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Chapter Text

All my life, I’ve lived in a world that’s made out of cardboard - always taking constant care not to break something . . . or some one . Too late. This cardboard world is crumbling and there is nothing I can do to stop it, not even with all my powers. I’m an iron giant living among paper dolls, and everything I touch turns to dust.  

Only one person in the world knows what it’s like to be a freak of nature, but she’s probably dead or nothing more than an urban legend. Legend or not, I doubt the supposed ‘Girl of Steel’ ever hurt those close to her. 

I was supposed to protect him, not ruin his life. 

I read Tales of the Weird and Unexplained, trying to forget that dreadful day. Once upon a time, these absurd X-File stories gave me hope- hope that I wasn’t the only freak. The title Angel of Vengeance mocks me. Below the title is a photograph of a woman wearing a flowing, white gown. With one hand, she lifts a mugger who is frozen mid-scream as he aims a gun at her head. The dark alleyway gaped behind her, a pit of despair. Where her eyes should be there are two red slits. 

This was the first sighting of Gotham’s Angel of Vengeance, as The Gotham Gazette took to calling her. She never stayed in one place long enough for anyone to get a clear picture. The few witness accounts are rife with contradictions. Strength of ten men. Lithe as a rose. A blur of white. Eyes like sapphires. Twin suns for eyes.

The average reader would chalk up her glowing eyes to a glitch in the camera and laugh this photo off as a hoax. I know all too well how deadly and scorching her gaze can be. That is if she’s anything like me. I lean back in my chair and pinch the bridge of my nose. Shooting fire out of her eyes is never mentioned in the article. But what if she could? Those golden eyes couldn’t be a glitch. People sometimes can’t see past their own noses. She could very well be like me. Was like me .      

The last sighting was in 1983 when The Angel of Vengeance stopped a midair collision between a Douglas DC-8 and a Lockheed K-1049 Super Constellation. The witness, Joe Lichtenstein, was a seven-year-old boy looking outside the airplane’s window, so it’s unclear how much of the report was exaggerated. I have a hard time imagining a human flying. 

The encounter impacted Lichtenstein so much that he created the world’s first female superhero, Power Girl, who captured the imagination of thousands of children across the globe, including me. Those comic strips were nothing but lies. The articles are  nothing more than superstition and exaggerated tales of the ‘supposed paranormal.’ Not once does the book include a picture of her flying.   

 The Angel of Vengeance is the only one that could have answered my questions. 

My hope died with her if she was even real, to begin with.   

I slam the book shut. “Bunch of propaganda and falsehoods.” The first thing Mr. Moore taught me in Journalism class was that evidence is key. Without evidence, the story is a sliver away from being categorized as Science Fiction. ‘If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, chances are it is a duck.’ 

Then what does that make me? I might look human, but I’m a monster. A monster that deserves to be six feet underground. Pete’s life is over because of me.   

An acute bleep rings through the silence. I glance up at the archaic computer on my desk.  With trembling hands, I log in to WordBattle. I tap my foot impatiently and swear under my breath when my foot slams through the wooden floor. “Damnit, Clarkzilla,” I carefully pry my foot out of the Clarkzilla hole. At least a floor is fixable. I wish I could snap my fingers and mend Pete’s bones just as easily.   

Another five minutes pass before the app opens up. In that short time, I repaired the floor, cheating a little. Using my powers is dangerous, I learned that the hard way. But better me than Dad. He might break his leg fixing my mess. I’m screwing in the last nail when finally the app loads. Sure enough, there’s a message from LadyTruth. The sight of her name popping up on the screen sends a tremor of joy through me.  

LadyTruth: You bizy? I’m bored. 

I laugh at her incompetence. 

Skywalker16: You spelled busy wrong 

LadyTruth: Nobody adreeciate  Grammar Cop, Farmboy  

LadyTruth: So you free? 

Skywalker16: I was actually about to go do chores.

LadyTruth: Must you :/ The demon cow can wait.  

I smirk. It’s funny how a stranger has been my only friend these last few months. Almost as if she hears my traitorous thoughts, Fuzzball pounces onto my lap and swats at my chest with her fluffy white paw, hissing as if to say, ‘Don’t forget I’m here too.’ I grin and scratch her behind the ears. She lets out a purr of contentment and nudges her tiny head against my palm. 

I scan the clock. It reads 12:55 PM. Metropolis is one hour ahead of Smallville, Kansas, which means LadyTruth should be in her fourth period. If memory serves me right, she’d be in the middle of her English class about now.  

Skywalker16: Shouldn’t you be exploring Boo Radley’s hut with Scout?  

LadyTruth: And get shot by a nutcase. No, thank you. 

Skywalker16: Boo Radley is just misunderstood. Things are not as they seem. Keep reading. It gets better. 

LadyTruth: I’d rather die than sit threw another chapter of this garrbauge  

My shoulders slump in disappointment.‘To Kill a Mockingbird is my favorite novel. I’ve read it more times than I can count and have the movie committed to memory. When I learned LadyTruth was reading it for her English class, I was excited to have a friend to discuss the classic with.  

 I would be lucky if I ended up being half the man Atticus Finch is. Society saw both Tom Robinson and Boo Radley as monsters, but Atticus Finch looked beyond the prejudice of society and saw the person beneath. He stood up for a cause he believed in and damned the consequences. Atticus Finch is a hero in his own right and does not need any powers to save the day.   

The barn door creaks open. “Clark, lunch is ready!” Mom stops at the bottom of the steps that lead up to the loft. “I made your favorite bratwurst sausage!”  I pretend I don’t hear her. Mom’s solution to any problem is a pep talk and food. “You are not making your sixty-year-old mother climb these stairs!”

“You still have three years till you’re a Senior citizen,” I call back, typing a quick goodbye to LadyTruth and logging off. Mom would have a cow if she learned about my online friend. I grab Tales of the Weird and Unexplained off the floor and flip to a random chapter.   

“I’m glad your math skills haven’t tanked during this self-imposed isolation.” Mama climbs the short flight of stairs to the loft. She suppresses an eye-roll when she sees what book I’m reading. “You’re not going to find answers in that tabloid garbage.” 

“It’s not garbage,” I say. “Vicki Vale is the youngest reporter at the Gotham Gazette,” I tell her. Her editor rejected her investigation into the paranormal, but that didn’t slow her down. “All her findings in Tales of the Weird and Unexplained have vetted sources and irrefutable photographs.” I surprise myself. Lately, I’ve been doubting the authenticity of such tall tales.  

“Sounds like you’re in love,” Mama teases. My face burns. At twenty-two, Vicki Vale is the youngest reporter to win a Kerth award. “Should I send out wedding invitations?” 

“MOM!” I cover my face. “It’s not like that!” I drop the book. “I mean sur,e she’s an attractive girl  . . . Woman,” I amend. “I just admire her dedication to finding the truth.” 

“I’m only teasing, sweetie,” Mom kisses the top of my head. “I’d much rather you have Vicki Vale’s poster than that eccentric bubble queen.” 

I frown. “You mean Lady Gaga?” She’s Lana’s idol. 

“In my day, rockstars had style,” she smiles wistfully. One guess which flamboyant junkie she’s daydreaming about. 

“Elvis’ cape is not fashionable. It’s a cry for help.” 

“Nonsense,” Mama pouts. “Capes never go out of style.” 

“Whatever you say, Ma,” I dig out another book from the ‘To be Read’ pile.’ 

Mama grabs the paperback out of my hands. “Count Dracula  is still going to be here after lunch.” 

“I’m not hungry,” I say. 

“Lies do not suit you, honey,” she rebukes gently.  “I expect you at the table in five seconds, or I’d use your books to light tonight’s fire.” 

“You won’t dare,” I stand, knocking over a stack of books. “You love books!” 

“I love my son more,” Mama looks at me meaningfully. “And this,” she waves an arm at the messy loft that has been my hideout for the last four months. “Is unhealthy.” 

It’s a necessity. Books are just paper and ink. I can’t hurt them, and if I accidentally ripped a page or broke its spine, a replacement is waiting for me at the local bookstore. There are no second chances with people. My friends are safer without me in their lives. 

Mama collects an armful of classics. I jump off the sofa. “N,o not The Odyssey . . . I’m not finished reading.”  A part of me wants to rip the books out of her arms, but it wouldn’t end well for Ma. 

“I’ll be back for the rest if you don’t get your butt out of this loft, starting with your Warrior Angel collection you’re not supposed to have,” she shoots me a hard look and stomps downstairs. I glare at her retreating figure, reminding myself to keep a lid on my anger. The cops will have a field day with a barbecued Martha Kent.       

 Fuzzball scampers upstairs and tilts her head, eying me expectantly. “Not you too,” I groan, collapsing onto the sofa. The white cat leaps into my lap and yowls in my ear. “Alright, alright, I’m going,” I stand, cradling Fuzzball in my arms. 

Suddenly, her head shoots toward the open window, and she wriggles out of my arms, losing interest in me. Her tail flicks excitedly as she stands on her haunches to peek outside. I lower my glasses and follow her gaze. A deer is stuck in the wire fence, struggling to break free. “Good eye, ol’ girl,” I scratch the white cat behind the ears and head downstairs.      

The cold, crisp winter air greets me as I step outside. I untangle the deer from the wire fence, water the horses, and contemplate returning to the house, but there is too much work to finish on the farm—anything to avoid my nagging mother and the harsh truths. I banish any thought of my broken friend. Instead, I fix what I can on the farm. I board up the hole in the chicken coop; that should keep any sly foxes from breaking in. Dad can check off the rusty tractor on his list; it only took a few tweaks and it was as good as new. I mend the gap in the fence from when Dolly sprang free. I’d like to see that fat cow try to flee now.

 The said ‘demon cow,’ as LadyTruth has christened her, is currently glaring at me over the tip of the bullpen. She snorts and drags a hoof in the mud. I laugh despite everything. When all else fails, I know I can count on Dolly being the angriest, hormonal cow on the planet. As if hearing my thoughts, she reels back on her hind legs and kicks the fence.

 “Wow girl,” I hold the fence together with one hand. She lands a hard kick on my closed fist, and I grit my teeth, bracing for impact. But being me sometimes has its benefits; anyone else would be short a couple of fingers. To me, it feels like someone is throwing pebbles at my hand. It tickles more than hurts. When the fence doesn’t break, she kicks the feeder, and a stream of crumbs tumbles free.

 “Keep that up, and Dad’ll make burgers for dinner,” I warn. Intelligent, brown eyes glare back at me. I ignore her and move on before she gets a second wind.    

  “CLARK JOSEPH KENT!” Mama screams. “YOUR FOOD IS GETTING COLD!” She’s a wisp of a figure in the distance, her red hair as bright as a fox’s coat against the snow. “I MIGHT USE TOM SAWYER TO HEAT YOUR FOOD!” 

“Jesus Christ, woman, I’m coming!” 

The Kent home is a modest two-storied clapboard house that’s been a Smallville staple since the 1930s. It hasn’t changed much in the last decades. The faded white door is the same door Grandpa Eben installed. Grandma Sarah’s hand-knit curtains still hang on the windows. M, being the big city girl, convinced Dad the house needed a splash of color. So naturally, we’re the only yellow house in the neighborhood. 

“ I’m here!” I discard the coat by the door. Mama looks between the coat on the floor and the empty rack by the door, then crosses her arms. I sigh and hang it up properly. 

“You’re forgetting something, honey,” Mama says sweetly. I dutifully kick my muddy boots off. “Let’s try that again. The third time is the charm.” She smiles broadly, a silent challenge in her gaze. I groan and place the boots inside the cubby. “Now wash up, I’ve got a surprise for you in the kitchen.” 

I finish washing my hands and sit at the counter. A plate of sausage and steamed cabbage is waiting for me. I immediately regret my earlier attitude. “Ma,” I say through a mouthful. 

“I know, I’m the best,” she beams. 

I swallow. “I’m sorry about earlier.”  

“Thank you, honey,” she cups my hand, and I tense. Twenty-seven bones that are liable to break press against my skin. I don’t dare move. “You’re a good son, even though you no longer have perfect attendance.” 

“You know why I can’t go back to school.” I sip a pop and shudder at the memory of the crowded hallway. 

“What happened to Pete was an accident,” Mama says gently. “You didn’t mean to hurt him,” she reaches over and cups my face tenderly. I pull away. 

“I should have listened to Dad.” 

Dad was against me joining the football team from the start. His words of caution ring loud and clear in my head as if he were standing right next to me.

You're out there, and your friends are giving it your all - you're gonna do whatever it takes to win. You're going to be tempted to run just a little bit faster . . .

And no, Pete is paying the ultimate price for my arrogance.

“You’re still learning,” Mama grinds her hands together frustratingly. “Give yourself time.” 

“Time isn’t going to help Pete play again!” I bite out. Mama looks up heavenward. “I’m never using my powers again.” Not if I can help it. 

Hurt flashes across Mom's face. "Your father and I did not raise you to be ashamed of who you are, son," she bites her lower lip. "I did not raise you to be a recluse," she reaches over to place a comforting hand over mine. "You are meant for great things, Clark Kent."

"You don't know what you're talking about." I push the plate aside, losing my appetite. "Some days I don't even think I'm human!" Mama flinches. "I don't belong out there with normal people." She once understood that. My parents didn't allow me to go to school till first grade, afraid I wouldn't be able to control my strength and hurt someone. Well, their worst fear has come true.

"Clark," Mom's voice softens, and she pinches the bridge of her nose. "We've been through this already. Football is a dangerous game. It could have happened to anyone, sweetie." She cups my face. "Accidents happen in football all the time." She wraps an arm around me, and I flinch.

"Please," I slide away from her. "Don't touch me. I might hurt you."

"No, you won't," she says with conviction. She picks up one of my hands and gently traces the inside of my palm. I scowl but don't push her away. "Hmm," she muses theatrically, raising one inquisitive brow. "Your destiny moves along a different path than mine. The force will always be with you," she grins madly.

"Cut it out, Ma!" I pull my hand away. "You're not even saying it right," I point out. "It's: 'Your destiny lies along a different path... not moves," I correct her. "And it's 'The force will be with you always not . . ." I fall silent, realizing what she is doing. She's a sly dog, using one of my favorite movies against me. Well, it's not gonna work.

I take the plate to the sink and start to head back outside. I falter at the door when I see it's snowing. The pickup truck is buried beneath a mound of white. Snow doesn’t usually bother me, but the mess makes Mama cranky. Dad rushes indoors, shaking flecks out of his hair. “Marty, where’s your famous coco . . . oh, howdy, son,” he kicks his boots off by the door. 

Mama is on him like a hellhound on the scent. “You’re both giving me gray hair!” she slaps him on the shins with a wet cloth. “There is a cubby for a reason, Jonathan. Honestly,  I just mopped this floor!” 

“Oh, right, sorry Marty,” Dad places his boots in the cubby beside mine. He stretches his arms behind his head, and his spine cracks. “Phew,” he yawns. “Long day, and it's not even over yet,” he collapses on the couch and checks his wristwatch. “Still got a few hours before Jill comes home from school. What you say, Link, up for a rematch?” He smirks at me. 

“Jonathan, you’re dripping mud all over my clean sofa!” Mama pushes him off the sofa. “And Clark doesn’t have time for video games. He’s falling behind in school.” 

“No, I’m not,” I say. “I give my assignments to Lana every morning to turn in for me,” I inform her smugly. “I still have straight A’s in all my classes,” I puff up my chest. Lana and I are neck and neck for the top of our class.  

“Way to go, kiddo,” Dad gives me a thumbs up. “I see no harm in playing a few rounds of Super Smash Bros.” He shrugs out of his damp coat, drapes it over the back of the couch just to annoy Mom, and turns the TV on. “But first, I need my lucky hat,” he announces. “Clark, be a doll and fetch your old man’s hat.” 

“Come on, Dad,” I groan, untangling the GameCube controls. We couldn’t afford the cordless controls; I was lucky to have this hand-me-down game set from the eldest Irig boy, who is now in college. “No hat is going to help you beat me.” 

“My winning streak will say otherwise, Link. No hat, no game,” he says firmly. 

“Ugh, fine.” I stumble upstairs, past the hall full of embarrassing pictures of Jill and me, and into my parents’ room. It’s sparsely furnished with woodland wallpaper that gives it a timeless feel. The antique bed they’ve shared for the last fifty-odd years looks like something out of a Charlotte Bronte novel. I rummage around their closet, looking in the usual spots for the special blue hat. Grandpa Hirum bought the METU ballcap when Dad first visited the campus. Shortly after Jonathan started college, a gust of wind blew the ballcap into the lap of a beautiful law student. He’s married to that law student and swears he owes all his good luck to that old hat. 

