K'an
The room, when Clark's eyes finally focused, was large and white. It was made of huge, rough pillars that seemed to stretch forever.
"Do not trouble yourself looking for the boundaries," a voice said behind him. "This place is merely an illusion."
Clark spun around. "Jor-El."
He was taller than he had been in the visions Clark had seen. His hair was flecked with white; instead of the young drifter Clark remembered, he was a distinguished, almost regal figure. It was his eyes, though, that startled Clark. It was so much like looking into his own. There was so much pain there, just below the surface.
"I am merely a projection of his power and will. You know that, Kal-El. You are in the caves, the ones the Kowatche people left for you." Jor-El steepled his fingers and walked toward a column, his shoes clicking softly on the floor. He touched the smooth rock, and it sprang to life. Clark watched himself throw a trembling Chloe onto some unfamiliar bed.
"It's Lionel- he's got Chloe!" Clark said, panicked. "I have to stop him."
Jor-El held up a warning hand. "The girl is strong. She will save herself." He touched the column again, cutting off the flow of images. "But you are powerless to stop the usurper."
"You're the one who put that," Clark struggled for a word, too angry to speak clearly, "thing here, and now you can't do anything to stop it?"
"The element was placed here many thousands of years before my time," Jor-El said, nonplussed. "You only exist in the form you do now because your will and your spirit are strong, Kal-El." He placed a hand on Clark's shoulder, an oddly kind gesture.
Clark knocked it away. "Is this some kind of trick?"
"There is no trick." Jor-El sighed. "With how little you respect your destiny and your race, I am not surprised that you will not accept my help."
"Wait," Clark pleaded. "You didn't tell me that you could help."
Jor-El's mouth quirked into an odd smile. "You may be powerless, Kal-El, but I am not. Like it or not, your destiny is your own." The smile faded, his jaw clenching. "I will not allow anyone to steal my son's birthright."
Clark took a deep breath. "What must I do?"
It was early morning, and a beam of sunlight was doing its best to burn Chloe's retinas out. She only knew two things: her head felt like it had been hit with a brick, and her wrist was killing her. The head she chalked up to alcohol on an empty stomach, the wrist to the handcuff securing her to the bedpost.
Lionel was long gone. She surmised that he was making more contacts; he was sure to come back soon, in any case. This might be her best chance, if only she could get the handcuffs off.
After a quick moment of self-hatred, Chloe got herself mostly upright. Bracing her feet against the top rail on the headboard, she pushed as hard as she could. It was slow going and hell on her back, but the rail eventually gave. She slipped the handcuff off the post; there was no getting it off her arm, but she could deal with it for the time being.
Her pants were still where they'd been thrown; her shirt was nowhere to be seen. With another bout of self-hatred, Chloe remembered that it was behind the chair, ripped in half. She considered the closet, but grabbed the shirt- Clark's shirt- off the chair instead.
She slipped on her shoes, and then she was gone. Chloe ran until her heart felt like it was about to burst. The area she found herself in, near a café, was totally unfamiliar, but at least there was a pay phone. Depositing the change she'd stolen off a table, she dialed the first number she thought of.
And when Martha Kent finally pulled up, she literally wept for joy.