WARNING: What you are about to read is probably a terrible skewing of what Clark's graduation ring really is, but I've decided that in my world RedClark is a lot deeper than he is usually portrayed. Please forgive my errors and see this story for what it really is: Something I write from time to time late at night to entertain myself.

With that in mind,

Enjoy

The first time he sees her, it is only for an instant. He has been in the club every night for countless nights and never seen her before, so he brushes off her memory and slides over to the next beautiful blonde. It feels thick tonight, and smoky. It's like he's choking and doesn't know how to stop, slow down, take a deep breath and let it go. The tightness in his chest-that feeling that is always there no matter what he's doing-intensifies, and he forgets the blonde. The street is the only refuge from the closeness, and even then it trails him, enveloping him like a hot blanket at the peak of summer.

A few minutes later he is in a different club, the girl forgotten.

He never goes back to that first place, not anymore. The strangeness lingers, and every time he goes near it he feels the pressure, the push. Even with the ring on, he somehow feels guilty.

He's been at the new place for maybe a week when he sees her. Pale and glistening in the strobe lights and he is captivated. She sways, eyes closed, arms reaching out to something that isn't there, lost in the rhythm and the bass line and the drums. Clark looks away.

"A double beam." He says.

"Coming right up, Kal." Says the bartender. He knows Clark's name because even after a week people want to know him. Want to have him. It's vaguely disturbing, but only in the deepest part of his Kryptonite addled mind. To Kal, it feels good to be at the forefront.

He looks out to the dance floor and she is gone again, but this time he doesn't feel the tightness. So maybe, he thinks, it wasn't her.

"Hey." She says, from beside him. And how did he not realise she was there? Hew did he not notice her?

He looks her up and down and she is even less pretty close up than far away. Her skin is almost translucent. She has the unnatural, emaciated thinness that only heroin addicts and the homeless can possess. Her eyes are large, and dark grey, but sharp, taking in every detail of him in a devouring gaze. Her hair is black, and very wild, tangled around itself in a big mess. Her lips have that perpetually chewed-on look, but they are full and red, and Clark thinks he might be up for anything.

A few feet behind her is a tall, well-dressed woman. She stares at him hungrily.

"Sorry, babe." He tells the dangerous one. "Not interested." He brushes past her, not bothering to watch her expression, and when he looks back she is gone. He feels something stir inside him. Something like disappointment.

The blonde who had been eyeing him has short, stylishly cut locks, a sharp nose and a wide mouth. Just like Chloe he thinks vaguely, but clamps down on that thought with fierce determination. He wants this girl. She's the one.

But.

He kisses her during the second song they dance together and she loves it. He feels nothing. He remembers the trickling warmth when he thought of Lana and Chloe. He remembers the vast bursts of flame when Desiree came and he developed heat vision. There is no fire with-

"My name's Kristy."

It's like bubblegum. Sweet for a moment, but after a while it's boring and tasteless.

He leaves her on the dance floor and breezes out of the club.

Clark thinks about super-speeding back to his apartment, but then decided it's a nice night for a walk. He remembers walking down the farm road at night. He remembers the stars that twinkled and he looks up. He can't see a single star now. He doesn't feel more that a twinge of regret, but it's a twinge too much, and he decides he has to stamp that guilt and regret out of his system.

He goes looking for trouble.

Luckily, he doesn't have to go far. From one of the darker alleyways he hears a pained whimper. He steps into the mouth of the street and looks down, but it's pitch black. He doesn't know whether to stop whatever crime was being committed and commit it himself, or just watch it happen and then bust up whoever got away. Which would be more fun, he asks himself.

Finally he can see them. A large man is pressing a girl into the wall. Her face is mashed up against the brick, and even in the dark Clark can see the wild look in her eyes. The man has his hand up her back of her short, black, pleated skirt and Clark realises quite suddenly that this is the girl from the club. Her black mesh tights have gaping holes in both the front and back, probably, Clark thinks, from the big man rubbing up against her. Her legs are chafing urgently against the brick, making them bleed a little.

Suddenly the frightened look is gone from her eyes and replaced by something Clark can't describe. She elbows hard back into his gut, and when he pulls back momentarily she elbows him in the face. He lets go of her completely.

Clark doesn't know what fascinates him more: the thick chain hung loosely around her waist unravelling into a dangerous weapon, or the eerie silence as the fight begins in earnest.

She is good with the chain, and he finally sees the heavy metal padlock attached to the end of it. On her first swing she aims for his stomach but he jumps away just in time. While she winds up, he tries to charge, and with a grunt, he runs at her. She catches him way off guard with a swing across the face.

Clark hears bone crack and crunch and cry, and the would-be rapist or thief or whatever falls to the ground with an inarticulate sob. She keeps going at him until he doesn't even jerk in reaction anymore. Then she kicks him for good measure.

"Fucking bastard." She mutters as she stumbles out of the alley, shaking slightly. She doesn't notice Clark standing there behind the boxes, and he can't move. Even though he tries to go after her his feet are stuck to the ground, his hands stapled to his sides, his mouth sewn shut. It is a good five minutes before he can move, and at first does so only by accident, stepping away from a rat that scampers across his shoe. He breathes.

He searches for the girl, but can't say why. He can't find her.

He goes home with the now familiar ache in his chest, so very different from the burn of the ring he's encountered once or twice.

That night he takes the ring off and cries. He feels better when he puts it back on, and decides not to ever take it off again.

In the morning, he picks a newspaper off the street.

LUTHOR HEIR MISSING---PRESUMED DEAD

It proclaims this in loud letters, like joy or sorrow or something else felt strongly - only not, because it's just a newspaper and they never knew him like Clark did. . . Clark devours the article with a numbness he never knew was possible. Whatever reaction he might have had as his weaker self is suppressed so far that he doesn't even realise it's there.

That morning he contemplates robbing a bank.