I nearly tear my parent's room apart searching for that damn hat. I don’t want to play video games that much. I can get a head start on Mr. Moore's essay. But Dad rarely has time to hang out unless I’m helping on the farm. I can’t take it anymore. I push my glasses down and scan the room carefully. 

Walls flicker and shift to nothing. I look past the wall of clothes and shoes meticulously organized by color on Mom’s side of the closet. Dad’s dusty tuxedo hangs in the back. A memory box is at the bottom of the closet, underneath dirty laundry. Inside the box is an album with baby pictures, a toy spaceship wrapped in a crimson blanket, and more embarrassing photographs of me. And finally, the lucky METU hat. I open the box, toss the baby stuff aside, and retrieve the cap. My hand grazes the red blanket; I’m surprised by the coarse texture, noticing a gold etching on the blanket. It’s not one of Mom’s best creations. Her sewing has improved a lot since I was a baby. I close the box and return downstairs.           

   “This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Jonathan,” Mama says, seated beside her husband on the sofa. The afternoon news plays on the TV, almost drowning out her voice.  

“It’s about time we —.” He falters as I enter. 

“Found it!” I plop the lucky ballcap on Dad’s head. “You’re so dead . . . Bowzer,” I falter as I recognize the mugshot of Grahm Garrett in the corner of the TV. He tried to rob the Talon a few months back. “Hey, I know that guy.” I hire the volume, squeezing between my parents.  

“Grahm Garrett is wanted in two counties for obstruction of the law,” Mr. Beppo reports outside an apartment complex. “Was found dead in his apartment last night under unusual circumstances.” 

“How do you know a criminal?” Mama asks, scandalized. 

“We had a run-in a while back. . . shush, I’m trying to listen.” I turned up the volume, not prepared to tell Ma about my extracurricular activities. I’m done doing that. The police can manage without my screw-ups.

“There was no sign of forced entrance,” Mr. Beppo informs. “His body was discovered with severe burns that experts say are inconsistent with any known fire source or electrical malfunction,” he says. “Garrett was found by his neighbor who reported seeing strange lights and what sounded like and I quote ‘Megatron crashing the party.’” 

“Had to be wasted,” Mama shuts the TV off. “Forest Hill is notorious for having Frat Parties.”

“Or,” I drawl out the word. “The killer could be like me.”        

Chapter Text

I head into town bright and early the next day, beating the morning rush hour. The Smallville Gazette is a dingy building that used to be a photoshop. An old printing press is behind the counter in dire need of an upgrade. The building is divided into two parts: a row of desks with computers and a makeshift breakroom with a table and idea board. The Smallville Gazette is no Daily Planet, but for a kid with minimal resources, it’s the fabled Library of Alexandria. It also helps that the town library is conveniently next door.   

 “Clark Kent as I live and breathe,” Mrs. Kidder hugs me tightly. I tense, willing my bones to slacken. She’s a short, stout woman who reminds me somewhat of a sparrow.  “You had me worried sick, sweetie,” she holds me at arm's length to examine me. “Maisie told me you were sick.”  That was the running story I gave all my classmates. Lana is the only one who sees through the lies. “You poor dear, sick for five months. Was it MONO?” 

“Something like that, yeah.” I gingerly pry her arms off me. The PVC pipe weighs heavily in my pocket. “Listen, I have something . . .” 

“You’ll want today’s delivery,” she guesses, hustling to the back of the counter and retrieving a stack of newspapers. “Business has been slow,” she sighs. “Maisie has tried to help when she can, but between you and me,” she leans toward me smiling conspicuously. “She scares the customers away. We’ve lost ten subscribers since you got sick. Don’t hurt; you're easy on the eyes,” she pinches my cheek fondly. “Handsome just like your Daddy.”  

“Wow,” I don’t know what to say. Delivering the newspapers is a quick, easy buck. I didn’t think the people cared who delivered the paper. “Is Maisie around?” I ask her mom, praying I’ve dodged a bullet. If Maisie saw me, she’d tell Lana, and  Lana would tell Rachel, and then the whole school would expect me to be back. It’s safer if I keep my distance. I don’t want to hurt another friend. 

“She had a sleepover with Rachel Harris,” she says loftily. “I’m not stupid. I was not born yesterday, son.” her hand flies to her hip. Oh, boy. Here we go. “She had a date with that Irig boy,” she wrinkles her nose in disgust. 

“What’s wrong with that? Wade is a good guy.” I fail to see the problem. Wade is in my journalism class. He’s a bit shy and awkward, but so am I. 

“He was homeschooled till this past year,” Mrs. Kidder points out. “Always flinching, scared of his own shadow. There’s something wrong with him,” she decides. 

“I was homeschooled till first grade,” I remind her. 

“Well, that was to be expected,” she pats my arm. I stay utterly still. “You were such a wee, sickly babe. Your Ma was bound to be protective.” She couldn’t be further from the truth. My parents were protecting their neighbors from me. “I always thought you and Maisie would end up together.”  I avoid her eyes. Her daughter is like a sister to me. “But we both know who has captured your heart,” she teases. “Lana Lang was here yesterday looking for you. Come to think of it, she’s been here —”  

“I need you to look at something,” I cut her off before she starts another tangent. I dig the PVC pipe out of my pocket and place it on the counter. The pipe is about a foot long, charred and warped from extreme heat. The surface is scorched black, but unlike regular scorch marks, there are unnatural patterns in the warped metal. I’m taking a huge risk bringing this here. I wrestled all night with the decision and ultimately decided the potential of meeting someone like me was too great an opportunity to pass up. 

“Where did you get this?” Mrs. Kidder studies the pipe with fascination. 

“I found it in a dumpster.” I leave out the bit about me burning the pipe. “I heard about Garrett on the news,” I say. “Thought maybe it was connected. Does it look anything like the burns on his body?” 

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she says. 

“The killer could be . . .” I swallow hard. Someone who shoots fire from their eyes. “Well, the killer could have burned the pipe with his hands or something.” 

“What a silly thing to suggest, Mulder,” she laughs. My suggestion is a lot less crazy than Fox Mulder’s theories on the X-Files. 

“So it doesn’t look like the body?”  

 “No,” she sets the pipe down. “It was more like he was struck by lightning. Only it wasn’t raining that day. The police are at a loss to explain it.” 

“Do you have a picture?” I struggle to hide the hope in my voice. This is the first real lead I’ve had on anyone like me. There was a guy in Maine who could supposedly breathe underwater, but he turned out to be just an Olympic swimmer who could hold his breath for a super long time.  

“Your Mama is not going to like me showing you that.” 

“Please,” I pout. “I’ll do a background check on Wade Irig or clean your garage. Anything.” 

“I’m a little concerned you’re so interested in seeing a corpse,” she frowns.

“It’s just . . . what if the killer is —” I start to say, like me and mentally kick myself. “Like Warrior Angel.” He’s the only character I know who can shoot fire out of his eyes. 

“Oh, alright,” she relents.    “I shouldn’t be showing you this,” Mrs. Kidder mumbles. “It can’t hurt for you to know what’s out there,” she indicates for me to follow. “I was worried about you, honey,” she tells me. “ I feared the worst when you didn’t show up to work for a while.” 

“You don’t need to worry about me,” I say, touched by her concern. 

“Mothers always worry . . . especially now. You’ll see.” 

She leads me to the idea board, which has more clippings than usual. The community events are buried beneath a wall of crime photos. The board is divided in half, with photographs of missing people on one end and victims of violent deaths on the other side. My heart stops, and I choke on bile. I almost don’t recognize Ian Randall, Smallville High’s Class President. His body sprawls on an icy bank, halfway submerged in water. There’s a gruesome hole where his ear used to be. The hands with which he once created Van Gogh masterpieces are bloodied stumps. He looks like a victim of torture. What kind of monster would do that to a kid? 

“It’s such a tragedy,” Mrs. Kidder says in a small voice. “Ian had a full ride to Stanford.”

I squint at the homicide photo, something bugging me. The lake shore is gray and pebbly, nothing like the muddy bank of Crater’s Lake. A fishing boat is anchored to a pier, a speck in the distance; I make out the name, Amara, on the hull. “That’s not Smallville,” I realize. 

“He was found in Metropolis,” she sniffs.  “Some kids found him. Can you imagine? Kids!” she says appalled. “Smallville is not safe anymore. What if you and Maisie are next? I can’t lose my baby girl. She’s all I have left of Christopher . . . I’m sorry, honey,” she blows her nose. “You don’t want to hear an old lady cry.” 

“I won’t let anything happen to Maisie,” I promise, but I’m not sure what good I’ll be. I’ll just make things worse for everyone. 

“Such a good boy.”     

 It’s jarring seeing so many corpses beside the schedule for the annual winter festival. There are others like Ian, their bodies in varying degrees of desecration. Then other victims don’t match the pattern.   

 Bob Rickman, a sleazy businessman, was electrocuted by his toaster. A piano crushed a construction worker. Then there was Grahm Garrett. His body was found in the shower with the water still running, the stall door ripped off its hinges. They failed to mention that on the news. The body looked like a fried turkey, red and blackened beyond recognition. The burns had the consistency of lasers almost a magenta tint to the flesh. I tried to find similarities between our heat vision and came up short. I accidentally burned my teddy bear once (long story), and there were no remains. 

“Who could have done that?” 

 A cold chill runs down my spine. Someone like me could have easily done this. I’ve never burned an animal before, but malfunctioning doors and I were old friends. The other victims appear to be accidental. Except for the fact they’re all crooks I’ve crossed paths with: lowlife thieves and muggers with too much time on their hands.  

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Kidder shivers, rubbing her arms. “But whoever it is, they’ve been covering their tracks for a while. These ‘accidents’” she puts that in air quotes. “Have been happening for the last sixteen years.” 

“Are you sure they’re not just accidents?” One of the victims was run over by a train, another drove their car off a cliff. They didn’t seem to have any connection other than their criminal backgrounds. That didn’t explain Ian Randall or Kevin Grady. They had both been pillars of the community, a straight-A-student and the captain of the debate team, not so much as a speeding ticket between them. 

“Could be,” she agrees. “But there are too many deaths to rule out as pure coincidence,” she thinks out loud. “I noticed the pattern while searching for Ian. Others are missing,” she swallows loudly. “I thought you were in trouble.”        

 I study the section of missing people, and my heart sinks. I recognize Greg Arkin. I used to collect rare insects with him in elementary. We’ve drifted apart, but he’s close to his mom. He won’t just up and leave. Arnold Garcia’s goofy picture is taped beside Greg’s. He’s a kind veteran who loves to give candy to the kids. 

I stare at my classmates’ photos. This is all my fault. I would have noticed they were missing if I were at school. Or they would be in worse condition than Pete. I close my eyes against the onslaught of memories; the audience roars as I catch the football, the snap of Pete’s spine drowning out their cheers. Pete’s not the only one I’ve hurt. In fifth grade, I destroyed Lana’s volcano. In second grade, I accidentally dropped a bookcase on Dean Reeve. He laughed and started calling me Clarkzilla, but it could have easily been fatal.

“Have the police found Kevin?” I ask. 

“Sheriff Adams thinks Kevin eloped with his girlfriend.” she sounds skeptical. “She has people searching New Carthage for them.” 

“I hope that’s true,” I say.

“Me too, honey,” she smiles. “Oh, Clark,” she ambushes me with a hug before I can dodge. “I’m so glad you’re back. You really scared me.” I didn’t consider the effect my prolonged absence would have on the Smallville family. 

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” She hugs me tighter as if she’s afraid I’ll vanish. I wish I were invisible. This is getting uncomfortable. I can’t risk moving a single muscle. I awkwardly hug her back, careful to keep my touch feather-light.     

“I missed my Clark Kent hugs,” she says. “It’s been so quiet in the Gazette without you,” she laments. That’s not a hard feat, the Smallville Gazette only has one reporter on the premises at any given time. It’s hardly a newspaper. There’s the editor, Mrs. Kidder,  and two other reporters who are rarely around.

 And me, their delivery boy/intern. 

“I really should get going,” I say. 

“Yes, it’s a quarter to eight,” she finally releases me. “You’re going to be late for school.” 

It’s actually Saturday. I don’t bother correcting her, grab the newspaper stack from the counter, and duck outside. It’s a crisp, December morning with few people out. A soft snowfall blankets Main Street in soft hues of gray and white. I turn my hood up and tackle the apartments above the stores first. I stick to the backstreet to avoid any early Christmas shoppers. I make my deliveries quietly and discretely. Not using my powers proves to be harder than I thought, but I remind myself of the consequences if I cheat. The family pickup truck is annoyingly slow. 

It’s almost noon when I return home. I park near the fence under the cover of an oak tree and head for the house. I remember this time to leave my shoes in the cubby. “Where the hell have you been!” Jill ambushes me the second I close the door. 

“Well?” her choppy pink hair makes her look like an angry pixie. The paint-stained overalls she wears belong in the trash. “You better have a damn good excuse for stealing the car, Speed Boy!”  

“Some of us actually work for a living.” 

“Bullshit! You don’t need the fucking car to make dumbass deliveries!” 

“Jill Eileen Kent,” Mama joins Jill in the hallway, livid. “Language.” It’s unclear if she’s angry at me or Jill. She has her resting bitch face, that can’t be good news. 

“Claire and I had plans!” 

“Destroying public property does not qualify as plans.” Smallville will be better off without her eyesore murals.   

“It’s art!” Jill screams. “Something you know nothing about.” 

“Luncheon of the Boating Party, Starry Night, The Torment of St. Anthony,” I recite famous paintings. “Those are examples of art. What you do a five-year-old could create!” 

“Art is subjective,” Mama intervenes. “What you think is crap is somebody else’s  treasure.” 

Jill growls through clenched teeth. “You fucking smartass! It was my turn to use the truck!” 

“I’m sorry,” I wince. “Something came up and . . .” 

“Then you use those goddamn feet, Hermes, and hustle!” 

“Jill, have some patience,” Mama implores. “This was a big step for Clark.” 

“Bullshit, he’s fucking Hercules.” 

“I would never fuck Hercules,” I smirk at my older cousin.  “He’s not my type.” She should choose her words more wisely. 

“I can’t wait to graduate so I don’t have to look at your ugly mug anymore!” 

“Can I turn your room into a library?” I say seriously.

“CLARK!” 

“What?” I shrug. “She’s not going to need it anymore.” It’s Jill’s final year at Smallville High. I meet Jill’s eyes and mimic her voice. “Goodbye, Snoozeville; hello, civilization.”

 She slaps me across the face, and I’m surprised that actually hurts. “Don’t ever do that again.” 

“You’re grounded, young lady. To your room at once!” 

“You can’t ground me, I’m eighteen.” 

“Not for another few days,” I point out. 

“You decide to act like a child, I’ll still ground  you when you’re eighty.” 

I snort. Serves her right. Jill sounds like an Arkham Asylum inmate.  

 “I’m not through with you either, mister.” Mama narrows her eyes at me. What did I do? Jill chuckles. I swallow hard. Mama hasn’t looked at me like that since I stole candy from the General Store. “It was reckless, irresponsible, and dangerous to borrow the car without asking  permission.” 

“You’re just saying that  because Jill . . .” 

“Not to mention inconsiderate,” she interrupts. “I had to cancel today’s morning orders because I didn’t have a means to deliver baked goods.” Oh shit. I think I see where this is going. “Since you’re such a hard worker, you can deliver the afternoon orders, starting with the Rosses.”

“Sucks to be you,” Jill grabs an apple off the counter and sprints upstairs, cackling like a banshee. 

“Mom, you can’t be serious.” 

“Deadly serious,” she says. “You are sixteen years old, you can’t just leave without so much as a word! There are consequences to your choices.” 

“I was doing my job! I thought you’d be happy about that!” 

“It’s a small town, Clark,”  she crosses her arms and gives me a leveled look. “Do you honestly think I don’t know about the burned pipe?” I wince and look away. “So not only did you borrow the car without permission, you deliberately put yourself and, by extension, this family in danger. What if Noel had a scientist examine the pipe, and they found your DNA in the burns? Hmm? What would we do then?” 

