~*~

…six…

~*~

His face plastered to the tacky red carpet, bleeding and in an inordinate amount of pain and shock, Clark's first thought was:

"Thank God for strategically placed beds!"

His second thought was:

"Chloe shot me! What the hell?"

Grinding his teeth together until his gums throbbed, Clark managed to turn over onto his back. The bed had saved his life, but the resulting ten foot bounce and face-plant into the hard floor – with a bullet wound – had been pain like he'd rarely felt. Not quite kryptonite, but not much better.

He was struggling to breathe, and his vision was misty, like he was looking through opaque glass. Summoning every bit of strength he had, Clark brought himself up into a sitting position. He felt hot tears coursing down his cheeks.

The pain.

Slowly, with trepidation, he lifted his right hand and prodded at the spot underneath the wound.

"Aaargh!"

Okay, bad idea.

He had to think.

What had just happened? Was that… was that really Chloe? Was she possessed? She looked like Chloe. Sounded like Chloe. But he'd been fooled by that in the not-too-distant past. Chloe would never shoot him. She wouldn't. Except…

There was a bigger question.

How had she shot him?

Clark balled his fists into the bed sheets and pulled himself onto the mattress. Panting with every inch of movement. He lifted his shirt, trying to examine the wound. It was ugly. Bruises ran all the way down his arm, and the skin around the hole was puckered and split, oozing blood. Clark squinted, trying hard not to pass out.

That's when he noticed it.

Tiny flecks dancing along the trails of blood.

Blue flecks.

Oh, God!

Oh, God, no!

That confirmed it. It had to be Chloe.

Who else knew about blue kryptonite?

Clark looked up. The trapdoor was closed. She was gone.

Pain, and confusion, and grief and anger flooded him, and he screamed:

"Chloe!"

~*~*~*~*~

It took Clark fifteen minutes to work up the strength, and the will, to examine his fancy prison. He shuffled around, first making his way to the desk. There was a briefcase on it, and a post-it plastered to the surface that read: 'Clark'.

Clark hesitated before opening it. He didn't want any more surprises. And he was human now. He could be hurt. Badly. He was a case-in-point.

Shaking his head, Clark reached for the lock. Chloe wouldn't try to kill him. At least, he didn't think so. But then again, he didn't think she would shoot him either, and he'd been proven wrong about that.

Clark snapped the locks back and opened the case. Inside was… a first-aid kit. A stocked one. There was also another note, in Chloe's handwriting. Clark picked it up, reading it swiftly.

The note explained what supplies were provided, and how Clark could use them to treat his own wound. There was a packet of something called 'Celox' to cauterise the wound and stop the bleeding. Alongside this little titbit of information was a warning that it would sting when applied. Clark grunted. Like she was really worried about inflicting pain.

Clark wasn't too stubborn to heed her advice though and, following the step by step instructions, he first cleaned, then cauterised, then plugged and finally strap-bandaged the hole in his shoulder. It was a bit more difficult repeating the procedure on the exit wound in his back but after some effort – and a few dizzy spells that toyed with the precipice of fully passing out – Clark managed. Chloe also included a selection of very strong painkillers – and after twenty minutes the pain ebbed away to a dull, but tolerable throbbing.

Grateful for the relief, Clark turned his mind to his next problem – getting out.

It wouldn't be easy.

No, Clark had to amend that, it would be impossible. The only exit was forty feet above him, and the walls and floor were made of solid stone. Clark couldn't be a hundred percent sure of that fact. If he was still in possession of his powers he could have x-rayed the room, but Clark was willing to bet that LuthorCorp wouldn't have used it as a cell if it was in any way fallible to a breakout.

Despair touched him then.

Clark sank down on the edge of the bed, fighting another wave of angry tears.

How could Chloe do this to him? How could she trap him down here? How could she choose Davis over him? The longer the night went on, the more inclined Clark was to side with Jimmy in the whole breakup scenario.

Keeping his left arm cocked close to his abdomen, Clark placed his right hand on his knee and leaned forward, trying to control his breathing. His left forearm brushed against an object in his pocket. Clark frowned.

Then he swore.

Ladies and gentlemen, the winner for the Dumb-As-Clark Award is…

Clark hurriedly fumbled in his pocket and dug out his cellphone – telling himself that the pain and shock had caused him to forget that he had it on him. Flipping the phone open, he noticed the battery graphic flashing on empty. Clark couldn't even remember the last time he'd charged it. Swiftly, he whipped through the scenarios.

He could send a text. That would take less battery power, but there was no guarantee that it would be read right away. That left a call. But to whom…?

Clark didn't even hesitate.

Punching speed-dial 1, he put the phone in his ear and prayed the battery would last.

One ring.

Two.

Three.

Four…

"Lois?"

"Smallville…?" her voice was thick with sleep, "It's after midnight, what the hell?"

"Lois, I'm sorry, but you need to listen to me."

"No, I don't! And I don't appreciate midnight pranks either! I have half a mind to–"

"Lois, for God's sakes, shut up! I'm trapped!"

"What?" all traces of weariness vanished from her voice.

"I don't have time… my battery… just listen. There's a foundry on the east side of Smallville. The entrance is at the north-west corner. Third building in, there's a trapdoor in front of the door. There are tunnels underneath. Follow the tunnels until you hit a wall, and you'll find another trapdoor. Bring a rope. I'll explain later. Have you got all that? Lois…?"

Clark pulled the phone away, and stared, dumbstruck, at the blank screen.

It died. It died on him. But when?

He couldn't take it anymore. A shriek of frustration ripped from his throat as he threw the phone at the wall, watching in grim satisfaction as it fractured into a thousand useless pieces. The movement jerked on the bandage in his arm, though, sending a piercing stab of pain right through his left side. Clark fell back on the bed.

It was no use.

He was trapped!