- Chapter 13 - Tag Team -

Oblivious to the play by play of the game of attack Frisbee unfolding in front of her, Chloe listened to Clark stumble through an explanation of his algebra failure. "So, let me get this straight, your teacher, Mrs. Flutey, is draining the brains of her students? You know this because Francis, another freshman, had a migraine, and you failed an algebra quiz?" Chloe asked. She wasn't trying to give Clark a hard time, but his logic seemed a little sketchy. He didn't need to convince her that meteor mutants were real, but this Mrs. Flutey thing sounded like it needed more investigating. The lady was practically a saint. Her students that didn't worship her at the very least respected her. She'd even been elected star teacher the year before.

"I'm not explaining this well," Clark said. And he wasn't explaining it well. He still felt a little sluggish and thick headed. Downgraded from DSL to a 25K modem, his brain felt approximately two mouse clicks from a crash. "I know she's draining her students. I could feel it." Not for the first time since her silence began, Clark wished he had Lola to confide in and ask for help. She was the one teaching him to be aware of the energy in him. She opened his eyes to its flow and rhythm. And like the good friend she was, she left...

I don't need her.

Clark could feel the muscles in his jaw tightening with his resolve. He and Chloe and maybe even Pete could handle a meteor mutant. He didn't need Lola to understand. Chloe was going to understand, if he could just explain it. "When it was a whole class I didn't feel it. After class though, we met one on one. She was taking energy, very specific energy, mind energy. I FELT it Chloe." Clark unrolled the algebra quiz in his fist and pointed to his shakily scribbled name. "It took me ten minutes to get my name on the paper after my meeting with Mrs. Flutey. Francis collapsed after his student-teacher conference. I don't know how else to explain this, but she IS a mutant."

"Okay." Chloe simply nodded. "I believe you. We need tangible proof though. One migraine and a failing grade aren't going to stand up to scrutiny, and you can't just explain to the authorities that you're an alien and you can feel these things. I'll start a background search on the Flutey's, and you don't be alone with her anymore if you can help it."

"Alone with her? I'm not going back to that class," Clark said. "My brain is banged up enough. Mrs. Flutey doesn't get to exacerbate things."

Chloe nodded again. Clark seemed to be getting clearer and more articulate the longer they talked, like maybe he was recovering from a brain whammy of some kind. "I assume that means you're going to be cutting fifth period until we resolve this? That could be the wrong move. You say whatever she does isn't really noticeable in a classroom full of kids. If you start cutting, she's going to start looking for you for more one-on-one time. It might be safer to just go to class where her brain-whammy is diluted."

"Diluted or not, I'm not going near that woman again," Clark said. "I could hardly write my name. Mrs. Flutey is not getting another shot at me."

Chloe could see how scared Clark was, pale and taunt more like a defenseless kid than the indestructible alien he was. But Chloe could understand why he might feel like the kid instead of the super-alien. He had spent a lot of time feeling broken since getting home. The idea of losing any more of himself had to be unsettling. And then Chloe was afraid for Clark, not because Mrs. Flutey might be a dangerous meteor mutant, but because she might not be. If Mrs. Flutey wasn't a meteor mutant, maybe this was Clark's old injury and maybe instead of getting better it had taken a turn for the worse?

No, this was Mrs. Flutey like Clark said. A mutant could be handled whereas alien brain injuries had to be lived with. "What are you going to do?" Chloe asked. "Are you going to tell your parents what happened?"

"You think I should?" Clark asked. Deciding to tell Chloe had been easy. He trusted her and knew she'd trust him enough to believe him. Did his parents have that kind of faith in him? Maybe it was time to find out. "I guess I should."


A pack of football players breezed into the Talon and made a beeline for one of the larger booths. Not a quarterback or first stringer among them, they were affectionately known as the bench-warmers. The shortest of the lot, Pete Ross, stood at the center of the group talking and laughing. "Guys, I'll catch up all right," Pete said. He veered away from his football buddies and headed to the counter where Lana was loading a tray with caffeinated beverages for one of her waitresses. "Hey girl, how are you?"

"I'm a little busy but okay," Lana said. "I've seen you with the jock crowd a lot more lately. How is the football team looking this year?"

Unlike Clark, who had always faltered when Lana looked him in the eyes, Pete kept his composure through the rush of hormones she elicited. Her hair was different, he thought absently. Layered and more sophisticated, Lana wore the new hairstyle with the easy grace she always seemed to ooze, even when they were little kids. "Well, I lost Clark to the freshman class, and Chloe has been pretty scarce this year. I've had to expand my social circle or become a loner. And the team's looking okay. We don't have a Whitney Fordman, but there's a really impressive freshman that I think the coach is grooming for next year." Pete stopped the football talk before Lana could get too bored. She hadn't actually been to a football game since giving up cheerleading. Whitney hadn't even been able to draw her back to that arena.

