The minute he reached the bottom of the stairs, he went into "Clark time," as he liked to call it. Shovling in some delectable homemade waffles his mom had layed out for him, he straightened his blue flannel shirt, popped on his favorite work boots, and speeding over to the door, he slowed with his hand grasping the door knob and the clear intent to walk on out. He spent the next ten minutes in that pose convincing his mom to allow him to step out the door onto the porch, much less go to the Talon. In fact, if his father hadn't intervined and backed him up, he'd would probably still be there pleading with her unweilding face. With strict instructions that under no circumstances short of death or volcanic eruption was he to use his ablilities for anything, he'd bounded down the steps before his mom could rebuttal. Hence why his mother had offered up the keys when he asked without argument. Now, five minutes later, he couldn't believe his good luck as he bumped along the road in the familys ancient red pickup on the way to meet Pete at the Talon for day of their own. The radio blasted out the hardest rock station Clark could find, the volume kicked up a few extra notches in the otiose attempt to drown out his thoughts and questions the previous night had raised. Instead, he'd only succeed in driving a few cows farther into their respective pastures and getting a few strange looks from workmen he sped by.
Clark bobbed his head to beat and thumped out the drum solo on the steering wheel. Today he'd spend the day with Pete. Chloe and Lana were supposed to meet him, but Clark doubted even Chloe had the audacity to show up after her confession of the night before. Certainly she'd told Lana what had happened; the two were room mates after all and he certainly wasn't going to break news of her betrayl to everyone in school himself. Sighing deeply, he became lost in his thoughts and the fast rythm of the song. Until, that is, the bus flipped off out of the lane in front of him doing a spectacular 1080 before finally resting on the road.
The day hadn't been the best for the haggard crew riding on the bright yellow school bus. None had ridden on one for years, not since they were in high school instead of just teaching it. The conference of the American Teachers Association at Metropolis started at eight in the morning, meaning that with the three hour drive, extra half hour to get into the city, and time it took to meet and load the bus, most of the staff had been up since three in the morning. None were in particularly good moods at that thought of attending a festival to learn to the newest 'techniques' none would ever apply to the classroom. Or at the three hour ride crammed on a smelly and packed school which rattled over every pit and pothole in the long-ago paved country road for that matter. Not to mention the fact that the final arrival in the city had shown them that the date on the notice the school had recieved was wrong. Due to a mix up, no one had bothered to mention it to the small town high school. The conference was actually next weekend, and they would have to make the entire trip again then. Overall, the day thus far had made for a very crabby group of teachers all stuffed uncerimoniously on a dragging school bus. And that is the moment the front tire chose to rip to shreds, sending a bus full of rioting, worn-out adults pitching lopsidedly down the road.
Clark hit the breaks so hard he tore a hole in the bottom of the truck, tearing the break line as the car fish-tailed. Pulling a Fred Flinstone, he stopped the truck with his foot before it could flip into the mangled yellow remains. Flames licked the engine, melting the hood cover and threatening to engulf the whole bus then and there. Both wheels were shreded in front, leaving the chassy exposed to the cool mid-day air. The back axel was twisted oddly out of place and windows on all sides had been blown out, spreading shards of glass all over the two lane road, some embedded in the asphalt. After rolling three times, the roof was bent in at odd angles. And the whole scene was covered in blood, with steaks on the windows, the seats that had been over turned, mingling with the dark road and caking the unlucky victims, most of whom were in shock. In fact, the crash had been racked with screams from the bus, and Clark was horrified to realize that now, no sound came from the ruins, not even a peep. It shook him, causing him to pause for a moment and wonder if he was too late and all of the people had been killed. Banishing the thought from his mind, he leapt into action.
Clark rushed over and peered into the wreckage. He recognized nearly everyone, and all were bleeding, unconcious, or worse. He didn't even pause to think about his fathers words of only minutes before. It was precarious a situation at the moment for there to even be a chance for someone to find out about his secret, and Clark knew that. But standing there, the only hope for miles and possibly hours, watching his teachers bleed out, he couldn't just do nothing. Clark sped into action.