I contemplate pointing out the improbability of my DNA remaining in the burnt metal and think better of it. “I thought it was worth the risk.” 

“Your safety is more important than finding the truth.”  

“And what is the truth exactly?” 

She falters, stumbling back as if I hit her. “You’re my son, and nothing is going to change that.”  

“I’m a monster! I could have killed Grahm Garret!” 

“No, honey.” Mama quickly approaches and rests her palms on my chest. “Your powers don’t make you a monster.” 

“It’s not normal . . . I thought maybe the killer was like me.” It’s lonely being the most powerful human on earth and forced to live like a shadow. 

“I know how much you want that to be true,” Mama brushes a lock of dark hair out of my eyes. “Even though you’re not like everybody else, you’re not alone, sweetie,” she smiles tenderly. “You’ve got me, your Dad. We all love you very much.” 

It’s not the same. She doesn’t understand. Every time I hug someone or shake their hand, I have to make a conscious effort not to break their bones. “I know, Ma, I love you too.”

“Don’t try to score points. You’re still making those deliveries,” she reminds me firmly. 

“No, I’m not.” I snatch my backpack off the hook on the door. “I have an article to write.” 

“How are you going to type that story if you don’t have a computer?” 

“What did you do with my computer?” 

“You can have it back after you deliver the pie to the Rosses.” 

“I don’t need it.” I select a pen from the drawer. “I’ll use my journal.” 

“How can you expect to write about other people’s lives if you don’t have one?” 

I shut the door in her face, feeling slightly guilty for being so rude. Visiting Pete is out of the question. I’m the last person he’d want to see. I will just remind him of what he’s lost. I hurry through the snow, making a mental note of the victims on the murder board, committing each piece to memory. The first order of business is to call Kevin’s family and see what they know. I climb the steps to the loft and groan. 

Lana Lang sits on the sofa, scratching Fuzzball behind the ears. She basks under the morning glow, sunlight filtering through her red hair like woven gold. The black turtleneck makes her blue eyes pop. She stops petting Fuzzball and meets my gaze, a spark of amusement in her features.  “You’re not supposed to be writing,” she says, eyeing the pen and notebook in my hand. 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I return, sitting opposite Lana in the wicker chair. My knee brushes the edge of the coffee table, and a mug of cocoa clatters to the floor. I suppress an eye roll.  Lana is Mama’s ace in the hole. She knew confiscating the computer wouldn’t be a strong enough incentive. 

“Mama K. was worried,” Lana says. Fuzzball crawls into Lana’s lap and nudges her hand with her head. Lana smiles and kisses the cat’s wet nose. “It’s not like you to leave without warning.” 

In my defense, I hadn’t planned on delivering 300 newspapers across town. I guess I’ve got my job back, so that’s a positive. 

“I had a lead, I couldn’t wait for Mom to wake.” 

“Oo, new story?” she scoots closer and rests her head on her hands with rapt attention. 

I know she’s humoring me, but I don’t care.  It’s nice seeing her again after months apart. I’ve missed her. I tell her about the missing people and the potential murderer on the loose. I leave the gory details out because I know how much blood grosses her out. 

“Typical,” she says once I’m done. “Months, MIA, no note, no  phone call, there’s a murder, and suddenly Clark Kent is as predictable as a sunrise.” 

“You make me sound crazy,” I say. 

“You are crazy,” Lana says. “Digging your head in the sand and avoiding reality is the definition of crazy.” I set myself up for that. Lana’s superpower is steering any conversation to her advantage. She learned that trick from my Mom.  “How is this murder story going to improve your life?” 

“It’s not about my life!” I snap, getting frustrated. “It’s about helping others and sharing the truth.” 

“You can’t help others until you know how to help yourself,” Lana says passionately. Now she’s sounding like Mom. “What of your story, Clark?” She charges on. 

I flinch at her tone. “Clark,” she softens her voice. “I know you’re afraid of what the future holds for Pete; we all are,” she smiles empathetically.  “You’ve always had this great ability to put yourself in one’s shoes —you feel a stranger’s pain as keenly as if it were your own,” she knows me too well. “Pete is not a stranger. He’s your brother in every way but blood. He needs you now more than ever.” 

“Trust me, Lana, I’m the last person he wants to see.” 

“How can you say that?” she asks. “He’s your best friend.” 

“You don’t understand.” 

“You’re right. I don’t understand,” she deadpans. “The Clark Kent I know will never abandon his friends.” 

“It’s not like that,” I protest. “It’s for the best, I’m not . . .” I struggle to explain. “What the hell do you want me to do? I’m not Merlin. I can’t wave my wand and heal him.”  

“Pete doesn’t need magic!” she throws a pillow at me in exacerbation. “He needs to know he’s not alone.” 

“Last time I checked, Pete has a capable Ma and baby sis at his beck and call.” 

“They’re no Clark Kent,” she says. 

“That’s a point in their favor,” I say. “You guys would be better off if I were never born.” 

 “You don’t mean that.” She wanders to my side and cups my hand. “Clark, you’re a great friend. You fill my life with sunshine.”

That is such a corny line, if I were in a better mood, I would give her grief for it. Instead, I smile and intertwine our fingers, forgetting all the reasons I shouldn’t be touching her. For a moment, I’m simply a normal guy spending time with the girl next door. She crawls, catlike, into my lap, and I forget how to breathe. The chair can’t fit both of us, so Lana repositions herself so her legs are dangling over the armrest, and she snuggles against my chest. Her heartbeat vibrates through the thick layer of clothes. 

This is nothing new. In elementary school, she had nightmares about her mom’s death, which inevitably led her to my window. I made up stories to distract her from that terror, and she fell asleep beside me. Everything is more complicated now. I want to be so much more than just the nice guy next door. But the secrets are keeping us apart, bigger than my feelings for her. If she knew the real me, she would bolt. 

“I miss the three musketeers,” she breaks the spell. “We used to have so much fun.” Pete and Lana would drag me into hair-brained schemes that ended with me taking the blame for their foolishness. They were simpler days.  

“I miss them too, but we can’t go back. Those days are over.” 

“They don’t have to be,” she cranes her neck to meet my eyes. “I’m not blind, Clark. I know you and Pete had a huge fight,” she guesses. She doesn’t know the half of it. “But family forgives each other,” she smirks. I mentally groan, knowing what’s coming next. “Remember, Ohana means family. Family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten.” 

I sigh. God forbid we have a normal conversation with no Disney references. “You’re not going to ever let this thing with Pete go.” 

“Nope.”

“Fine.” 

Between Lana and Mama, I’m outmatched and too tired to argue anymore. 

“You’ll visit him then?” 

“He’s not going to like this,” I cringe. 

“I thought of that.” 

She leaps off my lap and dives for the basket under the coffee table. She resurfaces, holding a collection of comic books. “Peace offerings, not that you need them.” 

“I don’t know about this,” I say as I pack my backpack. 

“Don’t think, just do,” she says, using her best Yoda impression. It’s not close to the original quote, but I appreciate the effort. Lana shrugs into her coat, gathers her purse, and walks out of the loft with me. We reach the end of the property, and she heads in the opposite direction.  

“You’re not coming?” 

Lana faces me, continuing to walk backward. “You’ve got this,” she gives me a thumbs up. “I expect a full report on my desk by morning, Mr. Kent.” 

I roll my eyes and head into the neighboring woods that lead to Pete’s house.   

Chapter Text

The Luthor Clinic is located on the outskirts of town in a dark patch across the street from The Tipsy Chicken. Ironically, the only hospital in Smallville is conveniently next door to one of the few bars. Got your teeth knocked out in a heated brawl? No bi deal; Dr. Whitney can fix you right up. I find an empty parking spot in the shadow of a dumpster and groan. Five sets of eyes are glued to the red eyesore that is the Kent family truck. 

I recognize a few of Jill’s art friends with their loud hair and anime T-shirts. I wince when I lock eyes with one of the Castelli twins; she nudges her sister excitedly and points to me. I grit my teeth and climb out, lugging the bag of pies. All the stares are making me regret leaving Pete’s house for last. 

 I keep my head down and hold the cooler in front of me to hide from any other onlookers. 

I stare up at the ten-story brick building in awe. Next to the Luthor mansion, it is the tallest building in Smallville. Green vines slither over the bricks with reckless abandon. Stan, the security guard, sits in a cubicle by the door, bundled up head to toe in a thick black coat and beanie that covers his wrinkled eyes.  

 “Delivery for Cassandra Fotakis.” 

“Fine, fine, but no funny business, young Kent.” he unlocks the door and lets me in. 

The inside of the Luthor Clinic never ceases to take my breath away. It is as lavish as a four-star hotel. In the main entrance, a crystalline chandelier hangs over a Persian rug. The receptionist, Ms. Ditkovich, waves gaily at me as I pass by. 

Lionel Luthor spared no expense when renovating the hospital. Back in my parents' day, the clinic was nothing more than a rundown haunted house.  It’s no secret the hospital was Lionel Luthor’s gift to Lillian Luthor, a subtle way of suggesting her eccentric father finds new living arrangements. But his plan didn’t go according to plan. Ted Knight has refused to leave the mansion and his precious collection of artifacts. 

I climb the five stories to the ‘Nursing Home’ level and stop in front of Cassandra Fotakis’s room. Before I can knock, a tired voice echoes from the other side of the door. 

“Come on in, young Kent,” Cassandra says. “I saw you coming.” 

I carefully push the door open. Cassandra Fotakis sits in the rocking chair by her window, wrapped in a woven navy quilt. The twinkling lights of the town dance across her weathered face. She stares with unseeing white eyes into the dim room. 

“I’m sure you did.” I don’t bother faking a smile. What’s the point? She’s blind.  

Blind as a bat, yet rumor has it Cassandra Fotakis can see the future. I don’t believe that. No harm in humoring the old lady. She is just weirdly insightful. I suppose when you lose one sense, the other four senses are heightened to the twelfth degree. She is no Oracle of Delphi. 

More than likely, Ma called one of the nurses to let the hospital know I was coming.  

“Is that sarcasm I detect in your voice?” 

“No, ma'am,” I say. “I brought you pie.” I gently place the bag on her lap. Her leathery fingers brushed over it. 

“You have not come to see me in a while,” she states simply, a silent accusation in her tone. “Jill Kent is not as pleasant as you.” She digs for the appropriate amount from her purse. 

“Yeah . . . well,” I pocket the cash. “Jill is an acquired taste, much like her sense of fashion.” 

Mrs. Fotakis laughs. It is a brittle laugh, like the sound of scrunched-up tissue paper. “Sit a while with me.” 

Why the hell not?  The other deliveries can wait. I sit on the window stool beside her. She sighs and faces the doorway as if waiting for someone. At long last, she let out another mournful sigh and gazed at me. 

“It’s not the same here without Arnold anymore.” 

“What do you mean?” I ask, secretly hoping Mrs. Kidder is wrong. 

Bad things don’t happen in Smallville. Ian Randall was killed in Metropolis, not in Smallville. Accidents happen. What’s crazy is having a neighbor who can see through walls. I don’t want the rumors to be true. 

Arnold Garcia has been Cassandra Fotakis's neighbor for as long as I can remember. He’s a kind old man who always had a wad of candy in his pocket ready to pass out to kids. He might not have always been all there– repeating himself endlessly and forgetting to eat his meals- but other than that, he was a healthy eighty-five-year-old, always ready with a smile.  

“I don’t know, and that scares me,” she admits. 

I bite my tongue. She’s supposed to be able to tell the future. 

“He used to read to me in the evenings,” she says, the corner of her mouth quirking up into a wistful smile. “I fear I will never find out if Jane and Mr. Rochester get the happy ending they deserve.”   

“They do, and they don’t,” I say. “Bertha burns the house down and commits suicide. Rochester tries to save her and is blinded by the flames. In the end, Jane marries Rochester, but he never regains the use of his eyes,” I say in one breath. 

Mrs. Fotakis cries and covers her face, tears sliding down her gaunt face. “Kati einai lathos,” she slips into her native tongue of Greek. “To niotho sta kokala mou.” My Greek is a bit rusty, but I’m 95% positive she complained about her aching bones. 

She reaches blindly and grabs my hand. Her touch is as cold as the grave. “I saw him, xereis, saw Arnol’ in big city . . . eida megalo antras . . . following him. Kai tora leipei . . . He missing!” She quickly corrects herself. I understood snippets: Big man following Arnold in big city. Now he’s missing. 

“You can’t see,” I hate to point out the obvious. “I’m sure everything is fine. Mr. Garcia probably just caught a cold and hasn’t been well enough to visit you. Eat some pie, and you'll feel better.” 

  “You do not believe me,” she slumped back into her rocking chair and disappeared in the cushions. “You must believe me, son. Things are not always as they seem. You, of all people, should know that.” Her grip tightens on my hand, her beady white eyes focusing on me. 

“What is that supposed to mean?’ 

“You’re different,” she tilts her head. “You’re exogiino.” I recognize one phrase. Exo. Outside. It’s insulting she’s calling me an ‘outsider’ when she’s known me since infancy.  

“Everything changed the day you arrived.”  

I didn’t arrive. I was born. 

“You’re confusing me with someone else.” 

“You different,” she clarifies. “You can save him.” 

“I’m not who you think I am,” I say. “I can’t save him. I’m sorry.” 

I stand to leave, and her hand latches onto my leg desperately. My heart thumps madly as those white eyes dig deep into my naked soul. 

“I know exactly who you are even if you don’t yet,” she croons like a mother over her baby’s crib. “You’re Superman, Superman voitha aftous pou den boroun na voithisoun ton eafto tous,” she explains. “Oi gynaika sou know this.” 

It sounds like she said my wife named me Superman.  Cassandra Fotakis has officially gone off her rocker. First, I don’t have a wife and probably never will,  and second, I could never answer to an arrogant name like ‘Superman.’ It makes me sound like a pro wrestler who needs an ample serving of humble pie. 

I’m nobody. I’m just Clark Kent, plain and simple. I can barely remember to turn in my homework. She’s got me confused with someone else. It doesn’t make any sense.   

 “Enjoy the pie,” I slip out the door before she can utter any more nonsense. 

I exhaled and leaned against the door. Visiting Cassandra Fotakis is never boring, that’s for sure. Our chats always leave me confused and wishing I lived in her fantasy world. But, men don’t fly, except in planes, and alien robots invading is about as likely as it raining cows. Eyesight aside, she would have made a fantastic Sci-fi author. 

I start to wander downstairs and double back when I notice the wreath that usually hangs on Arnold Garcia’s door is gone. It’s none of my business. The authorities probably asked him to take it down because . . . no excuse seems reasonable enough. He had never had to take his tacky Christmas decorations down before. I push the door open and choke on a cloud of dust, the first sign that something is seriously wrong. Arnold Garcia is a retired four-star general, and it drives him insane when a single thing is out of place. 

“Mr. Garcia?” I say. “It’s Clark Kent.” 

His bed is stripped to the bone, with no sign of the handmade quilt Ma gifted him two Christmases ago. The jar of M&Ms on his dresser is missing. A blank wall above the dresser, where once photos of neighbors and friends smiled down at me. He even had an old photograph of Jill and me at a pumpkin patch with the inscription, ‘From your favorite Kent, C.K.’    

“Are you lost, sweetie?” A petite hand rests on my shoulder, and I jump back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

I swerved around to face the newcomer. A woman, probably in her late thirties or early forties, offers me a white-blinding smile that matches her lab coat. She stares at me through round spectacles that give her bug-like features.

“You didn’t scare me.”

 “What a relief,” she laughs nervously and pushes her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. “I’m new here, you see . . . and it would be awfully dreadful if I scared a patient to death.” She shudders and bites her nail. 

She’s a petite woman with hardly any meat on her bones, only held together by pure faith and buttons. Her lank strawberry-blonde hair is pulled up into a messy bun; it gives off the impression of someone who just rolled out of bed and couldn't care less about her appearance. 

“Don’t worry,” I reassure her. “You won’t lose your job. You’re about as scary as a bunny.” 

Her cheeks redden, and she looks down at her feet. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.” 

“You won’t happen to know what happened to Arnold Garcia?” I ask her. “The man that lived here,” I clarify. 

She tilts her head, her round glasses sliding off her nose. “I believe he was moved to a new facility,” she says, pushing her glasses back up.   

No. That can’t be right. Mr. Garcia is a local through and through. He would never willingly leave Smallville. It’s his birthplace.“Why? Is he okay?” I ask. “Which facility was he moved to?”   