Lana smiled politely and tucked one of her feathered black locks behind her ear. Clark didn't want her anymore, Pete reassured himself. After spending a few weeks really getting to know the new Clark, he understood that Lana-dream-girl was dead for him. At best, she was a stranger, and at worst, she reminded him of the Eradicator, his personal tormentor. Pete bit down on the inside of his lip, struggling with a moment's indecision. Friends did not go after the same women, but asking Lana out wasn't betraying Clark, not anymore.

With Clark's lost interest and Whitney's departure, Lana was alone. Granted, she could snap her fingers and have any man in the school, but she hadn't jumped on any of the offers that had come her way. Did she have any inkling that another offer was coming her way today? Was he destined to join those other hopefuls in Lana's beau-graveyard? Pete could feel his heart thudding an ever faster rhythm and he pushed forward. If he didn't get this question out, he was going to have a coronary. "You know homecoming is coming up in a few weeks, and I was wondering if you'd like to be my date for the dance."

Pausing with a cup half-way to the tray in front of her, Lana seemed shocked. Was shock good or bad? Pete began to feel stupid as the silent moment drew out seemingly to infinity. She had to be trying to think of a polite way to say Hell no.

"I think I'd like that, Pete," Lana finally said. Post-Whitney, she had had her share of offers, potential rebound guys, but she hadn't been interested. One too many normal guys that showed interest in her turned out to be psychotic stalker mutants. It just wasn't worth the effort or the risk to start a new relationship right now. Pete was different though. He wasn't quite anonymous enough to feel vaguely threatening like the other offers had, but she had never really looked at him as anything more than an easy-going dependable friend. They hadn't even been that close before Clark disappeared, and everything changed. Now, Clark didn't look at her like he used to, the soulful stares from afar that used to make her feel suffocated and nervous had been replaced with an oblivious indifference that stung her heart, and honestly, her pride. Clark didn't love her now, if he ever had.

And Pete...was safe.


The kitchen was decimated.

Over the few months that he could remember living with the Kents, Clark had never seen any room in the level of disorder he found their kitchen in. Dirty dishes stood sentry across the counter and in the sink rising as lopsided towers. A fine film of flour settled over the table and in patches on the linoleum. There were footprints in the flour, the pronounced ridged pattern of work-boots and a small flat soled shoe that had to belong to his mother.

What could have happened? Had his parents fought in the kitchen? Had his morning interference made things worse?

And then Clark caught sight of the flour smeared shirt dangling from one of the bar stools. His dad's shirt? Holding the garment, Clark headed into the foyer where he tripped over one of those flour dusted work-boots. A trail of clothes and shoes ascended the stairs. He had followed that trail of clothes half-way up the stairs before it hit him. His parents hadn't fought. They made up.

They might still be making up.

Beating a quiet retreat back to the kitchen, Clark couldn't help smiling even after the terrible day he'd had. Maybe he was good at being part of this family after all. He couldn't quite imagine how wrecking the kitchen had figured in to fixing his parents' problems, but Clark sped through a cleanup so his parents wouldn't have to deal with it when they finished making up.

Settling the last clean bowl into a cabinet, Clark surveyed his handiwork. He'd spared the pot of cold sauce on the stove and the bowl of dough on the cutting board, but everything else was back in its place, not bad for thirty-five seconds of work.

Clark spent a moment happily basking in his successful meddling from the morning before thoughts of Mrs. Flutey and her effect on him intruded to chill his mood. He'd come home to share his discovery and his fear with his parents, people he was supposed to be able to trust and to turn to. Chloe thought telling his parents was a good idea, and maybe it was, but when his mother and father finally made it downstairs, he couldn't figure out how to start.

Jonathan and Martha didn't notice him at first. Their focus was on each other, hands linked, faces inclined toward one another. They might have kissed if Martha hadn't spotted her son at the kitchen table. "Clark, when did you get home?" she asked. Her wall clock read nearly five thirty and she flinched. He'd probably been home for hours, long enough to clean the kitchen anyway.

"You didn't have to clean up, but thanks," Jonathan said. He surveyed the sparkling kitchen and grinned. Cleaning the mess he'd somehow managed to make of the place hadn't been something he'd been looking forward to. He hoped his smile communicated some of the gratitude he felt to Clark, and not just for the kitchen. His son had done his best to make his parents face each other, and the worst was finally behind them. Jonathan snatched the apron off its peg and tied himself in. "I'm going to finish dinner now ladies and gentlemen, so get out of my kitchen."

