserted island over the summer, where I suffered from bouts of malarial fever and malnutrition. It seems the malarial fever was of a deviant kind that leads to degeneration of the central nervous system over a period of time. Thankfully for me, a medical checkup at Luthorcorp was able to diagnose the symptoms I had been showing after my rescue and I was asked to undergo a complete course of treatment to prevent the recurrence of the problem. I may say I am completely recovered now, and indeed, have never felt better.'
'That is good to know. You must have been greatly affected by the death of your wife so soon after your rescue-almost as if it were fated that you should never be together.'
'That was a very painful episode and I fear I may never be able to speak about it.'
'I understand. Perhaps you would like to speak about the future of Lexcorp now that you have accepted employment at your former competitor Luthorcorp?'
'Businesses are never run on sentiment alone, Miss Sullivan. Lexcorp was formed when I thought the period was right for fresh startups in the field, as well as in the interests of the employees to start a new company. But the business environment has changed, and I may say that Lexcorp is very happy to function as a subsidiary to Luthorcorp in an arrangement that is beneficial to both entities and in the best interests of the employees.
'And this decision has nothing to do with your failing health?
'My health, Miss Sullivan, has never been better.'
Her hand flicked the button of the recording device to off.
'Its clear that your prolonged absence hasn't led to a sudden change in your interview manner. Your stonewalling is in excellent form.'
'One is glad to be constant.' he countered. 'How is the wall of weird coming up?'
'Why does everyone open there conversation with me with that? That was rhetorical. I fear I may be outgrowing the Wall. Leaving behind childhood pursuits y'know.'she nodded sagely at him.
'Concentrating on excellent adult themes-like writing for the Daily Planet at seventeen. Hardly an achievement to be shrugged at.' He looked at her keenly, waiting for her reply, for he felt more than ever that there was more to Chloe than the ability to blackmail sundry small officials and the tenacity of a bulldog when it came to getting a story.
Chloe looked discomfited and then shrugged. 'I was lucky-at the right place at the right time, I may say.nothing like patenting a new aerodynamic form of solid fuel aircraft at 16.'
'Do I have to ask how many restricted access codes you broke to find out about the Lexwing?'
'You probably know already, so no.' she grinned at him. 'Is it true that you have suppressed the invention because most of your mother's trust fund is invested in conventional fuel?'
'Where did you get that from?
'Conspiracytheory.net.' she said with a straight face.
'I don't think I need dignify that with an answer.' he said. 'And now, Miss Sullivan, I must attend to more pressing, though less pleasurable affairs.'
'Uh. Thanks for the impromptu, Lex.'
As Chloe picked up the various bits and pieces of her trade and left, Lex was convinced that she had not suspected that he had been confined to an asylum, or that he had no real memory of her or of Smallville. He had done his homework well.
Pete
He did not know how long it would have taken him to figure out the fundamental problem in the narrative so far unfolded by his father, had he not met who had been one of his most implacable enemies in Smallville at the Talon the next day. Pete Ross-- representative of the disgruntled Smallville citizenry that hated the Luthor name with unrepentant staunchness. Lex had no intention of stopping to converse with the young man to have his animosity displayed in public, but something in the young man's expression arrested his steps.
'Mr. Ross.' said Lex acknowledging the seated figure at one of the Talon's booths. Pete looked at him with a curious expression-it was almost wary, furtive. Lex was reminded of his prepubescent days when he tried to outstare masters at his boarding school, wondering all the while what misdemeanor of his had been unearthed. Except he had never looked so nakedly guilty. Instinct told him to pursue the advantage.
Lex slid into the seat opposite with fluid ease. 'I know we haven't been the best of friends, but I think we both have enough backbone to allow for fresh starts.'
'I. I have to go.. gotta run some errands for my mom.
'Please Mr. Ross, have we ever talked other than in monosyllables? I noticed you declined to attend my wedding. again.' He remembered seeing the photographs; also remarkably, his best man had failed to attend. 'Perhaps next time.'he spoke softly, persuasively.
'Look, I really don't want to come here and be forced to talk to you just coz you own the place. I come here coz a friend of mine worked awfully hard to make this place run.
'Ah. The beautiful Miss Lang. I am glad she is recovering well. It was a horrible accident.
'Accident? She's crippled because of you! I don't know what your game is man-but I ain't afraid of you. You think your dad has everyone in his pocket huh! I know you've been to a loony bin you psycho. And what's more you should have stayed there. You half kill a girl, and all she can do is thank you.what twisted logic is that? Don't tell me you did not throw Lana under that stallion.you freak!
As Pete stormed out, Lex was left bereft of all thought. With immense slowness the Talon was re-peopled with talking, laughing and brooding individuals. Sound carried once again and the air returned from a turbid viscosity to breathable fluidity.
He got up slowly and made his way outside and back to the mansion in a daze that refused to resolve itself beyond 'what else have I forgotten?' For the first time he was dealing with the possibility that he had not forgotten- perhaps he had been made to forget. The concern on the part of his father to make it appear that he had been convalescing from a severe bout of malaria and not a psychotic breakdown, turned from an investor confidence ploy to one with far more sinister implications. Also, it implied a conspiracy to make him believe that he had not been to Smallville between his return from the island and his release from Bell Reve. It followed therefore that whatever had happened in that time threatened his father, hence the elaborate steps to prevent him from uncovering the real flow of events. It indicated that not only was most of the staff in the conspiracy, so were Lana Lang and Chloe Sullivan.
Concisely, as if on a mental PowerPoint screen, the points bulleted into his consciousness. By the time he reached the mansion, he was bathed in nervous sweat, his arms shaking from the exertion of steering the car. He parked in the cavernous garage and decided to take the door at the back of the garage that led to the kitchens. As he walked past the vast array of cars that stood marking the passage of time in his life, he came across an unusual vehicle-a red truck. It was unusual enough in the garage full of sports cars to attract even his rattled attention. He stopped and opened the door. On the front seat, cool and grim in the half-light of the overhead lights, lay a sword. Attached to the hilt was a note. He recognized his own hand.
To my friend Clark, in memory of my time in Smallville. Lex.
Slowly he drew the sword out of the car and shut the door. He unsheathed the weapon. No blinding moment of truth, no revelation in a kaleidoscope of images, only the faint association with Devilicus. Devilicus always carried a sword; everyone knew that.He brushed aside the tormenting whisper of elusive remembrance, concentrating instead on the formation of a plan of action. It was time to give Clark his present.