'First things first,' he thought, reaching the head of the bus and smothering the fire with his bare hands. He wouldn't do any good if the people all baked to death before he could help them. Wiping his hands on his already dusty blue jeans, he edged in a slow circle around the bus, surveying the damgage. He formulated a plan of attack in an instant, reaching the side just as he started to hear voices from within. They were stirring. 'At least their alive,' he thought.
The bus was on it's side and the best way in would be peeling the roof back. Remembering the repercussions from the last time he'd done that with Lex and the questions it raised, he decided the roof hatch was safest. Muscling the door open, he carefully climbed into the bus. One by one, he reached each person and pulled them from the burning wreckage. By that time, several had woken up and called desperatly out to him. He paused to comfort them, helping them from the bus first so they might be able to help him. Only one man and a woman were well enough to be of any use, and he took charge, letting them apply any first aid they could. He set to work on the unconcious next. Laying each damaged body of the side of the road, he returned for about 20 people before plucking the last victim from the crash. By that time, it was about 30 minutes later. He'd been careful, not unafraid of using his powers as much as he was that it might inflame the wounded and arouse suspicion. Another car had stopped about 20 minutes in, and the frantic twenty-something had been useless aside from dialing up the police on her cell phone and stuttering out the location. Clark had simply chosen to ignore her; he had more pressing matters on his mind. It seemed surprising the injuries weren't more severe. There were broken legs, arms, and ribs, a few concussions, innumurous lacerations, and one case of internal bleeding. There were no broken necks and all seemed to be holding up pretty well.
Then the bus gave slight lurch and an odd hissing sound emitted from somewhere near the gas tank. The group was huddled about 30 feet from the site, backs to wreckage. Clark heard the sound first as he bandaging his English teacher with a torn piece of material from his shirt. He looked about as bad as the bus. Flannel torn in various places from trying to bandage up the worse of them, hair all out of place and boots worn to sole in the spot where'd he stopped the truck. Covered in soot and torn jeans, he was spotted with dried and wet blood. Clark's hands weren't even visible any more in their natural hue, as were his arms, face, or neck. Tying a tight knot, he turned to investigate.
Approaching the mangled scene, the light dimmed slightly around him as a cloud passed in front the sun. He was ten feet away when the gas tank exploded in a vibrant bang, hurling his backward toward the group as they was launched hell for the second time that day.
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on.
Clark bobbed his head to beat and thumped out the drum solo on the steering wheel. Today he'd spend the day with Pete. Chloe and Lana were supposed to meet him, but Clark doubted even Chloe had the audacity to show up after her confession of the night before. Certainly she'd told Lana what had happened; the two were room mates after all and he certainly wasn't going to break news of her betrayl to everyone in school himself. Sighing deeply, he became lost in his thoughts and the fast rythm of the song. Until, that is, the bus flipped off out of the lane in front of him doing a spectacular 1080 before finally resting on the road.
The day hadn't been the best for the haggard crew riding on the bright yellow school bus. None had ridden on one for years, not since they were in high school instead of just teaching it. The conference of the American Teachers Association at Metropolis started at eight in the morning, meaning that with the three hour drive, extra half hour to get into the city, and time it took to meet and load the bus, most of the staff had been up since three in the morning. None were in particularly good moods at that thought of attending a festival to learn to the newest 'techniques' none would ever apply to the classroom. Or at the three hour ride crammed on a smelly and packed school which rattled over every pit and pothole in the long-ago paved country road for that matter. Not to mention the fact that the final arrival in the city had shown them that the date on the notice the school had recieved was wrong. Due to a mix up, no one had bothered to mention it to the small town high school. The conference was actually next weekend, and they would have to make the entire trip again then. Overall, the day thus far had made for a very crabby group of teachers all stuffed uncerimoniously on a dragging school bus. And that is the moment the front tire chose to rip to shreds, sending a bus full of rioting, worn-out adults pitching lopsidedly down the road.