Dr. Shelley pales and licks her chapped lips. “I’m sorry . . . but you’re not family. I can’t share classified information.” 

“I’m his grandson.” I straighten up, surprised at how easily the lie comes out. 

“Silly, no you’re not,” she giggles, her face reddening. “You’re Jonathan and Martha’s boy, Clark Kent. I recognize you from the pictures.” 

I stiffen, immediately on high alert. I know everybody in Smallville and I’ve never seen her before.  Dad’s words invade my mind: ’ They’d dissect you like a frog to see how you tick.’ I swallow hard and banish thoughts of scientists and labs.     

“The misses won’t shut up about you. You're the son she always wanted. Says you could teach Lex a thing or two about being a gentleman.”  She says, rolling back on the balls of her feet. 

“Lex?” I gape at her. “As in Lex Luthor?” The Luthors moved to Smallville a few months back, but I don’t remember my parents ever mentioning visiting the mansion. 

Dr. Shelly nods her head fervently. “He’s a handful. Takes after his Daddy.” 

“Right,” I say as if that makes perfect sense. It still doesn’t explain how she can pick me out of a lineup. It’s disturbing to think of Lillian Luthor having any photos of me in the mansion. 

“It is such an honor to work for Mrs. Luthor. She is a godsend,” Dr. Shelley beams.  “It’s true what she says about you. You’re every bit as handsome as Jonathan, maybe more.” 

“I’m sorry,” I frown. “I must be missing something . . .” 

“Oh, dear!” Dr. Shelley claps her hand over her mouth. “There goes my mouth running away from me again . . . it’s hard to keep up sometimes. You see, I talk when I’m nervous and forget to say half the things I’m supposed to. It’s truly a sickness.” 

“Lillian and Martha were schoolgirls together at MetU, thought you knew?” she quirks up one questioning brow. I open my mouth to say ‘no,’ but she doesn’t give me a chance to breathe.

“They kept up correspondence even after ol’ Mrs. Clark died - poor dear,” she shudders. “She died in a plane crash, can you believe it? A PLANE CRASH!” Her eyes widen. “What are the odds of that?”

 It’s a bit disconcerting that she knows more about my family history than I do. Ma rarely mentions her parents. It’s a sore subject. Grandpa Joe hates that his daughter married a farmer and gave up a promising career as a lawyer. Grandma died before I was born. Till now, I had no idea how violent her death was. I hope Grandma didn’t suffer. Maybe if I were there, I could have made a difference.

 “At least her daughter found love in a rugged farm boy,” she gushes. “I am a sucker for a happy ending . . . and it’s so sweet how your parents met . . . why if I had a guy pretend to be dumb for me I would be head over heels in love . . . I did have a man once, you know . . no Jonathan Kent, mind you, but he had the sweetest singing voice. I called him my King of Rock.”    

 “Huge Elvis fan, I’m guessing.” 

“Who isn’t?” she squeals. “Drop-dead gorgeous he was . . . with those pearly blues that were a window to his traumatized soul,” she gushes, two red dots appearing on her cheeks. “You know, I saw him in concert before he died. You kinda remind me of . . .” 

“I’m sorry, Ms. —” 

“Call me Scarlet,” she interrupts. “All my friends do, or they would if I had any friends.” 

“Scarlet,” I correct myself. “I’ve got to finish my rounds.” I hold up the cooling bag. 

“Such a good son,” she gushes. “Elvis was a good son, too,” she exhales sharply. “I’ll see you around . . . maybe at the Festival of Light. I’m so excited!!! I’ve never been to a festival before. Surely not a small-town one. I bet there will be lots of food and dancing!” her eyes widen ecstatically. “Oh, I do love me some homemade pie. You see, I’m not much of a cook. I ruin every dish I try to make. It’s an unfortunate gift.” 

“Yeah, maybe,” I say and dash downstairs before she talks my ear off anymore. 

I can’t believe Mama was friends with Lillian Luthor and never said anything. She couldn’t have meant the Lillian Luthor. Mama is not that cool. The Luthors are modern-day royalty. Lionel Luthor practically built Metropolis from the ground up, ruling his corner of the world with an iron fist. 

Nobody gets that rich playing it straight, Jill would say. ‘They’ve got more skeletons in the closet than Jack the Ripper.’ 

Dad nearly had a heart attack when Lionel Luthor bought a plant in Smallville. There’s one lad richer than the Luthors, but no one has seen his face in seven years. That is about to change if the rumors on the Gotham Express are true. 

Forget the Luthors. I can’t believe Gran was killed in a plane crash. It was the sort of accident you heard about on the news but never in a million years could imagine happening to you. I feel like there is a cosmic joke being played on me. This is the sort of story parents tell their kids. What possible reason could she have for keeping the truth from me? Ma should have told me. What else are they keeping from me? 

I have to step around Stan, who is slumped over in a folding chair in front of the entrance reading A Song of Ice and Fire . Unbelievable. 

“Ned Stark is not going to help you if the clinic is under siege,” I say.  

“That would never happen,” Stan responds without looking up from his book. “We’re in Smallville.” 

“Are you aware that one of the patients, Arnold Garcia, is missing?” I say casually, deciding to try my luck with the guard. 

Stan uncrosses his legs and stands up wobbly as if waking up from a dream, more like a nightmare if he’s reading the book I think he is. “You’re mistaken. I saw him last week,” he frowns thoughtfully and, face darkening with anger.   

I shake my head. “I was just in his room. The place has been cleared out.” 

“Oh, that’s right!” his eyes light up, and his white whiskers twitch as he laughs. “He was moved to a new facility.”  Well, at least Scarlet’s story checks out, odd as it is. 

“What facility?” I ask. “On whose orders?” 

“Slow down, tiger, me deaf in one ear,” Stan grumbles. 

I grit my teeth. “Which facility did he move to?” I try to stay patient. 

“Beats the Hell out of me,” Stan slumps back into his seat. “I not paid the big bucks.” 

“But shouldn’t you know?” I inquire. “You’re a security guard.” 

He ignores me and resumes reading. 

I sigh, pull my hood up, and head down the street. Snow blows down on me in a horizontal blur, covering the entire town in a blanket of white. Maybe he’s right. I’ve been out of the game for a while and could be reading into something that is not there. It won’t be the first time a resident has had to be moved. It's an easy, logical explanation. 

Chapter Text

A sound like bones snapping cuts through the silence, and I wince. For a heartbeat, I fear I've crippled someone else, but when I look down it's just a broken branch. Blood rushes to my head, and I remind myself to breathe.

There is nothing around for miles except woodland. Nobody got hurt, at least not this time. I force my feet to keep moving, ignoring the chill seeping into my bones. The skeletal trees cast ghostly shadows over the snow-covered ground. The trees grow closer together here. It's as if I'm trapped inside a dungeon, the bars growing ever narrower the longer I walk.

The truth is, there isn't a prison cell on earth that can hold me.

I look down at my hands and recoil. I might look like a normal human, but looks can be deceiving. A monster stares back at me through the brook’s reflection;  a monster that should be six feet underground, not mingling with civilians.

I tighten my grip on the bag full of pie and turn down a familiar, worn dirt path. I've walked down this road more times than I care to remember, but now, each step is like a punch to the gut.

There's the overturned old trunk Pete and I used to play 'Pirates' in, a mile away from his house. Over there, across the rolling cornfields, past the swamp, and through a tangle of weeds and gnarled branches, is the treehouse Pete and I built. Pete dubbed it our 'Fortress of Solitude,' a safe haven away from girls with Cooties. 

That never stopped Jill Kent, though. She's always been about as subtle as a runaway locomotive. My amusement is short-lived.

 Pete will never climb the ladder to our fortress ever again. I should have listened to Dad. It was a mistake to join the football team. I had been so careful, running slow as molasses, even tripping over the ball on numerous occasions to the point I was nicknamed King Klutz by our teammates. It only took a one-second lapse of judgment to ruin everything.

Freaks don't get to play football with normal people.

Freaks don't get to have friends.

Freaks don't get the girl.

Freaks like me deserve to be buried alive and lost to the idles of time.

I comb my unsteady fingers through my hair and let out a frustrated sigh. The smell of pie reminds me that I don’t have a choice if I want to avoid Ma’s wrath. My heart beats a mile a minute. Down that hill is nothing but misery, a reminder of why I can't be around other people. Pete Ross would have been better off if he'd never met me.

I can't shut out Lana Lang's words. Maybe it's as simple as she believes. Pete will want his best friend back. I've known Pete all my life. We went on our first camping trip together. Pete was there when I lost my first tooth. I doubt he'll be happy to see me. I'm not that simple little boy anymore. My strength is a weakness I can't afford to exploit. 

I should move to an isolated cave in the North Pole. Having Santa's elves as neighbors might be a nice change. 

The sight of  Braverman Field fills me with dread. At the bottom of the sweeping snow-covered hill, behind a white picket fence, is a quaint house not unlike my own. Patched-up frost cloths cover Mrs. Ross's tulip pots by the door.

Pete will be waiting for me inside, or what's left of him. It's not too late, I can still turn back. Home is only a few miles away, and no one knows I'm here. Alarm bells blare in my head as I draw closer.  

I stand frozen before the door. Mrs. Ross has put up the wreath, and the scent of pine and Christmas lingers in the air. My throat tightens. I helped Daphne and Pete build the wreath. It was only a few months ago, but it feels like an eternity has passed since then. Pete can't stomach the sight of me. I'm only a reminder of what he's lost. Visiting was a terrible idea. I bounce back and forth on the balls of my feet, indecisive.

The door creaks open. It's as if she were waiting for me to darken her doorstep. Mrs. Ross's round frame blocks the doorway. Her brown eyes pull out secrets as easily as the cumbersome weeds in her garden. 

"Clark!" she pulls me into a suffocating hug, nearly crushing the pie between us. Her wiry brown curls tickle my face as she squeezes me tight. I take great pains to relax my muscles and hold my breath, praying that I don't hurt her. She smells of cinnamon and fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. 

I'm stunned. She has every reason to hate me, yet she embraces me as one of her own. She doesn't know the full extent of my abilities. In her eyes, I'm just a regular football player. My throat grows tight with emotion. She wouldn't be so kind to me if she knew the truth.

She releases me tentatively, as if she can sense the turmoil boiling beneath the surface. She flicks one finger under my chin and forces me to look her in the eyes, eyes filled with trust and love.

 "Somebody ordered pie." I lift the bag and hit the edge of the door. The doorframe shudders and breaks against my elbow. I hurry to hide the damage and trip over a stray string of Christmas lights. 

 "You're never going to change," Mrs. Ross chuckles and pays me for the pie. 

"Thanks, better get going." I back away, but she keeps a firm hold on me. 

"Stay for a moment," she implores. "Pete would love to see you!" 

The sound of Pete's back snapping reverberates in my mind. I close my mind off to the memories.

"I'm sorry . . . have other deliveries." I show her the cooling bag apologetically and remember the book Lana gave me. I slip the backpack off and fumble with the zipper, my fingers as slippery as a stingray's underbelly. "I’ve got . . .?"

Mrs. Ross places a hand over mine, halting my motions. "Whatever goodies you have in there, you can give to Pete yourself," she says sincerely. "Come along, son."

The Ross house has a lived-in feeling that reminds me of home. Dirty dishes are stacked up in the sink, resembling the Leaning Tower Pisa. A plate of untouched grilled cheese sandwiches sits on the kitchen table, having long since gone cold. Christmas wrapping paper lays in disarray across the floor, a reflection of the turmoil within. A framed picture of Lieutenant Jefferson Ross sits proudly on the mantle, his medals hanging on the wall behind him.

Mrs. Ross guides me upstairs. We pass a wall covered head-to-toe with hand-drawn pictures. The Timon and Pumba drawing Pete drew in Pre-K hangs proudly in the center. I recognize my squiggly drawing of Hawkman and Power Girl, and my mood sours even more. Sweat cakes my palms. Power Girl would have never lost control. 

An itty-bitty me is squeezed between Power Girl and Hawkman, each holding onto one of my hands as we float over a half-assed drawing of a barn that looks like an angry Jackson Pollock doodle. I remember I was missing a black crayon, so I gave Power Girl blue hair instead of black, which made her look like a Smurf.

That was back when I believed the impossible was possible, and I wasn't alone in the universe. I was obsessed with the JSA growing up. I used to stay up all night, waiting for Power Girl to come to whisk me away on some mad adventure and teach me how to control my powers .

Power Girl never knocked on my window. Hawkman never stepped in to teach the bullies at school a lesson with his mace. A child's fantasy. They're nothing but comic book characters there to serve as a light in the darkness and confusion of childhood. I've long since outgrown heroes. Humans can't fly or wield a mace with the power of thunder. Humans can't run back in time and rewrite History.

Humans can't light a candle with a single look. 

Yet, here I am, with more powers than anyone should have a right to have. I'm a walking, ticking time bomb. If the Angel of Vengeance was real, she would have reached out to me by now. She’s as much a myth as the heroine she inspired. I clench my fists. I need to accept facts. I am the only one like me in the universe. Friends are an anomaly I can't afford. People like me don't get the luxury of having friends.

Mrs. Ross stops before a familiar door with a basketball hoop hanging on the front. The hoop is crooked as if someone recently pulled on it with a death grip. Scratches slash across the door frame. I struggle to breathe as my imagination runs wild.

“I’ll put this in the fridge,” she takes the bagged pies from me before I can protest.

The smell hits me first: leftover pizza and dirty socks wrapped up in a blanket of misery. The room is pitch black except for a TV screen on the wall across from the bed, playing reruns of Scooby-Doo. It makes me long for simpler times when I didn't have powers, and we would stay up all night reenacting episodes. I usually ended up being Shaggy. 

The memory turns to ash in my mouth. My throat stings. A patch of ghostly light cuts across the room. An ebony bedpost rises out of the shadows. Pete sits propped up against the pillows. The white of Pete's eyes shines through the darkness, watching me with a heavy gaze. There was a time I could read Pete's expression like a book, but now his face is as motionless as his legs. I hope he is not in any pain.

I take one step, trip over a stray ball, and stumble into the room. My arms flail about, trying to find a hold on something . . . anything at all to halt my fall. My fists close around empty air - I fall unceremoniously on my rear end. And there is a distinct crunching noise.

I swear as I clumsily climb back to my feet, prying a squashed skateboard from under me. I'm Woody and Buzz's worst nightmare. I've lost track of how many toys I've murdered over the years. I wait for Pete to make a snide joke about my clumsiness. Pete does nothing of the sort.

He stares with dead eyes at the TV, pretending I don't exist. A silence so sharp it could cut through steel stretches out between us. Pete and I are only a few feet apart, but I feel like I'm stranded on another planet.

A shadow breaks away from the mass of darkness. "Silly Clark." Daphne strides to my side, smiling fondly up at me; all the while, she keeps a wary eye on her brother. "Clumsy as ever," she shakes her bushy head, mimicking her mom's tone expertly. "Clark Kent will always have two left feet, even when he's a hundred." She shakes a scolding finger at me and raises one eyebrow acutely. I'm a bit taken aback by her sudden appearance. But I guess I should have expected she would be at her brother's side. She shoves her tiny fist between my fingers and guides me to Pete's bedside.

"I told you he'd come." The excitement in her voice is contagious, but Pete does not move from his position, continuing to glare at the TV as if by mere force of look he could make it explode

"Pete?" Daphne nudges her brother softly on the side. "It's your bro," she says. It's as if I've stepped into a black hole that is slowly devouring all the light.

"Get that fucking mutant out of my room." I cringe at his words.

I can't blame him. There is only one person in this room to blame for Pete's situation. Pete avoids meeting my eyes. A chill settles over the room, and it has nothing to do with the brewing Winter outdoors. I want to apologize, but no words would make a difference. They don't exactly make cards for 'Sorry I got you paralyzed.'

I swallow hard, my throat growing tight. There was a time when my metahuman status was viewed as a badge of honor. I could run to China and back in the blink of an eye. I beat Dean Reeve at arm wrestling, winning Pete countless bets. 

When Pete looks at me now, all he sees is a mutant who ruined his life. No amount of dumplings from Hong Kong will fix things. The comic books turn to stone in my backpack. I scurry back towards the door and bump into Mrs. Ross.

"I sure hope you don't kiss your mother with that mouth!" Daphne frowns.

