~*~

…seven…

~*~

The dimensions of the room were a full forty strides by thirty-three. Clark knew this because – despite the hopelessness dragging him down and the effects of the painkillers sending ripples of drowsiness over his mind – he refused to lie down. Refused to sleep. Refused to give up. He paced the room, examining everything. There was food in the refrigerator. Chloe had at least thought to feed him.

Every act of decency, of thoughtfulness on her part only made him angrier. It just showed how carefully she'd planned this. His literal downfall. Turning his attention to the desk, Clark sat down in the chair. He pulled the drawer open, surprised to find a stack of papers inside. Lifting them out, he saw that they were sketches. Beautiful sketches, actually.

The first was a portrait, in heavy shadow, of a woman. An older woman… maybe in her forties, with long hair and a knowing smile. It reminded Clark of his mother. There were others… A maple tree standing guard over a babbling brook… A townhouse on a leafy street…

But there was something about the sketches that bothered him. The way they were drawn, there was something… wrong with them. As though the pencil strokes weren't quite right. Clark squinted at the picture of the woman. Something there…

Standing, Clark crossed the floor until he was standing underneath the light jacketed into the wall. Lifting the page until it was only an inch from his face, Clark finally saw what the problem was. The pencil strokes… weren't strokes at all.

They were letters. Written so minutely, they were impossible to see unless Clark held it close and squinted just so…

Clark was amazed. The amount of time it must have taken to do this…

The penny dropped. He knew who had drawn the picture. The only person with nothing but time in this cold, lonely place… The previous occupant of the cell. The prisoner who came before him.

His weariness forgotten, Clark tried to make out a pattern and found that the letters did, indeed, become words… and the words sentences. Clark turned the page sideways, and read the angle along the woman's neck…

"Six months now…" it read, "The quiet is the worst. It's not the same quiet as home. In Ohio – is that where I'm from? Sometimes I can't remember. Back home, there's always sounds… the animals out in the fields, the wind, the creaking of the house… there's always something. There's nothing here. This is the quiet of the grave…"

Clark shuddered and dropped the page. He rushed over to the desk, and chose another picture. This one of a dog – a terrier, it looked like. Resuming his position under the light, Clark began to read again:

"They came again today, the men in the masks. They started with the questions – again – wanting answers I don't have. Then the needles. They think it'll do something. It doesn't do anything. It doesn't cure me. They said they were trying to cure me. They can't cure me. I still have the dreams. I still keep changing… into him! The last time I changed, they were in the room. I hurt one of them. Broke his leg. It's getting worse. I think it's the needles. They're not trying to cure me… they're trying to set him free…"

A red mist descended as Clark balled the paper up and let it drop to the floor. If he had his powers, he would have burned a hole through the wall. Another 33.1 facility… where Lex's minions had performed experiments on the meteor-infected… tortured them… tried to push back the boundaries of their sanity until all that was left was the rage and the power.

Clark resolved that if he ever got out of here, he would patch things up with Oliver. He didn't forgive him – murdering Lex was wrong and Clark couldn't forget that – but what the team did was important. Stopping facilities like this one… even if it saved one soul from the torment that this tortured artist had experienced… it was worth it.

Clark was so caught up in his thoughts, that at first he didn't react when he heard the noise. Metal on metal… a grinding, wrenching sound.

At first, he looked around, trying to identify the source. The cell looked exactly the same. Then he looked up. The trapdoor was open, and familiar face was staring down at him.

"Lois!"

The relief that poured through him was like a drug – so powerful that, for a second, Clark thought he would collapse.

"Clark? What's… what's going on? How did you get down there?"

"I fell… after I was shot."

"You were shot?"

"You got my message," said Clark, deciding not to dwell on that particular incident, "You heard what I said."

"Yeah. I tried to call you back, but it went to voicemail, so I came straight over."

"You got here from Metropolis that fast?"

Did Lois have super speed?

"I wasn't in Metropolis," she told him, "I was at Chloe's."

"Why?"

"Look, Clark, we can trade stories later, okay? Let's just get you out of there. I have a rope!"

"Best plan I ever heard," said Clark.

Lois' face disappeared, and Clark felt his heart lurch. He knew it was just a reaction. Lois was still there, but he found that he didn't want to stop looking at her. He wanted her face right there… where he could convince himself that she was real.

"I can't find anywhere to tie this!" her voice echoed down, "There aren't any pipes or anything!"

"There must be!" he called back, "Chlo… someone was already down here!"

"Well, they must have been able to fly, because… wait!"

"What is it?!"

Almost as if in response, Clark saw the slender thread of a rope being lowered through the hole. Rushing over to the bed, Clark climbed on top, reaching up to grab the rope as it came level.

That's when he hit a snag.

His left arm, though not too uncomfortable right now, wouldn't be able to support him on a thirty feet haul up to the ceiling. And there was no way Lois would be able to pull him out by herself. Clark groaned.

"What are you waiting for?" Lois called down to him, "An engraved invitation?"

The familiar bite in her tone forced Clark to think. Bending down, he looped the rope around his leg, and tied it in place. Then, using an old trick he'd learned in the scouts a long time ago – Bart would go into apoplexy if he found out that Clark, at one time, actually was a Boy Scout – he twisted the rope until it formed a kind of cradle. Stepping into it, Clark smiled when he saw the loop draw tight – like a dog leash. That would hold his weight at least. Clark wound a section around his right forearm to steady his upper body, and began to climb.

Using a slow, rhythmic motion, Clark would pause for a beat, then shoot his hand upwards, grabbing a higher section. He would pull himself up, pause, and then repeat the process. After fifteen feet, he was beyond exhausted, and beginning to lose his vision again. The muscles all along his back were warped like corded steel and his head felt heavy. But Clark knew that to stop was to fail. He kept going.

"That's it, Clark," for once, Lois' voice was soft, encouraging, "Just keep coming. Steady now…"

She repeated it, like a mantra, and Clark found himself focusing on her voice, rather than the distance. Using it like a snake-charmer's lullaby to draw him up, up… to freedom. He was only a couple of feet from the entrance when Lois reached in, grabbing hold of his wrist. Clark paused. Sweat was dripping from his face like a faucet. Every breath brought a tight clamping into his chest. Gripping the rope in his right hand, Clark swung his leg round in quick arcs, tightening the loop on his foot.

"Come on, Clark, just a little further…"

Clark forced himself to take deep breaths, locking his eyes on the section of rope he was aiming for. He counted to three, and lunged…

And missed.

The dizziness must have got to him, because all his despairing fingers clutched was air. He felt himself falling backwards.

"Clark!"

Lois grabbed at his wrist and, on instinct, Clark grabbed hold of hers.

Mistake.

Clark's fall continued, and this time, he took Lois with him. She didn't even get a chance to scream as Clark's momentum dragged her through the hole and out into empty space. They plunged down, until the loop on Clark's foot caught, snapping their progress and leaving them dangling from the ceiling.

Clark, forgetting any pain in his terror, caught Lois' eye. She was refusing to look down.

"Lois… I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"

"Clark…" it was barely a croak, pure fright clenching at her throat.

Then the rope snapped.

This time, Lois did scream.