Clark hit the breaks so hard he tore a hole in the bottom of the truck, tearing the break line as the car fish-tailed. Pulling a Fred Flinstone, he stopped the truck with his foot before it could flip into the mangled yellow remains. Flames licked the engine, melting the hood cover and threatening to engulf the whole bus then and there. Both wheels were shreded in front, leaving the chassy exposed to the cool mid-day air. The back axel was twisted oddly out of place and windows on all sides had been blown out, spreading shards of glass all over the two lane road, some embedded in the asphalt. After rolling three times, the roof was bent in at odd angles. And the whole scene was covered in blood, with steaks on the windows, the seats that had been over turned, mingling with the dark road and caking the unlucky victims, most of whom were in shock. In fact, the crash had been racked with screams from the bus, and Clark was horrified to realize that now, no sound came from the ruins, not even a peep. It shook him, causing him to pause for a moment and wonder if he was too late and all of the people had been killed. Banishing the thought from his mind, he leapt into action.
Clark rushed over and peered into the wreckage. He recognized nearly everyone, and all were bleeding, unconcious, or worse. He didn't even pause to think about his fathers words of only minutes before. It was precarious a situation at the moment for there to even be a chance for someone to find out about his secret, and Clark knew that. But standing there, the only hope for miles and possibly hours, watching his teachers bleed out, he couldn't just do nothing. Clark sped into action.
'First things first,' he thought, reaching the head of the bus and smothering the fire with his bare hands. He wouldn't do any good if the people all baked to death before he could help them. Wiping his hands on his already dusty blue jeans, he edged in a slow circle around the bus, surveying the damgage. He formulated a plan of attack in an instant, reaching the side just as he started to hear voices from within. They were stirring. 'At least their alive,' he thought.
The bus was on it's side and the best way in would be peeling the roof back. Remembering the repercussions from the last time he'd done that with Lex and the questions it raised, he decided the roof hatch was safest. Muscling the door open, he carefully climbed into the bus. One by one, he reached each person and pulled them from the burning wreckage. By that time, several had woken up and called desperatly out to him. He paused to comfort them, helping them from the bus first so they might be able to help him. Only one man and a woman were well enough to be of any use, and he took charge, letting them apply any first aid they could. He set to work on the unconcious next. Laying each damaged body of the side of the road, he returned for about 20 people before plucking the last victim from the crash. By that time, it was about 30 minutes later. He'd been careful, not unafraid of using his powers as much as he was that it might inflame the wounded and arouse suspicion. Another car had stopped about 20 minutes in, and the frantic twenty-something had been useless aside from dialing up the police on her cell phone and stuttering out the location. Clark had simply chosen to ignore her; he had more pressing matters on his mind. It seemed surprising the injuries weren't more severe. There were broken legs, arms, and ribs, a few concussions, innumurous lacerations, and one case of internal bleeding. There were no broken necks and all seemed to be holding up pretty well.
Then the bus gave slight lurch and an odd hissing sound emitted from somewhere near the gas tank. The group was huddled about 30 feet from the site, backs to wreckage. Clark heard the sound first as he bandaging his English teacher with a torn piece of material from his shirt. He looked about as bad as the bus. Flannel torn in various places from trying to bandage up the worse of them, hair all out of place and boots worn to sole in the spot where'd he stopped the truck. Covered in soot and torn jeans, he was spotted with dried and wet blood. Clark's hands weren't even visible any more in their natural hue, as were his arms, face, or neck. Tying a tight knot, he turned to investigate.
Approaching the mangled scene, the light dimmed slightly around him as a cloud passed in front the sun. He was ten feet away when the gas tank exploded in a vibrant bang, hurling his backward toward the group as they was launched hell for the second time that day.
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on.