I open my mouth to explain it's alright, I deserve much worse than the 'F' word, but my mouth refuses to cooperate. Pete's slack figure is rendered almost unrecognizable by harsh lines and turbulent features that remind me of the stone monsters in the 'Never Ending Story.' Pete's eyes swirl with unsaid words, but he remains silent.

"Don't be stupid," Daphne chides, squeezing my hand in her tiny one. "Of course, you forgive King Klutz." Daphne looks between the two of us, heartbroken. "Friends forgive each other when they do stupid things."

It's not that simple.

"You're like Todd and Copper, and no matter what, you’ll always have each other’s back." Her lower lip trembles as she says that.

Pete glowers at Daphne. "This is not some stupid Disney movie where I can dance away my problems!" He flinches at the word 'dance.' "He destroyed my life!" In a fit of passion, Pete knocks over his bedside lamp, and it lands with a resounding crash on the wood-lined floor. Daphne shrieks and runs out of the room, whimpering.

Guilt flashes across Pete's features as he locks eyes with me. Daphne's soft cries can be heard from downstairs. Daphne acts so much older than six, I sometimes forget she’s just a little kid. 

I am a sheep being led to slaughter. There is no Daphne to hide behind. The silence stretches between us as thick as a bank vault. The iron wall grows ever stronger, and no matter how hard I punch, I can't break through. The TV is the only sound in the room, but it's a distant echo, far away in another galaxy.

I can't stand the silence any longer. "Sorry," I choke out. It's the easiest to rip the bandaid off nice and quick. "I should have been more careful . . . heat of the moment, you know how it is, right?" I wince.

The heat of the moment? That is the stupidest, most unfeeling thing I've ever heard anyone say. I wring my hands together, knowing that's no excuse.

"I had no business being on the field... I'm a terrible friend. If you never want to talk to me again, I understand."

Pete crosses his arms but otherwise shows no indication of hearing me. 

I should have never told Pete about my powers. At least then, it would have seemed like another typical fluke accident. Football players get hurt all the time; it's a violent game. Pete would be happy to see me, not resent my very existence. I never would have been able to look him in the eye and lie.

"I don't need your forgiveness," I say cautiously. "I just wanted you to know . . . that is . . . I mean, if I could take back what I did, I would." I struggle to form a coherent sentence. None of this would have happened if I were plain, ordinary Clark Kent. Emphasis on the ordinary . "I never meant to hurt you, man. You know that, right?" 

Pete slowly looks my way, and for a heartbeat, I think I see a glimmer of sympathy in his gaze. But the moment is gone in a flash, and he resumes glaring at the TV. When Pete doesn't protest, I inch closer and slide onto the edge of the bed. I try not to notice Pete drawing the covers up tighter around him, like a kid hiding from the monster under his bed. I'm a monster in his eyes. Pete's reaction hurts more than drowning in a river of lava. But at least he's not screaming at me; that's got to count for something, right?

I dig out the collection of comics from my backpack: Warrior Angel, Hawkman, Zorro, and so many more. Sticky with remnants of childhood. Books I've let catch dust at the bottom of my closet. Books full of myths and lies. Books I have no use for any longer. But once upon a time, two naive boys worshiped the ground those heroes walked on.

"I thought these would cheer you up," I say helplessly, but now I realize it was a mistake bringing them. They're an echo of a past we can't return to.

Pete half-heartedly flips through a Hawkman comic. Hawkman is in mid-leap on the cover, inches from pummeling The Crooked One with his mace. I grit my teeth. It'd be nice if I could solve all my problems with a well-placed left hook. But I'm no hero. Violence never did anyone any good.

"Just what I needed," Pete grumbles. "More things to do in bed." he lets the book fall limp in his lap, still not looking at me. I try to read his expression, but he's as stoic as a statue. Daphne took all the light with her when she left. 

"You delivered your package. You can now leave, alien." his tone sharpens when he says ‘alien.’

 I don't know what I expected, but not this. I thought at least he would humor me, hear me out. I used to be the cool meta-human in town with multiple tricks up his sleeve. Now, I'm just the monster who ruined Pete's life. A hurt expression brushes across Pete's features, and he looks like he wants to say more but is holding back.

I'm halfway to the door when Pete says, "You belong in a lab where they can dissect you."

I'm grateful my back is turned so he can't see the treacherous tears that leak out of my eyes. 

Chapter Text

A wisp of light soars through a sea of stars. The shooting star leaves a trail of gold in its wake. As a child, I liked to imagine the trail from a shooting star was the Millennium Falcon sailing off on another grand adventure, but I know better now. The shooting star isn’t even a star but a chunk of a meteor moving so fast it appears to glow. I watch the meteor travel till it disappears into the vastness of space. 

The sturdy telescope in my grasp helps to ease my mind. I don't feel so alone when I look up at the vast galaxy. Somewhere in the universe, another lonely soul is gazing up at the stars and wondering, ‘Why are they so alone?’  

The stillness of the evening is interrupted by the sound of a rickety engine. I glance down at the dirt path below. A beat-up red truck rumbles into view, kicking up a cloud of dust. The old girl rumbles to a stop in front of the main house, giving one last feeble sputter before dying. The door slams open, and Mama wanders out, her arms chock full of groceries.

I climb down from the loft and join her outside. “Here, I got it, Ma.” 

 “How is Pete?” Mama asks as I take the groceries out of her arms. He can’t stomach one more second of looking at this lab rat. 

“Better,” I shrug her concern off.    

My stomach rumbles in appreciation when I see the burger patties on top. Martha Kent truly is godsent. Mama purses her lips, looking as if she wants to say more, but smartly drops the subject of Pete. 

“Mmm,” I lick my lips. “It’s like you read my mind.” I pull out a bag of  Wayne Potato Chips; Flaming Hot Dick Pickle, my favorite. 

“Not so fast, Speedboy!” Jill Kent smashes out of the truck’s door and grabs the potato chips out of my hand. “That’s mine!” 

“Jill,” Mama chides, shaking her head. “You can share.” 

She pushes a wisp of hot-pink hair behind her bejeweled ear and pouts. “Auntie,” Jill rolls her eyes exaggeratedly and glares at me.  I think Jill could be Dolly’s twin in another life; she has the same round, doe-like eyes that fill with righteous anger when opposed.  “Have you seen your son eat? He could eat a whole cow if you let him!” 

She hugs the chips to her chest. “No. In this family, it’s each Kent for themselves.” She rips the bag open, pops one chip in her mouth, and munches on it greedily. She deliberately smacks loudly. I wince as a noise like rocks crunching underfoot echoes in the air.

Mama’s worried gaze sticks to me like glue as we walk back to the house. Jill whispers something in Ma’s ear, and Mama shoots her a look of reproach but refuses to comment. Secretly, I am grateful they keep their thoughts to themselves. 

 One look at Jill’s set jaw, and I know my luck is running out. She is turning beet-red from the effort of not speaking. I only visited Pete because Lana Lang served up a platter of steaming hot guilt. Lana had even psyched me out into believing in the best outcome. 

I scan the grocery bag in my arms thoughtfully. I hope Ma got the ingredients to make Jill’s famous Vegan chocolate cupcakes. A sack of wheat bread lays on top of a pile of goodies, but I don’t see any ingredients for vegan chocolate cupcakes. But it is a big bag. 

To peek, or not to peek. That is the question.

 I can’t stand the suspense any longer and slide glasses down the bridge of my nose. The contents of the bag distort. I push through the whirlpool of colors and minuscule atoms till I see what I am looking for. Sure enough, inside the bag, squeezed between the veggies, is a carton of almond milk and vanilla extract. 

“Looks like we’re having cupcakes for dinner!” I lick my lips. “I call dibs on the crunchiest cupcake!” 

Jill rolls her eyes and glares at Ma. “I told you surprising him was pointless,” she crosses her arms over her chest. “He’s the worst snoop on the planet.”   

I use the back entrance closest to the kitchen, kick the screen door open, and dump the grocery bags on the countertop. The rooster-shaped clock by the door reads 6:55. Dad always says,  ‘ Life is short. Eat dessert first .’

 I dig around the cabinet and pull out the mixer, and my eyes land on the heap of a mess in the kitchen sink. Mama taught me that an unorderly kitchen leads to an unorderly meal.  Last night’s dirty plates are still piled up in the sink; the leftover marinara sauce looks suspiciously like dried blood. It’s okay. I can have that clean in a jiffy. I reach for one of the plates, fully intending to speed up the cleaning process, but then at the last second, I think maybe not and opt for the painstakingly slow way. Lukewarm water washes over my hands. 

Jill watches me rinse the plates the old-fashioned way, and her expression sours. “So you’re fine with being a Peeping Tom, but a little speed makes you freeze up!” she snaps. “Grow some balls. Being normal is so last century!” 

“Jill Eileen Kent!” Mama scowls, two red dots appearing on her cheeks. “Bite your tongue!” 

Jill sticks out her tongue like a dog and bites down hard. She thinks she’s so funny. She looks like a Power Puff Girl, minus a few brain cells. Jill starts to unpack the groceries. “You’re thinking it too, Auntie!” Jill points out. “I’m just the only one who has the balls to say anything. Itty Clarkikins is being damn stupid.” 

“I don’t call winning the spelling bee five times in a row stupid!” I retort. 

“Whoopie doo!” Jill slams a bag of potatoes on the countertop. “Loads can spell. Hell, there even is a spell-check! Do you know how many people can shoot fire from their eyes? ZILCH!” 

“Keep your voice down!” Mama clutches Jill’s arm in warning. “The neighbors could hear!” 

“Let them hear!” Jill growls out. “Your son is a wuss scared of his own shadow!” she taunts. I pretend not to hear her and pull out the almond milk. Jill snatches it right out of my hands and scurries to the other side of the table. “You want the milk, Clarky? Come and get it!” 

She’s trying to get a rise out of me, but it isn’t going to work. I’ve made peace with never using my powers again. It’s time she got used to the new me. In the long run, not using my powers is best for everyone involved. I wouldn’t have to worry about accidentally causing an unnatural disaster when I run past the sound barrier or burn some poor guy with my gaze. The world was never meant to have someone like me in it. No amount of teasing and manipulation is gonna change my mind.  

 “Being normal is so last century. Own your weirdness, Clark!” She holds up the almond milk tauntingly. I try to reach over the counter, but she dashes out of my reach. “Come on, Speedboy,” she taunts. “That’s the best you’ve got?”    

“That’s enough, Jill,” Mama says firmly, her tone not leaving any room for argument. “You can’t rush the healing process, certainly not by tormenting Clark.” her mouth forms a thin line.  

“Healing process?” Jill repeats incredulously. “Clark is as fit as Achilles!” she slams her fist down on the table, and the flower vase trembles at the impact. “He should be out there, sending psychopaths like Lionel Luthor to the Fields of Punishment!” 

“The only psychopath I see is you,” I grind out. “Lionel Luthor has done nothing but help the people of Smallville. He’s no murderer.” 

My words hit a nerve, and Jill’s eyes grow wild with fury. “Take that back right now!” she screams. “He’s a lying murdering snake! I don’t care how many job opportunities he creates!” 

“Says you,” I grumble, the words of strife tumbling out of my mouth as swift as an avalanche. “There is no evidence to support your claim that Luthor sabotaged your parents’ car. He’s innocent until proven guilty.”

Jill lets out a cry of anguish and whacks me across the face with a frying pan. I wince in pity as it crumbles against my flesh. Looks like I owe Ma a new frying pan. 

“I hope you know that’s coming out of your pocket!” 

“Screw you, Clarkzilla!” I’m surprised to see tears springing from her eyes. She doesn’t give me a chance to apologize and storms upstairs. 

“I guess that's a no to the cupcakes,” I say.

Mama's expression is turbulent. “Shame on you.” Mama’s tone is cold as a grave. “In her own way Jill was only trying to help, but you . . .” Mama shakes her head, and a fair-red strand of hair tumbles out of her bun. Her expression clouds over with disappointment, which is ten times worse than her screaming. “You ripped her to shreds.” I wince. “Words are a weapon too, son, and sometimes more harmful than your heat-vision.”  

My shoulders slump in defeat. God, Ma knew how to serve a platter of guilt. I wasn’t thinking straight. 

No. 

I knew exactly how painful my words would be, and I still said them. Lionel Luthor is the boogeyman in Jill Kent’s mind. Every waking moment of Jill’s youth was spent trying to prove Lionel Luthor was the brains behind the car wreck. She couldn’t accept that it was a random car accident. Sometimes, when horrible things happen, it is easier to assign blame, even if it is unfounded. 

I sigh. “No need to say I told you so,” I grumble. The corner of Mama’s mouth quirks up into a coy smile, the smile of someone who knows she’s won the battle. “I’d go apologize.”  

Does Mama not realize Jill’s words were just as harmful as mine? I am not a wuss! Trying to protect people is admirable, not stupid! Jill needs to wake up and smell the coffee. I am not some hero in one of her fantasy novels. I doubt Harry Potter ever killed one of his friends. Sherlock Holmes certainly is no killer, but he’s an ass. 

God, I am such an ass. I reach Jill’s bedroom and grimace when I see the sign she taped up on the door. In a hot-pink marker, she wrote: NO ASSES OLLOWED. 

I can’t tell if she misspelled ‘allowed’ on purpose or not. 

I push the door open. Jill sits with her legs crisscrossed on a fluffy beanie bag, glaring daggers at the murder board spreading across the wall. News clippings detailing the Luthors' exploits and obscure articles on corruption in the MPD are connected by a string of red yarn. I remember some of the articles from back when I did a bit of detective work with Jill. My chest tightens with nostalgia. I was just a kid dying to do everything with my older cousin.

 “You know, you spelled allowed wrong.” 

“Congratulations,” Jill says scathingly. “You can read. So can a five-year-old.” 

A five-year-old has a better fashion sense than you , I want to say.  I am here to apologize, not fan the flames. But it’s hard to take her seriously in that get-up. Jill hasn’t changed out of her eccentric dress made out of crayons stringed together. Underneath the skirt, she wears Golden Snitch sweatpants, as if she started to change and then got distracted. Her short, choppy, pink hair frames her angry face.   

I sigh and fall onto the beanie bag next to her. “Look, I shouldn’t have said that about Luthor . . .” 

“Damn straight,” she lashes out like a well-aimed whip. “He’s no friend to humankind.” 

I’m too tired to argue with her. “I just wanted to say sorry,” even though I have nothing to be sorry about. I’m right, and she’s wrong. 

“It’s impolite to lie, Pinocchio,” she says through her teeth. 

I leap to my feet. “You’re impossible!”  I don’t wait for a response and leave Jill to sulk in her misery.  

I lock myself in my room for the remainder of the evening. I  play WordBattle with LadyTruth on the family iPhone. Funny how a stranger has been my only friend for the last few months. Almost as if she hears my traitorous thoughts, Fuzzball nudges my arm with her fluffy white paw and hisses as if to say, ‘Don’t forget I’m here too.’ I grin and pull the cat into my lap. 

I’m not sure I would label what LadyTruth and I have as ‘friendship.’ What do you call someone you play word games with online and occasionally chat with? A playmate? Acquaintance? Penpal? She helps keep my mind off Pete. 

Lab rat.  

That’s all I am to Pete now. Part of me knows he’s right. No human should have this much power at their disposal and live to tell the tale.  

I furiously punch in the word ‘demon,’ connecting it to overopinionated. The row now reads- Overopiniatedemon. And the ‘A’ spells out Alien on the row below. There is a din, and a chat box pops up on the screen. 

LadyTruth: FY, you’re about to run out of synonyms for a monster. Something on your mind, Skywalker16? 

I swear and lean against the plush pillow in bed. I hate that I am so transparent that a stranger can see right through me.  I quickly type a reply. 

Skywalker16: You’re reading into things again.

LadyTruth: But am I right? There is something on your mind!?! 

When I don’t respond immediately, she fires back with another response. 

LadyTruth: I LOVE BEING RIGHT  

I roll my eyes, but she can’t see that, so I send her an emoji of it. 

LadyTruth: SPILL 

I groan. I am not about to open up to a complete stranger; she could be a psycho crazy with the face of a troll for all I know. We’ve been talking for three months, but I’m still not comfortable sharing more than the basics: Farm Boy from a small town in the middle of Nowhereville. 

LadyTruth: Don’t pull the stranger card. 

LadyTruth: Silly, we’ve met before, once upon a dream.   

