Lex Luthor sat in the front passenger seat of a fully outfitted special-ops van, watching as the pinpricks of light shining from the Kent farm grew into glowing beacons. His friendship with Clark was hard to label - they seemed to expect such monumental things of one another, things that most people could never conceive of requesting, and yet here they were again, each needing something from the other. Clark needed Lex's intervention, and Lex needed Clark's trust.
He had momentarily hedged when Clark asked him to make a promise. That hesitation stemmed from his dilemma over whether the need for Clark to trust him again was greater than his quest to know more about his almost mythic friend. It appeared he may have turned over his new leaf a little prematurely.
"Lex, it's Clark - look, this is gonna sound crazy and I can't really give you any answers, 'cause the truth is I don't know, but I need you to help me and not ask questions." Clark's voice was ragged, like he was shouting over ambient noise that wasn't there.
"Just stay calm, Clark," Lex responded evenly. "You know I'll do anything in my power to help, but I do need to know what's going on."
"It's your father! At least I think so, he's the only one who - well, he's crazy, he had all these men storm onto our farm and they have my parents tied up in the house, and I think Lois is there too. Chloe and I managed to get away, but they have my parents - the whole house is under guard."
It was one of those ludicrous moments, the kind that only a Luthor could find almost commonplace. "And you want me to drive out the rats?"
"Ah, not you personally, no. Honestly Lex, I want you to stay away from there. But you have resources too, you can get them out, right?"
"Organizing counter-militia operations isn't exactly what I do, Clark."
Even Clark's breath was impatient. "I don't have time for this if you're not going to help, Lex! I thought you said I could trust you!"
"I didn't say I wouldn't help, but it will take a little time to put something like this together."
"How much time?"
"Do you know how many men there are?"
"Maybe a dozen, I don't know. There were more, but I don't think they stayed."
Lex did some silent figuring. "I can be ready to move inside of an hour."
Clark's relief was tangible. "Thanks, Lex."
"Are you sure you can't think of a reason for my father to raid your property?"
Clark swallowed and took just enough time to reply to give Lex the truth that his words didn't. "No idea."
Something in Lex's mind leapt at the lie. A full-scale raid and potential hostage situation was brash, brutal - it was an end-game move, the kind of cutthroat last-straw tactic that Lionel Luthor would not have employed if he hadn't known with unwavering certainty that the rewards would be tremendous - that there was something of unimaginable value to be gained. Luthors lured and lulled their prey - they only lunged at it when it was proved worthy of everything they might lose in the chase. A play this bold could only mean that the elder Luthor finally had proof - irrefutable proof - that there was something about Clark Kent that made him worth risking everything.
"Lex, I need you to promise me you'll stay away - send the team without you." Clark fervently hoped that maybe if Lex didn't see for himself what had occurred, he'd be able to dissuade him from digging again.
"If that's what you want, Clark."
Lex dearly wished he could have been as true and honest a friend as he wanted to believe he was, but the truth was that a secret of such magnitude was too compelling to allow Lex to be kept away by something as gray as his conscience. As his hastily assembled team of fifteen armed men advanced on the Kent house with weapons raised, Lex Luthor stood in the barn, watching a cloud obscure the stars through the gaping hole in the roof.
Lionel sponged the sweat from his brow with a roll of gauze as he slid off the gurney. He hadn't anticipated how painful even simulated cardiac arrest was, but the pain was of little consequence - a miniscule price to pray for his freedom. "Now, Dr. Ripley," he grunted as he settled into his seat. "We have some unfinished business to attend to."
Dr. Ripley nodded in agreement. "Good, I was hoping we could make some arrangements. I have number of active trials in progress, studies initiated months ago, and - "
"That's quite enough, Doctor." Lionel held up his hand to halt Dr. Ripley's words, then turned to Philip Sawyer. "The dental records are in order, correct?"
"Replaced them an hour ago, yes sir," Sawyer informed.
"Very good. Now, Dr. Ripley," he began again, returning his attention to the biogeneticist. "While I am intrigued by your tenacity, and certainly appreciative of the countless hours you've amassed in pursuit of a very worthy goal, I remain troubled by the rash decisions you've made. You must understand how unsettling that would be, to a man in my position. Sawyer, how much longer?" he called to the front of the aircraft, where Sawyer sat next to the pilot.
Dental records? Dr. Ripley noted that, along with a frightening pallor, the pilot wore a visage of grim terror, and the eyes of the fifth man on board - a paramedic - darted anxiously from to face to face as words were exchanged.
"Seven minutes, sir."
"Then we haven't much time." He turned again to Dr. Ripley, smiling benevolently. "You see, Ethan - you don't mind if I call you Ethan, do you? Considering what you're going to do for me, I feel comfortable with the familiarity."
"Of course, Ethan's fine. What am I going to do for you?"
Lionel's good-natured grin darkened. "You wanted the resources, the money - you wanted the knowledge and the power. You had one and I had the other, but now - now I have them both. Unfortunately, I also have two new… glitches, shall we say, to go with them."
"Glitches?" Dr. Ripley squawked nervously, fearing something in Lionel's eye that denoted him as one such glitch.
"My first strike was less fruitful than anticipated, and in its rashness will be all too easily traced to me. I can no longer work through legitimate channels, I must go underground. Become the invisible man, as it were - a sort of svelte Keyser Soze. Now, as you might imagine, the challenge in making myself disappear is considerable. As fortune would have it, however, it appears that my second loose end may tie up the first." Lionel strapped a parachute to his back as he spoke. "Sawyer, I suggest we bring this little tête-à-tête to a close."
A man is often plagued by three small words, but seldom the way Dr. Ripley was tortured by hearing Lionel Luthor say "second loose end" while looking pointedly in his direction. No sooner had his visceral fear overtaken him than he was wrestled to the gurney, forced into its restraints by Sawyer. Even as the nylon strap was fastened across his chest, the cynic in him couldn't help taking note of the irony when he remembered how he'd forced Marin into a similar position only days earlier. If nothing else, fate was meeting him with an even hand.
"Mr. Luthor, I thought we had an understanding! I can help you! I have helped you! You wouldn't even have escaped if it weren't for me!"
Sawyer continued with the straps.
"Indeed," Lionel conceded, his voice unfettered and smooth like melted caramel. "And I have one more very important task for you. It's brilliant, really, because it will quell suspicion long enough for me to vanish, and it will prevent me from having to worry about any half-baked tales you might get anxious enough to tell. I really can't have someone with your history of cracking under pressure wandering around knowing as much as you do."
"I won't tell! I won't tell a soul, I promise!" Dr. Ripley screamed, his face reddening as he struggled against the gurney's restraints.
"Oh, dear boy," Lionel cooed, placing a hand on Dr. Ripley's forehead. He leaned close until his warm, ruthless breath rolled over the doctor's flushed cheek like the Angel of Death. "It's your own soul I'd consider now, if I were in your situation." Then he laughed, maniacally, like a man who'd pushed himself into greatness for so long that he'd finally fallen into madness. "It should be quick, I'm certain! I'm counting on having very little of you left. Enjoy the remainder of your flight, doctor."
Awash with sudden naseau, Dr. Ripley vomited and began to choke as he watched the backs of Lionel Luthor and Philip Sawyer retreat through the yawning side of the Med-Evac, realizing at last that he, the pilot, and the paramedic were nothing more than decoys to slow the investigation that would inevitably follow.
Dr. Ethan Ripley found himself bitterly wondering how cold a man had to be to use a person's body so pitilessly, a fraction of a second before a magnificent explosion sent blinding heat and searing pain to collide in and around him in, leaving nothing of him to pity.