Chapter 21 - Altercation

Clark's mom asked him to make a stop at the Fordmans' shop after school to pick up a microwave she'd ordered. It was frustrating to have somewhere to be right after school while things were up in the air with Lex, but Clark wasn't sure where he'd go if he didn't have to stop by the shop. He wanted to make sure Lex was okay, but Lex had kept secrets from him and then tried to manipulating him into maintaining their friendship. Clark really didn't know what to say to him.

Seeing Lex broken and bleeding after having fallen out of that window, Clark had been reminded that whether or not he agreed with Lex's decisions, he still cared about Lex. A lot. Watching Lex groan in pain had been like watching Pete hurt, or his dad. Clark would rather have felt excruciating pain himself than to watch Pete or his dad suffer, and he felt the same way about Lex.

But their friendship was built on trust. And Clark couldn't trust him. Caring about him just mean it hurt more to walk away.

Meanwhile, part of Clark really did want to help find the disc Lex had lost. Even if Clark was upset with Lex himself, he understood why the plant going under would be a bad thing. Besides, Lex had done him a lot of favors over the past few months—maybe helping Lex with this would pay him back, enough that Clark could walk away from that friendship on good terms. Then they wouldn't have to be either friends or enemies—Lex had a good point, that it would be dangerous if they hated each other.

Problem was, Clark didn't even know where to start looking for the disc. The guys who had attacked them the night before could be anywhere by now.

He was still debating with himself about how to handle the situation by the time he reached the Fordmans' shop. After a brief, curt exchange with Whitney, who was still obviously miserable with the recent news of having lost his scholarship, a couple of guys came into the store looking for shoes.

They wore the same tattoos Clark had seen the night before.

Clark stared at the tattoos for a moment, until the bigger of the two guys gave him a look. After that, Clark pretended to be checking out flannel shirts while he listened to the conversation between Whitney and the two guys. One of them sympathized with Whitney's terminated football career, since he'd been through something similar, and he invited Whitney over for a party at their place that evening. Clark didn't look over to confirm, but from the sound of it, the guy had handed Whitney a card with the address written on it.

Once he was sure the guys were gone, Clark sped by the counter where Whitney was working and grabbed the address card while he wasn't looking—Whitney did not need to be getting himself mixed up in that, anyway—and ran to the guy's apartment.

When he arrived, he simply broke the lock and went inside. He was sure he'd beaten them there.

The place was a mess. It would have been almost impossible to find anything in there, if not for his X-ray vision. With it, though, he was easily able to locate the disc, break into the locked cabinet that held it, and slip the disc into his pocket. He saw a few other expensive-looking items in the cabinet—watches, jewelry, trinkets—that might have been stolen, but he didn't know if they were Lex's or someone else's, and he didn't really have a way of confirming they were stolen, so he left them alone.

Clark was turning to go when he ran smack into the third guy.

He was missing an arm. Clark hadn't noticed the night before; he'd been preoccupied. The back of his remaining hand bore a glowing green, circular design. Clark felt the familiar sickness in his stomach, and he stumbled back.

The guy smirked. "What have we here?"

Clark took another step back, but the guy was quicker. He shoved his fist into Clark's stomach—literally.

It was the strangest and most painful sensation Clark had ever felt. He could feel the calloused roughness of the man's fingers scraping along the inside of his stomach, pinching the underside of his skin, brushing against the surface of his ribs. The man opened and closed his fist, and it burned like Clark's insides were being ground up and doused in acid. He wanted to scream, but he couldn't quite pull in a breath. He fell to his knees, gasping.

The guy pulled his hand back out. "And that's just a taste of what it'll be like when my friends get back."

Clark cringed on the floor of the apartment. There was nothing else he could do—the tattoo ink must have been made with meteor rocks. His insides couldn't heal until he could get away from it, and right now, he could barely stand, let alone run.

Unless . . . Clark reached into his pocket. The gift from Lex was still there.

"Hey!" Clark shouted at the guy, though it sounded weaker and more hoarse than he might have liked. "Is that all you've got?"

The guy whirled to face Clark. He coiled back his fist once again, and Clark whipped out the spray paint can and sprayed down his hand. The guy pulled back, blinking, then snarled and tried for another punch. His hand couldn't break Clark's skin this time.

The pain was gone, as was the weakness. Clark stood and punched the guy in the face, careful not to use any more strength than he had used on Lex the day before. The guy fell, knocked out cold.

Clark let his breath out. These guys were bad news all around—if he left now, they would just keep stealing from people and causing more injuries. He considered waiting around for the other two guys to arrive so he could knock them out and call the police, but he was nervous about taking on two at once while he was weakened. He hadn't felt any effects from the tattoo at the Fordmans' shop—the tattoo ink might have to be fresh to affect him—but it was still a big risk.