I laugh outright and nearly fall out of my chair. 

Skywalker16: You stole my line! 

LadyTruth: So, what’s eating you, Farm Boy? 

LadyTruth: Do I need to come kick someone’s ass? 

The corner of my mouth quirks up into a smile, and my cheeks grow warm even though there is no one but me in the messy room.  I don’t know who she is or what LadyTruth even looks like, but she never fails to lift my spirits. Some days she makes me feel like I could fly to the moon and back. But that’s crazy. She’s not Lana Lang. She’s a stranger online with weirdly bad spelling and a sick sense of humor. 

LadyTruth: You still there?  

LadyTruth: The suspense is killing me.

Knowing LadyTruth, she is not going to stop blowing up the chat till I give some sort of explanation for my sudden obsession with the word monster today. I hadn’t even realized I was doing that. I sigh. 

Skywalker16: Cool your jets.   

Skywalker16: It’s been an off day. 

In all honesty, it’s been an ‘off ‘last few months. Nothing has been the same ever since the accident. 

LadyTruth: And? 

Skywalker16: And it’s none of your business. 

LadyTruth: I’m making it my business. 

I frown at the screen. She’s impossible. I’ve never met a nosier, bossier, louder individual in my entire life. At least, I’m dead positive she is loud in person. 

LadyTruth: Let me guess, your cousin stole the last piece of apple pie, and now you’re as broody as Bruce Wayne. 

I jump at the chance to deflect the attention off of me; Bruce Wayne is the perfect candidate. Knots of guilt twist in my stomach at the mere thought of using his tragedy for selfish means. In my head, he’s still that distraught eight-year-old boy who judo-flipped me in my barn. I try to connect that determined boy with the young billionaire playboy the tabloids seem to think travels the world sleeping with royalty, and I fail. I can’t imagine my old playmate doing something so dishonorable. 

Skywalker16: Have you met Wayne? FYI, there should be a ‘the’ between stole and last. 

She sends an emoji of the middle finger. Well, that’s not very ladylike, I want to say, but I refrain from typing anything.  

LadyTruth: Silly, nobody has seen Wayne in seven years. Probably dead in some ditch. 

I hope not. The poor guy has been through enough tragedy. Losing his parents at such a young age couldn’t have been easy. Worse, he saw the whole thing. It’s been a decade since the Waynes’ murder, and it’s still the hot topic of the week. It’s no mystery why the young billionaire has hidden from civilization. He can’t show his face without whispers of his parents following him like a plague.  I can’t imagine losing my parents. I would be lost without them. 

Skywalker16: What do you think he’s been up to all these years? 

LadyTruth: I don’t want to talk about Bruce Wayne. I want to talk about you. What’s bothering you? 

LadyTruth: A nd don’t say: ‘Nothing.’ I’ve got mad skills. I can tell when someone is lying to me. 

I don’t doubt her skills for a second. I imagine LadyTruth is as headstrong and driven as Margaret Thatcher. Sometimes, she scares me with her intuition. I grit my teeth. So much for hiding behind Bruce Wayne. 

LadyTruth: You can trust me. 

That’s precisely the sort of thing a serial killer would say to get me to lower my guard. But a serial killer would not send me embarrassing pics of her baby sister or open up about her rough home life. LadyTruth became a mother as well as a sister after her mom died from Leukemia. Her father, the General, was never around, and when he was, he ran the household like a military camp. I let out a long sigh. It can’t hurt to have someone to talk to besides my parents and Jill. I type a message before I lose my nerve and chicken out.  

Skywalker16: I hurt someone close to me recently, and I don’t think I can come back from that. 

I wait with bated breath for her response. This is the most I’ve opened up to her since . . . well, since forever. I expect her to ghost me after a revelation like that. A second ticks by, three seconds, sixty seconds, and the air bubble appears in the chatbox. 

LadyTruth: I find that hard to believe. 

LadyTruth: You’re such a cheel guy. I can’t imagine you getting in a fite. 

I type a quick response and debate deleting it. Before I lose my nerve, I click send. My heart thumps in my chest erratically, and the inside of my palms grow damp with sweat. I feel like I’ve run a marathon around the world. 

Skywalker16: He will never walk again because of me. 

LadyTruth: Never say never. There are always tons of stories on the news about paralyzed victims walking again. 

She must be watching a different news channel than me. I’ve never heard of such miracles. 

Skywalker16: Name one 

She responds in a matter of seconds. 

LadyTruth: Pat Rummerfield 

I roll my eyes. Of course, she has an answer. She has an answer for everything. Unbelievable. 

LadyTruth: Don’t take my word for it, Google him. 

Skywalker16: I believe you. But this is an entirely different situation. 

LadyTruth:   Did your friend break his neck? 

Skywalker16: No 

LadyTruth: Then if Rummerfield can walk again so can he. 

Skywalker16: Maybe. 

Skywalker16: Why are you so chill about this? I nearly killed my best friend. You should be running for the hills. 

LadyTruth: I don’t run; it ruins my hair. 

I let out a howl of laughter and knocked over my pencil holder. 

Jill pushes the door open and squints at me. Any animosity from earlier is wiped clean off her face when her eyes land on the iPhone in my hands. 

“Who are you, and what have you done with Clark?” She takes one look at me, then her gaze slips to the phone, and she grins like the Cheshire cat. “Awe,” she makes kissy noises and puckers her lips. “Itty Clarkikins has a secret girlfriend!” 

Suddenly, I’m tackled by a whirlwind of pink and black. I choke on a wad of pink hair as Jill wrestles the old iPhone out of my hand. I dash to close out of the chat, but Jill already has the device in her clutches and jumps back to avoid me. 

“Give it back!” I spring to my feet and lunge toward her. She dances out of my way easily. I remind myself I’m the one with super speed. The world slows down around me as I brace to run closer to her, but I falter, my heart constricting in my chest. I’m seconds away from another Pete Ross. I swallow hard and force myself to stay rooted in place. I don’t dare try using my powers after what happened, especially not in close quarters. 

“I’ve got mad skills,” she reads LadyTruth’s message out loud. I scowled at her, powerless to do anything else. “Mad skills in bed.” she wrinkles her eyebrows at me suggestively and chuckles. I feel my face turn crimson with embarrassment. 

“She’s not my girlfriend!” I protest. “Jill, give it back!” 

“Not your girlfriend, eh?” She turns her back on me. My heart is lodged in my throat as I realize she is typing. “Then you won’t mind if I ask her what color underwear she is wearing?” 

“You won’t dare!” No, of course, she would. Jill Kent exists to make my life miserable. I try wrestling the phone out of her grasp and fail miserably. Jill whacks my glasses off and dashes out of the room, cackling madly as she runs down the hall. I fight against the sudden onslaught of colors, retrieve my glasses off the floor, and chase after her. I trip over the threshold on my way out and tumble into the wall across the hall. 

My framed baby photo on the wall shakes feebly and crashes to the ground, splattering glass all over the floor. I chase after Jill, who is already halfway downstairs. Even at normal speed, I am faster than her. Yeah right. If that’s the case, why did you let her beat you downstairs? 

She pauses at the landing, her eyes alight with fire. “Come on, Tortoise, is that the best you got?” I lunge for the phone, and once again, she skips away, chuckling. “Too slow, Speed Boy!” 

I finally catch Jill behind the kitchen counter and rip the phone out of her sweaty palm, but the damage is already done. “Lots of fuss over someone who is ‘not your girlfriend,’” Jill says with air quotes as she takes her seat at the kitchen table. 

“What girlfriend?” Mom’s head pops up from behind the counter, holding a platter with juicy burgers. Mom looks like Strawberry Shortcake’s eccentric aunt wearing that strawberry-patterned apron. She sets the meat patties on a tray with fresh lettuce and tomatoes.   

“Jesus Christ, Mom!” I jump back and fall into one of the chairs. “You scared me.” 

She looks at me with mild shock and takes out the ketchup and mustard.  “What’s this I hear about a girlfriend?” 

“She’s wearing black underwear,” Jill offers unhelpfully. Jill whistles appreciatively. “I had no idea you were such a player, Clarkie. And a city gal to boot!” 

“She’s not . . . I’m not,” my cheeks turn crimson. She laughs at my utter misery. “Shut up.” 

“Clark, sweety,” Mom starts to say. Her round face grows pink with unease, and she looks me squarely in the face. “Sex is not exactly what I had in mind when I told you to open up more and try new experiences.” I can’t believe she said that with a straight face. “I don’t expect you to be a monk, Clark, but the simple fact is when you become intimate, there are going to be certain physical responses that you can’t control . . .” 

I cover my ears, “Not listening.” 

  “Oh, wow,” Jill beams. “I hadn’t even thought of that,” she grins as someone possessed. “Man of steel.” She holds up a fork. “Woman of tissue paper,” and to prove her poin, she stabs the napkin with her fork. 

“Thank you for that elaborate description,” I grumble. It’s gonna take years of therapy for me to get over this conversation. I won’t be able to look at a girl without imagining her crumbling into dust beneath me.  

“It’s a good thing LadyTruth is online, Romeo,” Jill says. “Match made in cyberspace.”  My ears turn red with embarrassment. Trust Jill to make a mountain out of a molehill. 

I bury my face in my hands. This is not my day. “It’s not like that,” I grumble into my hands. “I’ve never even met her.” 

Mama whacks me across the face with a rolled-up towel.  “Have we taught you nothing?” she raises one thin gray eyebrow at me. She slams down the plate of burgers she was holding. 

Mama hysterically starts to scream, and my eyes gloss over. I’ve never heard her this angry before. I feel like my head is about to explode. I only catch snippets. Unsafe . You should know better. You can’t trust people online. 

Mama laments the loss of a sensible girl like Lana and spits out LadyTruth’s name as if it were a curse word. 

I have to scream to be heard over Dragon Mama’s roar. “LadyTruth is not my girlfriend. I’m still as alone as Boo Radley. Buzz off!”

“I don’t think you realize how serious this is, Clark,” Mom wanders around the counter to stand beside me. I glare at Jill, who has made herself comfortable at the kitchen table, munching on homemade french fries as if she’s watching her favorite TV show unfold in front of her. “We know nothing about this girl . . . if she is a girl at all, let alone your age,” Mom goes on a tangent. “She could be a Government Agent hunting for . . . for gifted children like you.” 

“She’s not!” I protest. LadyTruth’s father is a four-star General, but that could mean nothing. Lots of kids have generals as parents. It is just one of those funny coincidences. I sadly come from a family that is afraid of the Government. Specifically afraid of rogue agents taking me away. 

“I don’t want you talking to her any longer,” Mom says in her no-nonsense tone. “As of this moment, you have lost your phone privileges.” she extends a hand to me, nodding expectantly at the phone on the counter. 

“You can’t do that!” I shove the phone into my pocket. I shoot out of my seat so fast I knock the chair over. “She’s the . . .” I falter as I realize what I almost said. She’s been the only bright spot in these miserable last few months. 

Dad decides to stumble through the door at that moment.  His sandy hair is coated with dust from the field. The evening light shines through the open door, turning his golden hair white. He takes one look at the women huddled around me with various expressions of displeasure and groans. 

“Just once, I would love to come home to a peaceful family.” He glances at Jill knowingly, as if there is no doubt she’s the culprit that started this mess. 

“Clark is speaking to a strange girl online,” Mama says in the same tone she would say, ‘Clark has been arrested for armed robbery.’ I would make a wicked robber if my career as a farm boy didn’t pan out. 

 “So?” Dad kicks his muddy boots off by the back door and heads straight for the fridge. I grin triumphantly at Jill. Her shoulders slump in disappointment and she glares holes into her uncle’s back. 

“He could be in danger, Jonathan!” 

“Oh dear, whatever should we do?” He shuts the fridge, beer bottle in hand. “Our son is being attacked by a sea of raging hormones, heaven helps us.” 

“This is no joking matter, Jonathan!” Mama scolds her husband. “You can never trust people online.” 

“You also can’t trust a drunk surgeon, yet I managed to survive that,” he winks at me. Mom is not amused by Dad’s joke about his heart transplant. He takes a swig of beer. Mom’s face twitches with the effort of not saying anything about his poor choice in diet. “So what if Clark has found a friend online?” He takes another swig, smiling contently. “Online dating is the new rage amongst youngsters.” 

“We’re not dating,” I add in my two cents, but no one is listening. Mom has eyes only for Dad. Her face turns as red as her hair. 

“Well, that is all swell, Jonathan. I’m ecstatic you are in tune with the latest teenage trends,” Mom’s eyes alight with fire. “But Clark is not like other teenagers.” 

Gee, thanks for reminding me, Mom. I hadn’t noticed when I bench-pressed the tractor at the ripe age of two. 

“You might as well lock our son in a dungeon,” Dad grunts. I’m positive she would do just that if it were possible. Mom’s freckles jump out against her white skin.  In one swift movement, she grabs the beer bottle out of Dad’s hand and chucks it into the trash can, glaring at her husband.  

Dad’s expression contorts in dismay. “Jiminy Cricket!” He growls, but he looks like he has a dirtier word in mind, but he’s keeping it PG for Jill's and my sake. Dad’s hands claw through his hair. “Martha, that was the last beer bottle!” 

“Good,” Mom says stiffly. “You’re starting to get a beer belly.” 

Dad looks down at his midsection and shrugs. “Nah. I’m good.” 

“For how much longer, Jonny Boy?” Mom wrinkles her nose at him and slaps him on his soft belly. “You’re not a spring chicken anymore. You’re almost sixty!” 

They start to bicker, which I’ve learned is their love language. While they’re distracted by each other, I slip the phone into my pocket, fill a plate up with a burger and fries, and sneak outside. When I want to be, I can be as stealthy as a Ninja warrior. Not a single soul noticed me leave.

Chapter Text

The afternoon sunlight leaks through the frost-covered windows, creating a luminescent pattern across the hardwood floor that, if I squint, resembles an elliptical galaxy. A flurry of snow swirls outside, but indoors, the Kent General Store is as toasty as a lit oven—an oven that smells like day-old baked goods and the metallic odor of trusty hardware tools- an interesting combination. The sun caressing the base of my neck is tender-soft like a mother’s welcoming embrace.  

Mama’s watchful gaze cuts through the rows of shelves that separate us. She mindlessly attends to customers at the cash register, her movements stiff like those of a rustic automaton that has forgotten how to move. Her eyes occasionally flit towards me, long enough to confirm that I am still there, and shortly thereafter, she returns to her robotic dance, putting on a welcoming smile that miraculously does not look fake.  

  I deliberately stay in her line of sight, knowing it will lessen her wrath. I restock cereal boxes on aisle three, razor aware of the flock of people that have descended upon The Kent General Store.  December is always our busiest month, with everybody doing last-minute shopping for the Holidays. The crowd is big enough for me to worry. Voices buzz around my head like a cluster of bees surrounding an apiary.  

“I smell trouble, and I don’t mind saying so,” Widow Maud’s haughty voice drowns out the rest of the voices. 

Widow Maud’s bushy white head peeps through a gap in the shelf, and I hurriedly flatten myself against the back wall before she looks my way. The last thing I need is to give the town gossip a reason to talk. Noel Kidder follows close behind her mother with a shopping basket slung over one plump arm. 

“Nothing good would come of keeping the Kent boy isolated,” Widow Maud wags a stubby finger at her daughter as if it’s her fault I  broke my perfect attendance record. I do my utmost to become one with the shelves. It’s a miracle I don’t knock any groceries over. 

“Only last month I read in The Daily Star about a boy who set fire to his parent's room ON PURPOSE! They both burnt to a crisp. NO REMORSE,” she shrieks. “He had no friends either. It’s the loners we’ve got to worry about.” 

“This is Clark Kent you’re talking about,” Mrs. Kidder points out, an edge to her voice. I shake my head – just my luck I’m the hot topic of the week.  

“Clark is Maisie’s friend, not to mention my intern!” Mrs. Kidder’s back is turned to me, but I can imagine her expression of displeasure as clearly as if her glare was aimed at me. “Don’t you remember how he saved a tarantula rather than squashing it like a normal human being,” she chuckles at the memory. “Maisie was horrified.” 

“And this is the same boy who had a tree fall on him and walk away without a single scratch,” Widow Maud makes a disapproving tut noise in the back of her throat.  

“It was a miracle,” Mrs. Kidder crosses herself. “A work of God.” 

