Close Encounter in Kansas

Clark watched through several layers of concrete walls and steel support pillars as Chloe's car turned out of the parking lot, tail lights flashing brilliant red in the darkness. He had no intention of getting a ride with the police, of course, but he wanted to make sure that his friends were out of sight before he started home.

You tell Lana off and then lie straight to her face. Hypocrite much?

He sighed and went back outside. The heavy metal exit door clanked solidly shut behind him. The deserted parking lot felt unbearably lonely, but he didn't break into a run. He didn't feel like running yet. He walked at a normal human pace to the street and started for home, one slow step at a time. The gloomy stillness fit his mood.

The look on Lana's face was staying with him, eroding his resolve. It hurt - it almost physically hurt - to see her upset or in pain. But for once, his anger was stronger than his guilt. In the past, he had always accepted her judgments. When she accused him of keeping secrets he did not argue with her. When she pushed him away for not "opening up" he accepted her rejection. He hated lying to her so much that her frustration only deepened his guilt.

But this time was different. She had taken Ian's word over his. Automatically. She had assumed that, because he had kept some things about himself from her, that he was capable of petty, deceptive behavior. Like he was just another of Lana Lang's many stalkers. Like they hadn't spent the last year studying together, riding together, or just talking for hours straight.

The look had done it. Lana had looked at him as if he were the meteor freak. She couldn't have hurt him more if she'd found out what he was and been unable to stand the sight of him. It hurt so bad it made him angry, and that scared him a little. He wasn't used to reacting to pain with anger. Not where Lana was concerned, anyway. His relationship with her had always been painful, but in the past it had been a sweet pain. It was a new feeling, being angry at her for hurting him. He felt as if he had fundamentally altered the way he perceived her. Something was missing now, and he didn't think he'd ever get it back.

Gravel crunched under his work boots as he passed the entrance to the softball field. The school buildings had receded into the distance, leaving only open spaces on this side of the street. Another place that looked oddly melancholy without any students to populate it. Softball. Had he promised to do an article on the girls' game for the Torch? God, he hoped not. That would be the third time this week he neglected a Torch-related duty. Chloe would kill him.

Chloe. His anger with her was a familiar thing, almost comforting. It didn't burn like his feelings about Lana. He supposed that was because Chloe's actions never seemed to be so much about him. There were things going on behind her eyes that he wasn't privy to. She, like him, had her secrets. He often felt like there was more to her actions and words than he understood. Her apology would be easy to accept.

He had reached the edge of town and was starting down the empty highway before he realized that he'd just spent the last half hour completely avoiding what had happened back at the school.

A classmate (not a very nice classmate, but still) has just been brutally murdered and all you can think about is your marathon mating dance with Lana Lang?

It was hard to think about the murder. Hard to think about the blood-slick floor and the decapitated bodies. He'd gotten used to Smallville's body count - everyone had. But this kind of violence was more than he was used to processing. It frightened him on a level deeper than the fear of physical threat.

He stopped for a moment beside Jack Miller's south field, the first of many fields along Route 4. He liked this, being out in the open where the stars seemed closer than the earth. Out here it was easy to pretend that nothing bad had happened, that no blood had been spilled and the world had always been like this, quiet and dark, corn stalks bobbing in a gentle wind.

He leaned his elbows on the top of Mr. Miller's rough-hewn wooden fence and looked out over the rows of crop, too small and young to hide anything. Someone (or something) very dangerous was in Smallville. She had saved Chloe and Lana, true, but her price was steep and Clark worried that her next appearance would carry an even greater cost. If she returned, it would be up to him to stop her. From Chloe's description, he was the only one who could.

He felt the familiar tension in his gut that arrived with the first scent of trouble and stayed until he fought with someone. It was not fear for himself; he rarely worried for his own safety because it seemed like a pointless activity. But he did fear the consequences of his actions. Not losing a fight was very different from winning one. It was easy not to lose, but to win he had to be perfect. He had to think about others as well as himself. And people were distressingly fragile. Protecting them - not just stopping the people who were harming them but protecting them - took more than strength and resilience. It took skill and dexterity.

He had managed so far on instinct, relying on his abilities to give him the edge he needed, but he was increasingly finding himself in situations that almost demanded more of him than he had to give. He was starting to worry that Smallville would some day be faced with a threat that couldn't be picked up and tossed into unconsciousness. He felt as though he should be preparing for that day, but he had no idea how.