But Clark didn't have time to contemplate it any further. The front door to the apartment opened, and the other two guys came in.

Clark held his spray paint can at the ready, but he didn't feel any weakness this time. Maybe his theory about fresh tattoos was correct.

The bigger of the two guys took a swing at Clark. Clark caught his fist and shoved the guy back, all but throwing him. The guy went down, hitting his head on the wall with a loud Crack! and falling to the floor.

Clark turned to the smaller guy, ready to fight him off as well, but the smaller guy cowered, holding his hands out. "Whoa, man, let's—let's just talk, okay? Chill out."

"You threw my friend out a window."

"It was an accident, I swear!"

"He almost died because of you!" Clark only belatedly realized he'd used the word friend.

"I know, I know, just . . . Hey." The guy put both hands up and took a step back, toward his friends. "I'm just gonna check their pulse. Please don't hurt me."

Clark unclenched his fist, but he kept the spray can at the ready.

The guy went over to the one-armed man, putting two fingers to his neck. He nodded and went over to the other guy, but swore under his breath when he got there. Clark went over to stand beside him—the man's neck was bent at an odd angle.

Clark felt his heart drop into his stomach.

The last thug stood up, taking a cell phone out of his pocket. "Please let me call him an ambulance."

Clark nodded and took a step toward the guy. "Yeah, let me help—"

"No, no!" The guy cringed, and Clark stepped back. "Leave us alone, get out of here!"

"But—I want to help—"

"You've done enough!"

"I didn't mean to . . . I was just . . ." Clark began to breathe hard, and he darted out of the apartment.

He paused just outside the door, pressing his back against the outside wall. He had killed someone. It wasn't exactly the first time someone had died while fighting with him, but it was the first time he'd watched the person die. The first time Clark hadn't been defending someone's life. That guy did not have to die. And the fear in that last guy's eyes . . .

Panic overwhelmed him. Clark sank to the ground, his heart pounding harder than it ever had. This wasn't who he wanted to be. He just wanted to help people, but he'd done so much more harm than good here. He felt like his insides were being chewed up again, only this time, it didn't stop—it just kept getting worse.

He couldn't even talk to anyone about this. He couldn't let his parents know what he'd done—they'd want to know how Clark had gotten involved in the first place, and he couldn't tell anyone that without revealing his connection to Lex.

Clark reached into his pocket for his cell phone to call for help—though he still didn't know who he was going to call—but his fingers brushed against the paint can that Lex had given him. He'd be dead if he hadn't had it with him. He also came across the disc—he wouldn't have come here in the first place if it weren't for Lex. He wouldn't even have his powers.

Try though he might, he couldn't hang onto any anger about that part. This wasn't Lex's fault. The paint can had been Lex's attempt to help. Giving Clark his powers back was another way he'd been trying to help. The disc was about keeping the plant open. None of this was Lex's fault—it was Clark's, and Clark's alone.

It was hard to believe that, a few hours ago, Clark had been upset with Lex for having that meteor rock room in his home. Clark deserved to be in there for life. He was dangerous.

Clark thought about calling Lex, but he had killed someone. What would Lex say about that? He didn't deserve to have his powers back, though if Lex hadn't retrieved them from Eric, Clark probably would have tried to find a way to get them back. Somehow, Lex had done it without even injuring Eric. Clark had been so sure that Lex was wrong in the way he'd handled Eric, but now Clark didn't know what he would have done better.

Maybe if they understood more about the meteor rocks and their effects, they could have played things differently . . . though Lex had tried to investigate more into that, and Clark had gotten upset about that, too. Clark grimaced.

He swallowed hard, took out his phone, and dialed Lex's number.

Lex picked up before the second ring. "Lex Luthor."

"Lex . . . I—" Clark's voice broke.

"Clark, are you okay?"

"I messed up." His eyes stung. "I really messed up."

"Where are you?"

"I found those thugs, I'm at their apartment."

"Are you hurt?"

"No, I . . ." Clark wiped at his eyes. "I hurt them."

"Can you get to the mansion?"

Clark stood up, and his legs shook. He'd never experienced anything like it before in his life—weakness that had nothing to do with the meteor rocks. "Um, I can try."

"Text me the address. I'll come get you."

"Lex, you don't have to—"

"I'll leave as soon as I hear from you."

Clark squeezed his eyes shut. "Okay."

"See you soon."

"Okay."

Clark hung up the phone, texted Lex the address, sat beside the door, and pulled his knees into his chest.