“It was unnatural. The work of Satan,” Widow Maud crosses herself also and shudders. “There is something wrong with that Kent boy,” she says ‘Kent boy’ the same way one might say ‘red-wasp’ or ‘rattlesnake.’ 

She’s not wrong. There’s something seriously wrong with me. 

“You know I don’t mind speaking my mind,” Widow Maud shoots her daughter a shrewd look. “It’s not safe for Maisie to spend time with that freak. Sooner or later, he is going to hurt her too,” she says. “As her sole guardian, you must protect her from any threats, especially those that wear a pretty face and are secretly a demon.” 

I swallow hard. I can’t pretend her words don’t hit a nerve. She voices my fears. It’s not like there isn’t evidence to support that theory. Supposedly demons possess a superior strength; Injuries that would prove to be fatal to humans do not affect demons or me. I am exactly the sort of creature the Winchesters would hunt down. I wonder which brother would land the final blow? My money is on Dean.    

“And you can speak your mind all you want, Ma, but I am not gonna listen,” Mrs. Kidder proclaims using the same haughty tone as her mother. “Clark Kent is an angel sent from the Lord. I will not abandon him,” her brusque tone leaves no room for argument. “He also is the fastest delivery boy I’ve ever had.” 

“Because he’s unnatural,” Widow Maud says. “I don’t understand why you didn’t fire him after the third week of not showing up to work!” 

“He was sick, Ma.”   

“A likely story.” 

Once their voices become distant whispers I step out from behind the shelf. And promptly step onto a toy car. The plastic tires screech in protest as I skid across the aisle. 

“Sorry!”  I fly past a perplexed couple who quickly jump out of the way.

 I grab for something . . . anything to stop my impromptu flight through the store. Customers jump out of the way with varying expressions of horror and amusement. Finally, my fingers wrap around a sturdy hand towel, and the toy car slows down. There is a sickening thud as the shelf is pulled right off its hinges. The shelf topples forward, raining car toys and Ninja Turtle figurines on top of me. Before a domino effect happens, I reach up and hold the shelf back. I don’t dare lessen my grip as more toys whack me in the face. I carefully set the shelf back in place.  

Widow Maud and Noel Kidder stare at me, mouth agape. 

 “Merry Christmas, madams,” I tilt my head towards them politely. 

Mrs. Kidder slams her mouth shut. Widow Maud turns ashen white and wobbles feebly in place as if she’s about to pass out. I hurriedly gather the fallen toys off the floor and shove them back on the shelf.  “Hopefully, this experience hasn’t put you off shopping,” I say lamely. “Most shelves are not that unstable.” 

“Lucky you were there,” Mrs. Kidder finally says, frowning slightly at the tall metallic shelf that nearly crushed her with a bemused expression.  

“Say hi to Maisie for me,” I say. “I’m sure she’ll love to hear from her favorite demon,” the words slip out before I can put a cork in it. Mrs. Kidder shoots a withering look at her mother. 

I don’t stick around to hear their argument and head back to the front. Mama is waiting for me at the counter with an amused smile plastered across her face. Carefully I slide into one of the bar stools. 

“I want to go home,” I announce immediately, leaning against the countertop. “You don’t need my help that much.” 

“You handled yourself well back there,” Mama nods approvingly.

 I frown slightly, how could she possibly know that? But then I remember the WayneCams we installed last year after the break-in. I’m unsure if I should be insulted or impressed that Martha Kent was eavesdropping on customers. 

“Widow Maud is way too opinionated for her own good,” Mama’s mouth forms a thin line. 

“Are you serious?” I marvel at her. “I nearly Flat Stanleyed her!”

“Hardly,” Mama shakes her head, a loose strand tumbling out of her red bun. “She was never in any real danger. Not with our resident hero present.” 

My scowl deepens. “I’m no hero.”  

“And you can speak your mind all you want, Clark, but I am not gonna listen,” Mama mimics Mrs. Kidder’s tone from earlier, laugh lines circling her eyes. Remind me to thank Bruce Wayne for providing an audio feature on our cameras. 

“Clark,” Mama squeezes my arm. “There’s a hero inside all of us - one simply needs the courage to do the right thing.” 

Mama sets a bag on the countertop. The aroma of freshly baked apple pie wafts toward me. 

A deafening BRI-AH-LING drowns out the sound of customers as the telephone rings. Mama hurriedly shuffles behind the counter. “Kent General Store, how may I be of service?” Mama talks amiably to the customer on the other end. “It’s so good to hear your voice again . . . oh yes, Clark can be a bit hard-headed like his father.” 

I tune her out after that, sneak to the storage room, and pry the locked file cabinet open where Ma stores the family iPhone. I log into WordBattle to send LadyTruth a quick message. 

Skywalker16: Hope you like apple pie. Ma has made enough to last all Winter. 

She doesn’t reply. I remind myself there’s an hour difference between Kansas and Metropolis. She’s probably sleeping in like a normal person on a Sunday. Mama sneaks up on me and snatches the iPhone out of my hand with a look of reproach. 

“You better not be texting who I think you’re texting.”  Ma scolds. 

“She’s a good friend.” 

“No, Lana is a good friend,” she says. “LadyTruth is a stranger. You can’t trust her.” 

“I never said I trusted her,” I say. “For all you know, LadyTruth could  be Lana!” I mostly say to alleviate her worries.  

“I’m doing what?” Lana pokes her head around the corner, smiling giddily. Her smile brightens when she sees me. “About time you got your lazy ass off the couch.” She folds her arms over the countertop. “People were starting to think you died.” 

I wish I were dead. It would make my life so much simpler. 

“It’s a joke Clark,” Lana rolls her eyes. “You’re supposed to laugh.” 

I offer a wan smile. Lana bites at her locket nervously. “If Ma can spare you for a moment, some friends and I are going to the Talon,” she looks at me hopefully.

“I can’t there’s so much. . ..”  

“He’d love to,” Mama finishes for me.

“Work to do . . .” 

“Nonsense,” Mama claps me on the back. “You were just complaining about how bored you are.”

“No, I wasn’t!”  

“A little socialization won’t hurt your image,” Lana teases, looking sidelong at Noel Kidder and Widow Maud, who halted perusing the aisles to gawk. 

 I swear under my breath and allow Lana to drag me outside. She hooks her arm through mine and digs her hand into my coat pocket. Her fingers are cold as an icicle. Instinctively I slacken my hand, even as she tightens her hold on mine –sucking the heat from my bones.  Moments like this almost make me feel normal, but then I notice how much smaller she is than me. Small and fragile. One wrong move and I’ll dislocate her hand.  Lana traces patterns inside my palm with her pinkie. 

“You know, for a guy who’s top of his class, you don’t look happy,” Lana has to crane her neck to look up at me. Grades aren’t everything. “Hey, remember me?” she squeezes my hand.  “It’s Lana, the girl from next door —you can tell me anything.” 

There was a time I could. So much has changed in the last few years. I barely understand what’s happening to me. History has proven the truth will shatter our friendship. “I don’t know,” I carefully untangle our hands and step away from her. “Been feeling weird lately,” I say, which pretty much sums up the last few odd years.      

 “You’ve always been weird,” she says. I can’t decide if that’s a compliment or an insult. “You know what I mean,” Lana shrugs. “How many sixteen-year-old boys own a telescope?” she wrinkles her nose in disgust. 

“I thought you liked my telescope.” 

“I lied,” Lana says with a straight face. “It’s a serious cry for help.”

The door jingles as we enter. The Talon is an old movie theater that has been repurposed into a coffee shop. Egyptian motifs cover what once were timeless movie posters. I’m the only one who can still see the black-and-white mural of iconic actors beneath the new golden wallpaper. The smell of melted butter seeps into every crevice. The lounge is furnished with round tables and colorful armchairs that belong on the set of a sitcom. 

It doesn’t take long to find our friends and my stomach plummets. Pete Ross sits at the edge of the table. Dean Reeve and Maisie Kidder squeeze into the booth across from him. Dean has to slouch to fit in the alcove. He’s nodding along to whatever Pete is saying, an easy smile on his face. Maisie happily sips her hot chocolate. Pressure grows inside my chest at the sight of my classmates. 

“Walking is so overrated . . .” Pete says. 

Pete looks genuinely happy, wearing his red and gold jersey with pride. His cheeks are flushed as if he had just finished running a mile.  If it weren’t for the wheelchair, I could have believed it was an ordinary day hanging out with friends. Maisie tilts her head, choppy gold bangs falling over her face. 

“Before you know it, you’re exhausted, and your feet swell up like a balloon,”  he lets out a forced laugh. “Rolling is so much more convenient and good for the environment.” 

He can fool them, but he can’t fool me. I see the bags under his eyes from restless nights, and I hear the unspoken grief in his words. His mocha sits before him, untouched, the whipped cream having long since melted. It’s not too late, nobody has seen me. I can turn back. 

Lana presses a hand against my spine. “Don’t be such a codfish.” 

I scowl at her, too afraid of drawing our friend’s attention to protest.   

“I’m glad you’re doing better, man,” Dean says, giving Pete his million-dollar smile. 

Dean looks all macho and suave wearing a leather jacket and sporting an Elvis Presley hairstyle that would give The King a run for his money. It’s no wonder the girls at school drool over him. He could play Danny Zuko in a remake of Grease .

“You scared me,” Dean slurps on the frappuccino like a kid, ruining the Elvis image.  

 Maisie reaches over the table and cups Pete’s hand. “Clark and I were so worried.” Lana snickers and ducks behind me. All it would take would be for them to look up and they’d see me hiding in the shadow of the column. Pete’s features harden at the mention of my name. 

Lana uses that as an opening. “He’ll always be such a worry-wart,” Lana pushes me forward. I drop into the empty booth unceremoniously. Maisie gasps and hurriedly grabs the mug she almost knocked over when she saw me. She wipes the whipped cream mustache off her upper lip, turning beet red. Lana slides into the booth beside me, sealing me in. 

Pete pretends he doesn’t see me.   

“Do yourself a favor, Maisie,” Pete hisses. “Forget you ever knew Clark Kent. You’ll be better off in the long run. He’s nothing but trouble.” 

“You sound like Memaw,” Maisie shakes her head. “You should be ashamed of yourself Peter William Ross,” she scolds, mimicking her grandma’s self-righteous tone. “Clark has done nothing to deserve such hate . . . he’s only had your best interest —-” 

“You don’t know him like I do,” Pete rudely cuts her off. “He’s a monster,” he looks at me when he says that. 

“You’re right,” I say. “I’m sorry.”  Everyone would be better off if they never knew me. 

“Oh great, the alien decided to grace us with its presence,” Pete grumbles, looking me dead in the eye. “Everybody run for cover. You never know when it might burn you with its fiery gaze,” he emphasizes each word with exaggerated hand motions.  

“I am not an alien!” I protest. 

Maisie shoots Pete a look that could melt steel. “Pete, do you want to take a commercial break from the sci-fi show in your head?” 

“Believe me, Maisie,” Pete crosses his arms and leans back in his wheelchair. “Clark Kent is not what you think he is. I won’t be surprised if his blood is green.” 

Pete didn’t mind the alien next door so much when it ran across the world to bring back goodies from across the pond. He didn’t mind when it used its fiery gaze to build a fire on camping trips.  

“Pay no mind to him,” I say to Maisie. “His ego is bruised because he’s nothing without football,” I hate myself for saying that, but I’ve got to draw the attention away from me. “Maybe now that you’re grounded, you’ll have time to develop more useful skills.” 

“Clark Joseph Kent!” Lana whacks me in the chest. 

“I’ve got plenty of mad skills!” Pete protests. “No thanks to you!” 

“Flirting with anything with two legs is not a skill. It’s an irritation,” I point out not unkindly. 

“At least my mad skills don’t hurt people,” Pete’s dark eyes crackle with fury. “You’re the root of all the problems in Smallville.”  

He’s not wrong. 

“That’s enough!” Lana slams her hand on the table. She looks between Pete and me, scowling, her red cheeks matching her red hair. “I do not pretend to know what the Hell is going on between you two,” she rolls her eyes. “I don’t care. You need to stop measuring each other's dicks for a second and figure out the real source of your anger.” 

Pete scoffs. “No confusion there Beauty Queen.” 

“It was an accident!” I shoot to my feet, nearly unscrewing the table from the floor. Maisie squeaks as her coffee spills. “Do I have to carve an apology on the moon for you to realize that?” Dean and Maisie’s eyes widen and they share looks of confusion. 

Pete blinks rapidly and tightens his grip on the wheelchair’s armrest. “You can do that?”  He says in a small voice, swallowing nervously.  

I comb my fingers through my hair and grit my teeth. “Yeah, totally,” I snap. “And I can duplicate myself and be at a thousand places at once!” 

“Really?” Pete gapes at me. 

“No, you dumbass!” 

“Excuse me!” Pete holds up his hands in outrage. “It’s impossible to keep track of all your arsenal.” 

“I’m not a weapon!” 

“You keep telling yourself that Superboy.” 

I can’t believe we’re having this discussion right now in front of all these people. By the end of the day, all of Smallville High will think Clark Kent is an alien. Lucky me, the present company is super gullible. 

 Lana sighs as she twirls her Mom’s locket through her finger and glances mournfully at Dean. “They’re arguing about comic book characters now. I’m so glad you outgrew that ages ago.” 

“Who says I did?” Dean smirks. “The Amazon princess in my life makes comic books obsolete.” Dean winks at Lana. Lana turns crimson and bites her locket some more. 

“Stop calling me an alien. It’s rude and racist!” 

“Why? The shoe fits, wear it.” 

“That’s it!” I slam my hands on the table and it trembles like an earthquake.“I’ve tried to be an understanding friend and be there for you,” I say. “You have no idea how bad I feel about–” 

“You feel bad?” Pete growls. “The doctors say I will never walk again.” 

“I know,” my shoulders sag. “I’m sorry.” 

“I don’t want your apology!” he snaps. “I wish you were never born,” Pete says passionately. That makes two of us. 

“Fine,” I sigh in resignation. “This so-called alien won’t bother you ever again. Next time you want Chinese food, don’t call me!” 

“We don’t have any Chinese restaurants in town,” Maisie frowns, perplexed. 

“I never liked the dumplings you brought anyhow!” Pete screams. “They’re soggy by the time you bring them back!” 

“Good. Cause I’m never buying you Chinese food again!” I hiss.

   “Seriously,” Dean frowns. “Where did you get the dumplings? I want some.” 

“Not important,” I say. 

“China of course,” Pete answers in the same breath. “He ran.”  

“That’s not possible,” Dean looks at me funny. “That’s over six thousand miles away.  

“Pete is delusional,” I glare at him. Last time I trust a friend with the truth. “What he suggests is impossible.” 

“Impossible for humans,” Pete says.  

I storm away from them so angry I see red. Lana calls after me, but I ignore her and tear down the sidewalk. You think you know a guy. The old Pete would have never blabbed to the whole town. Way things are heading, I’ll have government agents breaking down my door by the end of the week. Worst-case scenario, Pete will sell me to a rogue scientist and they’d carve me open like a Thanksgiving turkey.    

I would deserve to be a lab rat after the hell I’ve put my friends through. 

Lana catches up to me at the crosswalk, out of breath, face flushed from the cold. “Come back, Clark,” Lana grabs my hand. “Pete didn’t mean what he said. We can work this out.”

“There is nothing to work out,” I avoid meeting her eyes.  

“You’re both being idiots,” Lana looks up heavenward. “If anyone is a monster it’s Pete for blaming you for his recklessness.” 

I can’t believe she said that. “You’re backing the wrong horse,” I meet her icy glare and sense the misplaced anger there. My prolonged absence has unintentionally created a rift between Pete and Lana. “Believe me, the accident wasn’t Pete’s fault,” I say, sounding stronger than I feel. “Suggesting otherwise is insensitive.” 

In the last few minutes, a crowd has grown on the sidewalk and I’m painfully aware people are listening in. I spot Maisie’s gold head in the back of the crowd, jogging to catch up with us.    

“Pete is the one being insensitive,” Lana’s voice trembles. “He said such horrible things about you.” 

“It’s okay,” I say, reaching for her arm. At the last second, I rethink touching her and shove a fist in my pocket. “Don’t be angry with him,” I tell her.

“I’m angry at both of you!” her hands fly to her hips. “You for being a self-loathing nincompoop and he for being a stubborn, unforgiving butthole.” 

