Chapter 7
Operation Clark

Andy let herself in, unbeknownst to the two worried parents who were at the couch where Jonathan had laid Clark, and was now applying pressure to the still badly bleeding wounds.

"Martha, you and Andy go get something to stop the bleeding," he said, not looking away from his son's face as he talked. "Oh Clark, how do get yourself into these kinds of things?" he mournfully asked his unconscious son. No-one answered his question, and Jonathan sadly looked at Clark's face which somehow appeared tranquil despite the agony he had gone through. Silently whispering an apology in advance, he yanked open Clark's plaid button-up shirt, jerking the now-weak and helpless body momentarily. Andy and Martha ran into the kitchen, and Martha handed her some rags, which she ran back to Jonathan with.

"Here," she said, handing them to him. He grabbed them roughly and covered Clark's now bare chest with them, the gaping bullet wounds obscured by the amount of blood that made Andy nauseated.

"Martha! Could you get the pliers and clean them for me?" he asked, an idea growing in his mind. He knew he had to remove the kryptonite bullets before they killed his son, which he knew they were doing at that very moment. As he talked, he felt Clark's chest stop moving. His eyes widened in shock, as he knew he might lose his son forever, lying peacefully on their living room couch while the rest of them ran about in turmoil.

"He's not breathing!" he said aloud. Jonathan began CPR on the boy, as all thoughts of the bullets suddenly disappeared. With each push on his son's chest, came a gush of new blood from the bullet wounds. "C'mon Clark, breathe!" After a few tense seconds of pure fear flooded him, he felt the normal rise and fall of the diaphragm again, letting loose a loud whoosh of breath himself, noticing he had been holding his own. Martha ran in with the pliers, handing them to him. His stomach flopped when he took them, knowing he was going to have to again perform surgery on his own son.

Jonathan inspected the bullet wounds, grateful when he saw the glowing green from the two holes. He knew the bullets must have gone deep into Clark's body, as he took a breath and began to dig deeper into the penetrations. He felt the pliers touch something hard, and grabbed on, slowly and carefully pulling out the blazing green bullet. As he did so, Clark's skin twitched, and he opened his eyes quickly.

"Clark! Please, stay still, I need to get the other bullet out," Jonathan said to his now-conscious son.

"Dad?" Clark said weakly.

"Yes, Clark, I'm here," he said soothingly.

"Dad, Andy…is she OK? Her mother was…shot…by Van," he said, grimacing from the pain in his chest, pausing for a quick breath in between words, each one more painful than the last.

"Andy's here, Clark, she's fine. Did you say it was Van who shot you?" Jonathan asked.

"Yeah, he must have...escaped from the asylum…dad, it hurts so bad…" he said, lifting a pale hand to touch his agonizing wounds. Jonathan caught his hand and placed it back by his side.

"Just stay still son, I'll have the other bullet out in a minute. It's going to hurt a ton though, I'm sorry Clark," he apologized.

"I'm…ready," Clark managed to say as he lay his head back on the armrest of the couch and clenched his teeth, expecting the pain that he was so unaccustomed to.

Jonathan placed the pliers into the next wound to search for the second bullet. He felt Clark's rock hard muscles tighten against the pain, and looked over at his son's pained face. Guilt overwhelming him, he continued to look for the bullet; apparently it had gone deeper than the first. The pliers found the deadly object, and he grabbed it and began to pull it out.

Trying his best, Clark thought back to the situation that had happened in Andy's home the night before. As his mind continued to wander, keeping his concentration off of the immense amount of pain, he realized that if he had been thinking straight at the time, he could have knocked Andy's bodydown to the floor instead of subjecting his own. Now he was paying for his deadly mistake. His thoughts were interrupted as pain shot through his entire body.

A second later, a bloodcurdling scream erupted from Clark as his torn skin was widened as the pliers were pulled from the wound. Try as he might, he could not stay silent as the pain enveloped his entire body. He weakly tried to push away the source of his pain, forgetting it was his father in his attempt, his vision blurred from the anguish that wracked through his body. Though weakened by kryptonite, Clark lashed out suddenly, and the slight blow knocked his father over, who still gripped the pliers. As he fell back, the bullet was pulled completely from Clark's wounded chest, and the fatal poison was finally gone. Jonathan sat up onto his heels, holding back the vomit that threatened to make its way up his throat. He handed the bullets to his wife,

"Take these and put them in the lead box," he told her, though he knew she already knew what to do with the fatal kryptonite. He turned back to his son, whose eyes were cracked open slightly.

"Clark, it's fine, it's over. I'm so sorry son, I had to remove the bullets—they were killing you…"

Clark could only whimper slightly before passing out once more. Jonathan wiped the sweat from his forehead withthe sleeve of his flannel farmer's shirt; he could barely believe what had happened. This was the third time he had to save his son from a situation similar to this. What had Clark done to deserve such punishment, Jonathan didn't know. Clark had been fighting his destiny—becoming ruler of the human race, ever since he had met his biological father. Instead, he had devoted his whole being intoacting asSmallville's hero: using his powers to save others from situations a mortal could not. What Clark deserved was a break from his own life, not being shot with kryptonite bullets.

Martha too was thinking. None of this made sense; no matter what good Clark does, he is always rewarded with more victims to save, sometimes almost dying in the process. Still, he continued to act as a one man army, saving anyone and everyone who needed help, no matter the cost. She and Jonathan had to be the heroes for the hero whether he needed someone to perform surgery and remove the toxic meteor rocks to simply talking about his continually complicated life. Clark was the last one who deserved such pain and torment, both emotionally and physically.

Andy watched the entire process, all the while hoping she wasn't going to lose her only friend along with her mother. As she watched, the bullet wounds started to heal. In a matter of seconds, Clark's skin looked as if it were never scratched, except for the blood that Jonathan wiped away with a cloth. Andy couldn't believe her eyes—maybe she wasn't the only one who had special abilities around Smallville. The ones that hadn't been wiped out by Van, or advertised on the Wall-Of-Weird, that is.

"Mr. Kent? W-what just happened?" she asked tentatively as she saw that the instantaneous healing of Clark hadn't surprised him in the least. He whirled around, obviously having forgotten that someone else was around.

"Andy, uh, I think that's up to Clark to tell you…" he said, turning back to his son who was now sleeping soundly, finally free of the torturous pain.