First things first. There wouldn't be any fight for him to not lose if he didn't find the woman in question. He could worry about how to keep her from hurting anyone later. Right now he needed to track her down, talk to her, find out who she was and what she could do.

Sure. Piece of cake.

He pushed away from the fence with a disconsolate grunt, preparing to start his run home. But when he turned back to the road, there was a woman standing in it. She had dark hair braided close to her neck. She wore loose-fitting black clothes and a slender sword strapped to her back. Chloe and Lana's savior. Right down to the arresting blue eyes.

Clark bit back a startled yelp as manfully as he could. He was the fast one. He was supposed to be the one appearing out of nowhere behind people. It was extremely disconcerting to have one of his own tricks played on him.

The woman went briefly to one knee, placing her right fist knuckle-down on the asphalt in front of her. Then she rose and said, "Atene'tahl, kai."

Clark stood very still, ready to react at full speed. She didn't seem hostile. She seemed downright friendly. He reminded himself forcefully of the incredible volume of human blood now splayed across the walls and floor of the Torch office.

"Who are you?" he asked warily.

"Why ka-tana-Ro are you speaking that human tongue?" the stranger retorted, eyeing him doubtfully.

Clark experienced a brief spasm of confused vertigo. This woman was speaking to him as if she knew where he came from. He forced his features to arrange themselves into an expression that would not give away his panic. He tried to tell himself that there might be another explanation.

"What are you talking about? What else would I speak?" he demanded with as much confidence as he could gather.

"The language of your ancestors," the woman replied, her tone accusatory. "A language of poets and kings."

"I take it you haven't heard of Shakespeare or Henry the Fifth," Clark returned weakly.

"Human affairs are not my concern," she said.

"Who are you? Where did you come from?"

"I am sa'retha to Araes'El. The guardian of your House. As you are the last of your line, I take my orders from you alone."

"I didn't tell you to kill anyone," Clark protested breathlessly. "I've never even seen you before!"

"You do not need to speak to communicate your instructions."

"How could I have told you to do something before I knew you existed?" he asked incredulously.

True confusion settled over the woman's perfect features. "Do you know nothing of yourself? Of your people?"

"I'm Clark Kent. My parents are Martha and Jonathan Kent," he insisted, frowning at her. "Our farm is on Hickory Lane. I don't know who you think I am, but I definitely don't want anyone dead."

He shifted his defensive posture belligerently and took a few steps in her direction, hoping that he looked more determined than he felt. The prospect of her knowing more about his origins than he did himself was frightening, but he had to think of the threat she posed to Smallville first. His home, his responsibility. He didn't care what she knew; if she tried to hurt anyone else, he would stop her.

"You are Kal-El of the House of El. And you have lived too long among these de'sao, these humans," she replied, wrinkling her nose as if she smelled something base. "You have their stink all over your mind, if not your body."

Some deep, instinctual memory stirred within Clark then. He didn't exactly recognize the name she used, but it was not quite as unfamiliar as he felt it ought to have been. He tried to tell himself that there was no proof of her authenticity, but he could not bring himself to be convinced. She felt real. Dangerously so.

"You still haven't told me where you come from. And what do you mean you're a guardian?" he demanded.

"I thought that was self-explanatory. Must I explain the most basic concepts to you as if you were a human?"

"I am human," Clark retorted, crossing his arms over his chest. "And I want to know what you're doing in my town."

She moved inhumanly fast. Time seemed to slow as she came for him. He blocked one strike and then another, but her third attack slipped through his defenses. Her fist hit his head so hard he fell to one knee, crumbling the asphalt beneath him and ruining another pair of perfectly good jeans. He turned his shock to action, but by the time he'd risen and turned to look at her, she was just standing there, her posture devoid of threat. She had attacked him only to prove a point. He ran his tongue around the corner of his mouth and tasted blood.

Blood.

"How did you do that?" he asked, shaken.

"If you were human, you'd be dead. I am here because you called me. And I will go because you wish it."

The space she occupied seemed to fold in on itself and expand infinitely at the same time. There was no loud noise, no flash of light. Reality twisted, and she was gone.

Clark stared at the place where she'd been standing and rubbed at his jaw. Whatever cut the blood had come from had already healed, but his face was still slightly sore. He'd never been hit so hard in his life. The presence of meteorites would have been perversely comforting, but he knew there weren't any around. She was just that strong.

He looked around uneasily. The night suddenly seemed much larger and less friendly. He took off down the highway at near full speed, as if to assure himself that he could still break the sound barrier, and headed for home.