Clark latched onto the excuse the reconciliation offered, and decided to hold onto his news about Mrs. Flutey until dinner. His parents deserved a few minutes of peace, and he hadn't decided that JUST because he was terrified to really talk with them. "You're welcome. Cleaning it didn't take that long. You know me." He followed his mother as far as the living room, already phrasing and rephrasing his explanation.

"You missed a spot," Martha said. She licked her thumb and cleaned a glob of four off Clark's nose. It was almost the same spot Jonathan had floured on himself while trashing the kitchen. The slightly annoyed that-is-so-gross wince that crossed Clark's face froze for a fraction of a second and then he smiled. "What? Mother's spit is a time honored cleaning solvent."

"No...I know..." Clark hadn't come running to his parents every time a little fragment of his memory clicked back into place. Most of the time the recollections were so inconsequential, he'd have felt stupid. This one would make his mother happy. He knew it. That warm wet glob of spit had opened another winding pathway in his memories. He remembered flashes of moments in his childhood, in the truck, in the grocery store, standing on the porch, getting the spit treatment for quick cleanup. "I just remembered something. It's stupid, but you used to do that a lot didn't you? Spit polish me?"

Martha returned Clark's shy smile with a beaming one of her own. Her baby remembered? "All the time. You were a messy little guy. I tried to stop after you got taller than me. But sometimes the mother instincts are too much."

"Mom, would you like to hear about my day?" Instead of feeling nervous to tell his mother about Mrs. Flutey, Clark really wanted her to know suddenly. He knew she'd want to know, and she'd believe him. She'd be sad to know he had considered not telling her, that he'd been nervous to tell her. The grinding howl of a tiny two cycle motor screaming in its death throes erupted from the kitchen before Clark could carry through with his decision.

"My pasta machine," Martha gasped. "Your father is hopeless sometimes." She took Clark by the hand and pulled him toward the kitchen. "We can talk while I defend my appliances."

Clark laughed at his mother as she chased Jonathan away from her pasta machine. He soaked in the banter and the intimacy in their stares and the way they touched. It was good to have his family back to normal, well as normal as he'd ever known it to be.

Watching his parents, Clark changed his mind again. Nothing was going to ruin their evening tonight. They could hear about his problems tomorrow. Mrs. Flutey would keep that long.


Luci thought her heart was going to beat out of her chest as she paced the width of their living quarters. Onlea was back and having a talk with Reo. The ship was moving again, off to Earth according to Ford. Earth? Luci frowned worriedly, her short orange hair bouncing along with her steps. Her English wasn't ready for an alien world. Who knew what Onlea expected of them?

Luci stopped pacing and scooted in front of her brother the moment the door to their room started to cycle open. "Let me do the talking," she commanded Ford. Taking the uninterrupted tapping at her brother's keypad as acquiescence, Luci locked her hands together in front of her to try and keep from fidgeting. Her memory of Onlea, the woman who saved them was hazy and indistinct. Luci could remember the lady being pretty and tall and a little scary. The woman standing in their door fit that bill and more. Luci didn't trust the smile curling on Onlea's lips. She took an involuntary step back toward her brother.

The Eradicator didn't have to lock her hands or worry about whether she'd inadvertently fidget, but she was at least as apprehensive as Luci about their meeting. Her creators had seen fit to program a variety of social-type modes into her memory to allow for seamless integration into society when necessary. Unfortunately, mother wasn't a mode anyone foresaw a need to provide. Without a template to follow for dealing with the orphaned children she'd had to build one from her considerable observational experience. She had dressed the part, trading her skin tight black flight suit for a soft loose-fitting cream jumpsuit. Her long black locks were captured in a matronly twist. All she was missing were the ovaries, if she did say so herself.

The crowning achievement to the mother template had to be the smile. She'd worked on that smile for weeks. The Eradicator moved forward selling her mother-mode smile.

Safe.

Calm.

Reassuring.

Oh well, judging from the wide-eyed terror in Luci's eyes and her accelerating heart rate, she wasn't feeling very safe, calm, or reassured. "It is going to be okay. You don't have to be afraid. Reo says you've been studying hard and your English is coming along."

"Yes. We've been studying very hard, thank you." Luci could still hear her brother tapping at his keypad, still ignoring the situation. He was like a little robot. Wasn't he afraid?

"I've come to talk to you today about where we're going and what we'll be doing when we get there. It's time you knew how very special you are," the Eradicator said. Luci wasn't showing any sign of calming down, but at least Ford wasn't terrified. His heart rate hadn't shifted cadence once. Taking a seat on one of the children's beds, the Eradicator didn't force physical proximity on them. She caught Luci's frightened stare with her own and began her pitch, edited for a children's audience. "There once was a race that personified strength and intelligence and grace. They fought to preserve peace. They ruled to pull lesser races up. They were the pinnacle of society. Their world was Krypton, their race Kryptonian.

"Then one day, through no fault of their own, a natural disaster destroyed them, wiped them away. The galaxy was saddened by the tragedy and they mourned the loss of their protectors. But even as sad as they were, the other races hoped that all might not be lost. They awoke an ancient champion and sent her to search the universe for a Kryptonian." The Eradicator paused for a moment to gauge her audience. The young boy had stopped typing and Luci's heart rate had slowed considerably. Her soft-pitched mother-voice was going over much better than the mother-smile if the children's reaction was anything to judge by.

"The champion searched for years without losing hope or heart, until finally she found the last Kryptonian. He was living on a planet called Earth, and he didn't know who he was. Like a giant trying to fit in amongst the tiniest of pigmies, he crouched low. He restrained himself, hiding his gifts and his light, and all the Earthlings believed him to be small like themselves, and they didn't look twice at the alien among them.

"But the champion saw what no one else could see. The champion saw the giant among the pygmies, but she could not make him stand straight. Her Kryptonian had lived among Earthlings so long that he had come to love them. He wanted to live among them not above them.

"After the years of searching and hoping, the champion would not accept her Kryptonian's plea to be left alone. She tore her Kryptonian from his home and forced him back to the stars. She paid no heed to his tears or his pain. The champion made a horrible mistake." The Eradicator paused again, certain now that she had the children's undivided attention.

"True, the races who had sent the champion out searching rejoiced at her success and readily embraced the last of the Kryptonians. They held him up elevating him to their highest office where he could rule over them as it had always been. Because he was the last, they created a copy of his mind, imprinting it into an eternal seat of power. Through that seat Krypton might live forever, but it wasn't real. The grace and the beauty and the heart were missing from the copy. He had only his mind and a painful bitterness at his lost life. Blind to the hollowness of their copy and satisfied with the eternity of peace it promised, the other races were ready to allow the original, the real Kryptonian to die. In making their copy, they had damaged him, and they had no use for a broken boy.

"The champion only realized her error at the last moment before all would have been lost. She saved the Kryptonian boy and nursed him back to health. In contrition she returned the boy to Earth, the world he loved so well, and she returned to the stars with a new purpose, a new hope." The Eradicator smiled broadly then, hoping that the children would accept the fairy-tale historical accounting and embrace the role she'd envisioned for them. "I was that champion, and you are my hope. Eternity will not be found in a perfect copy of one man. Krypton can live but only through you and the boy on Earth. He will need children, and children need mothers." Rather than scare the children with talk about genetic diversity and careful crossbreeding, the Eradicator tried to simplify and romanticize the situation a bit. Had she succeeded though? "Will you help me save Krypton from oblivion?"

Luci didn't know what to say or to do. She was just a kid, hardly mother material. Honestly, she wasn't completely clear on how babies came into being. She knew there was a mother and a father, but the mechanics of the situation wasn't something she'd been instructed in. "Why us? We're just kids. And Ford can't be a mother. Couldn't you just find someone else?"

"Why you? Because you each hold a piece of Krypton inside you, inherited from your mother, and every piece of Krypton no matter how small is precious. Yes, you're still children, but you, Luci, are cusping on the brink of adulthood." The Eradicator could tell that Luci wasn't convinced, and Ford, well he hadn't notably responded to anything she'd said or done. Judging by the clicking sound, he'd resumed typing at his workstation. She focused on Luci, her receptive audience. "Would you like to see him, the Kryptonian boy?"

The word, no, froze unuttered on Luci's lips. Onlea activated one of the wall screens with an image from the ship's memory. Luci had grown up on a world where the only people even close to her physical norm were her parents and her brother. This boy, her first boy, was stunning. Onlea's simple description about beauty and grace didn't begin to encompass the dark-haired blue-eyed work of art staring out at her. There was the faintest hint of a smile about his lips and his clothes fell in graceful lines that spoke volumes about the arcs of muscles they concealed. "He wouldn't want me," Luci muttered. "I'm just a kid."

The Eradicator's smile widened. Then Luci must want him at least a little? "You are growing into a lovely girl. You haven't seen a human yet. Within two years, he won't be able to look away."

Ford listened to Onlea spin her simple tale for his and his sister's benefit. He watched the two of them out of the corner of his eye. Luci wasn't just listening. She was believing, trusting. She wasn't thinking. Onlea wanted them to go to Earth and help produce babies for the rest of their lives? Like his sister, Ford didn't know exactly how that was done, but he imagined it wasn't pleasant. It was a good thing he was thinking. Ford turned back to his manifesto with renewed energy. They definitely needed a way to get out of Onlea's plans when they got to Earth, and he very nearly had it all figured out.