“Lana,” I grit my teeth. “Pete is angry for a reason — more than you know,” I struggle to find the words to explain the situation. I wish he had bit my head off in private, but I don’t blame him for his reaction. “We can’t be friends anymore . . . but Pete still needs you.”

“What about you?” She grabs my arm, desperation sparking in her eyes. “You need me too.” 

I step away from her, careful not to step on the person behind me.

“She’s right, Clark,” Maisie pushes through the people to stand on my opposite side. “You’re our friend too. The stuff he said was uncalled. . .” 

 “Pete is right, Maze,” I say. “I’m a monster, I could hurt you too.” 

Lana stiffens beside me. I face Lana, expecting to find the same anger as earlier, but she stares at me unblinking. “Is there something on my face?” I ask.

 “Mission parameters updated,” she says in a robotic voice. “Preparing to extract Subject Thirteen.” She latches onto my arm. “Follow the leader –the leader, the leader,” she says using a singsong voice. Her eyes darkened, fear leaking out for a second. “Clark,” she squeals, her grip on me tightening as she silently pleads. “Joseph Kent,” Lana atones, voice robotic once more.    

“Okay, that’s not funny anymore,” Maisie says. “Cut it out.” 

Lana releases me. She glides toward the middle of the street without turning her back on me. Honks blare. A truck swerves to avoid hitting her and careens into a fire hydrant, spraying water everywhere. Maisie screams. 

An eighteen-wheeler is heading straight for Lana at full speed.   

Chapter Text

“LANA!” 

Lana Lang stands in the shadow of the eighteen-wheeler. Her eyes roll back in her head, and she collapses. 

The headlights are glaringly bright as the tank inches closer. 

I act on instinct, dashing forward, leaving the world in my wake. I try not to think of the hundred ways something could go wrong and focus on getting to Lana in time. I could not live in a world without her. I’m at her side in the blink of an eye, the headlights flying toward me. I scoop Lana’s limp form in my arms and turn to flee. 

But there is no time. 

The tank smashes headlong into me. My head roars in protest as the tank crumbles against me. I bow over Lana, doing my best to take the full brunt of the crash and shield her from any harm.  

A Jeep swerves to avoid the tank and careens into the side of a pickup truck carrying a Christmas tree. The force of the collision causes the pickup truck to crash through one of the storefront windows. Glass shatters, and screams drown out the sound of a siren. 

Suddenly, the tank erupts, and an explosion of flames devours its front half. The heat is so intense that it brings tears to my eyes. Lana moans in protest as my hold on her tightens. I shudder to think of the damage my tight embrace will have on her, but I don’t dare loosen my grip. I’m all that stands between Lana and an impromptu cremation.  

Once the smoke clears, I scurry Lana to safety, setting her down on a park bench outside the town Library. I brush a strand of her red hair out of her face. It could be my imagination, but all the color seems to have been sucked out of her usually rosy cheeks. 

The overpowering scent of smoke and burning flesh assaults my nostrils. A desperate scream pierces the cold air. A figure writhes like a worm on a hook inside the red-hot flames. It’s a miracle the driver breathes at all. I double-check to ensure Lana’s vitals are normal and dash back to the wreck. 

The searing hot metal burns my flesh as I rip the door off its hinges, but I might as well be plunging my hands into the steaming depths of a jacuzzi for all the pain it causes me. 

The second I open the door, the driver leaps out, his left arm ablaze like an angel’s burning wing. He dives for the nearest mound of snow, and the flames are reduced to a smoldering heap. I shudder when his features come into focus, and I realize it’s Wayne Irig. 

“Are you an angel?” He blinks once and promptly collapses against the snow. I don’t have the stomach to examine what is left of his arm. I am just glad there is still breath in his body. There is always a cost when using my powers. I do more harm than good. I succeeded in saving one life but at the cost of another. 

The flashing lights of an ambulance zoom toward me. Before anyone can see me, I dash back to the library. Lana is still passed out cold on the bench, which is concerning. 

“Come on, Lang,” I say. “Don’t quit on me now.” 

She groans slightly but doesn’t open her eyes. “Dean!” She screams in her sleep. “No, it can’t be you! It can’t!” She twists on the bench and buries her head beneath her arms. 

Typical. I save Lana from certain death, and she dreams of another guy. The story of my life: I do all the heavy lifting, and somebody else gets the credit. I scoop her up into my arms bridal style and head towards the clinic, which, fortunately, is only a few blocks away. 

Stan, the guard doesn’t even notice me when I walk past him. My head spins with theories, each worse than the last. Lana is suffering a psychotic break —the stress of having me as a friend is finally getting to her. She called me Subject 13 before she passed out —maybe just part of a hallucination.  

I reposition Lana in my arms and step into the elevator, the door sliding shut. The walls close around me, sealing me in a steely prison. Seconds tick b,y and I struggle to breathe. I know what needs to be done, but I can’t bring myself to click the button for the seventh floor. I’ve heard horror stories about the seventh level of the Luthor Clinic. My heart beats so loudly I’m surprised it doesn’t wake Lana up. With a shaking hand, I punch the button for the seventh floor. Lana needs medical care; no question about that.  I can’t let my superstitions about the seventh floor stop me from helping her. Every bone in my body longs to turn tail and run. 

 The elevator slides open, and I wander into a dimly lit hallway lined with rooms on each side. My stomach plummets. Every inch of the walls is covered in a floral beige pattern that probably hasn’t been replaced since the early 1900s. Rusty candelabras hang from each side of the rooms, their ghostly light shining on the dust particles in the air. An ornate mirror hangs on the wall between two oil paintings of young girls wearing elaborate gowns. The Fordman sisters.  

  I read once in A History of Smallville that the clinic used to be the Fordmans’ townhouse in 1916. They were an up-and-running aristocratic family, one of the three founding families of Smallville. But one wintry day, much like today, the entire family was found dead in their beds with multiple stab wounds and no clue left except for a wilted owl’s feather covering the corpses’ eyes. 

To this day, patients swear they can see the Fordman sisters playing tag in the hallway. 

A shadow dashes over the mirror, and I jump. “You’re being stupid,” I reassure myself, hugging Lana close. “There are no such things as ghosts.”  

A single lamp lights up the entryway. I head into a room labeled ‘Intensive Care.’ An empty receptionist's desk greets me.  A canvas wrap hangs on the wall behind the desk, showing a picture of what looks like hyperspace. At first glance, I think it’s a nod to Star Trek, but on closer inspection, it’s a galaxy shot with an oval-shaped spacecraft soaring through the stars. The back door led to another dark corridor with more rooms. 

“Hello, anybody here?” I punch the bell on the counter. “We have an emergency!”  I rang the bell again, but nobody came out from the back. Some service. This is exactly why Ma takes me to see her brother for annual checkups instead of braving the Luthor Clinic. 

Lana moans softly, her long, red hair falling limply behind her. A purple bruise has blossomed over her left eye. I’m no doctor, but that can’t be a good sign. I ignore every instinct telling me to run and step through the back door. I shake my head. 

“You’re doing this for Lana.” My heart races. There is no reason to be nervous. I swallow hard and force my feet to keep moving. Lana’s limp form is a steady reminder of what’s at stake. 

Muffled voices float through the crack on the bottom of one of the doors; I wager at least six or ten people. I recognize Claire Selton’s shrill voice mingled in with the rest and step back. I did not sign up for the social event of the century. No siree. People and I do not mix. I’m liable to hurt one of them. 

But Lana needs help. 

The chatter crawls to a stop and all eyes turn toward me. My knees turn to jelly, panic rising in my chest. I study the way- too many faces. I feel like I’ve wandered into an impromptu high school reunion and I’m the star. Most of my classmates are squeezed inside this too-small room. It is making it very difficult for me to breathe.   

 A sort of musical chairs is set up, each seat was taken except for two. At the epicenter of the circle sits a gaunt old man who could be the love child of Mark Twain and Einstein with his flyaway, stormy gray hair. He wears a bright red, starched suit. He offers me what is supposed to be a welcoming smile, but it looks like a red gash on his face. Doctor George Whitney. We’ve crossed paths occasionally in town. 

  Behind Dr. Whitney Jill’s friend, Claire Selton lounges in her chair like a queen holding court. Poor nervous Billy sits next to her, his teeth clattering together as he fumbles restlessly with his fingers. I’m surprised to find Dean Reeve sitting between Billy and Claire. I just left him at the Talon. Granted everything downtown is within walking distance. 

Bri Routh from Journalism class sits in the seat closest to the door, her nose as usual buried in a thick book. I lean forward to get a closer look at Bri and my legs forget how to work. I trip over the chair and fall unceremoniously narrowly missing the floor. The movement jolts Lana awake and she gapes up at me in bewilderment, clutching her head in one hand. 

 “Sorry for the intrusion,” I apologize. Interrupting a support group was the last thing I wanted to do, but this was an emergency. “There was an accident, I think Lana might have a concussion.” 

My words breathe new life into Lana. She bounces out of my arms, groggily standing up. She keeps a firm hand on my chest to steady herself. Lana inhales sharply and hugs her arms around herself. 

“Clark,” she says my name with a hint of surprise, her small body trembling like a storm-tossed leaf, but she never once takes her gaze off me. Carefully I grab her by the shoulders, fearing she’s about to faint. 

“Clark!” she says again with more gumption, her bright blue eyes flitting toward me. “It really is you. I’m not dreaming.” She flings her arms around my neck. Reflexively my muscles tighten. 

 She buries her face in the crook of my neck. I feel the telltale sign of tears sliding down my neck. I try not to think about how she fits against me like a missing jigsaw piece. We can never be more than friends. I’m no good for her. She deserves someone normal who won’t crush her every time he hugs her. 

Lana meets my gaze, slowly tracing the contours of my face with the tip of her finger, her index finger coming to rest at the corner of my mouth. Her touch is feather-light against my skin, and it stirs something inside me I wish would stay buried. She is not making it easy for me to stay away. 

Dean coughs into his fist. “Nice to have you back C.K,” Dean says.  I frown. He just saw me. Dean subtly shakes his head. “Missed a killer party at the Talon.” What game is he playing?  

The color drains from Lana’s already pale face. She slowly turns to survey the room, fear cloaking her features. “What are you doing here?” she frowns at Dean. She clutches her head, confused.  

“I heard there was free food,” Dean says, all smiles. “Kenny failed to mention the food was invisible.” 

“Kenny?” I choke out. “He’s here?” subconsciously I take a step back. I hope that Dean is pulling my leg. I am in no mood to be Kenny’s personal punching bag. Sure enough, Kenny Selton stands against the back wall as stiff as a statue. I almost don’t recognize him with that glassy expression. Usually, he’s growling in my face. I notice more classmates lined up throughout the room, like dutiful soldiers, each wearing the same blank expressions. 

“Don’t worry buddy,” Dean says. “He’s too drunk to notice you.” 

I study Kenny’s face. Dead, unfeeling eyes stare back at me. I don’t think he’s drunk, but I keep my thoughts to myself—no need to look a gift horse in the mouth. I feel like I’ve wandered into a secret cult. All that is missing is chanting and creepy capes. I fight the urge to go over to one of my classmates and snap my fingers in their faces and see what happens. 

“You know - I’m just gonna take Lana back to my parents,” I hold up the car keys. “Ma would know what to do with a concussion.”

 Dean nods fervently and mouths under his breath, “Whitney can’t be trusted.” 

“Nonsense Mr. Kent,” Dr. Whitney pulls out a chair for me. “We were waiting for you,” he smiles reassuringly at me, but I can’t help feeling he’s reimagining ten different ways to cut me open. 

“That did not sound creepy at all,” I start to inch towards the exit, grabbing Lana’s hand. Her hand lays limp in my grasp. I turn and freeze. Lana’s back is as rigid as a pole. She stares unflinchingly at Dr. Whitney. 

 “Lana, are you alright?” I wave a hand over her face, but she doesn’t so much as blink. “Did I hurt you?” My neck prickles and I feel the force of all ten pairs of eyes on me. Sweat trickles down my neck. 

Lana grabs me by the shoulders and pushes me into the empty seat beside Bri. Bri lets out a strangled shriek, her thick book cluttering to the floor. Wordlessly Lana glides toward Kenny Selten and joins the rank of dutiful soldiers by the wall. Dean meaningfully glances between Lana and me, silently pleading with me to do something.  

“As I was saying,” Dr. Whitney rubs his gnarly hands together and smiles at me. Every inch of my body aches to run. “You have all been brought here because you have shown an aptitude beyond the capability of any regular human.” 

Bri looks at me with mild shock but quickly averts her gaze when we lock eyes. Bri brushes a strand of dark hair behind her ear, eying me curiously. I cross my arms and try to melt into my chair, but it’s kinda hard hiding when you’re 6’3 and look like an overgrown giraffe.

“But with great power comes great danger. Each one of you has experienced some form of calamity due to your special abilities,” Dr. Whitney says gravely.

“I don’t have any special abilities,” I grit out. “Can we skip the cloak and dagger and get to the part where you do your job and examine Lana?” I say, but even as the words slip out of my mouth, a chilling dread sets over me. Dr. Whitney isn’t someone I trust with my friend’s well-being. I won’t be surprised if he’s behind her sudden brain freeze or the reason she passed out in the middle of moving traffic. It was a ploy to get me here.  

The rest of my classmates sit with rapt attention drinking in his words as eagerly as the Fountain of Youth. Billy looks down at his feet guiltily. Dean watches Dr. Whitney like a loyal dog waiting for commands. 

Am I the only one who thinks this is ten different kinds of crazy? Who is he to tell us how we feel or single us out? This reeks of a pedophile. I must be dreaming. I do have an insane imagination. Yep, that’s it. No way the doctor is as shady as I think. No one in Smallville is that crooked. 

“I am here to tell you, you are not alone, children.” he pulls out a fuzzy, teal Furby toy. That takes me back. Jill used to have a pink zebra-patterned Furby that she would taunt me with. She convinced me the colorful, big-eyed owl could see through walls. And then when I started seeing through walls I blamed the owl and wrecked it. Jill refused to speak to me for months.  

 “I too have been cast out by my makers because of being different.” Dr. Whitney continues in a monotone tone. 

Claire snorts and I can’t tell if she’s laughing at the doc or sympathizing with his plight. I don’t believe a word of his lies. There has to be a reason Mama insists on taking me to Metropolis for annual checkups with Uncle Emil instead of using the doctor at our disposal. If he’s for real, surely he can’t be as mistrustful as my parents have led me to believe. 

“This is a safe place for people like you. No one will judge you or ridicule you for being different,” he leans on his cane and holds out the demented Furby to me. 

“I’m totally judging you,” I blurt out, uncrossing my arms and leaning forward. I glare at the doc. “The Smallville Gazette will be very interested in knowing our good Doctor is experimenting on children.” I scan the roll of soldiers lined up by the wall. Their vacant expression is completely unnatural.  

“You tell him Baby Kent!” Claire claps her hand on my back. 

Maybe it’s a trick of the light but I swear those tennis-ball-sized eyes turn red for a second. I slip my hands into the fold of my hoodie, far away from that cursed owl. 

“I have done nothing wrong,” Dr. Whitney says calmly. “I only wish to help you heal, see you reach your full potential,” he offers me the Furby once more. “Your superpowers are nothing to be afraid of. You’re among friends who know what you are going through.”  

I sincerely doubt that. 

“Dr. Whitney saved my life!” Bri explains. “He taught me it's okay to be different.” 

“Or he brainwashed you into thinking that,” I give my two cents, eying Lana who hasn’t moved a single muscle. 

“I have a mind of my own. I am nobody’s puppet. . .” 

“It’s alright Brianna,” Dr. Whitney holds up a hand silencing Bri. “I have not gained Mr. Kent’s trust. He is right to be cautious,” He nods approvingly at me. “I will not force you to do anything you do not want,” he says to me. “Will anyone else like to share?” he holds out the Furby. 

To my surprise, Dean stands up and grabs the Furby from Dr. Whitney, but not before shooting Lana and me a look of worry. “I’ll start,” he says. Dr. Whitney leans forward, his bug eyes glued to the Furby toy as if it were a dancing stripper. The eyes glow faintly other than that, the owl doesn’t do so much as a hiccup. 

“Hey ya’ll,” Dean offers everyone a winning smile. There’s really no point in going through introductions. We all know each other, the curse of living in a small town. “I’ve got it easier than most. Ted is pretty chill . . . hell sometimes I think he adopted me because of my abilities. He’s convinced I’m destined to be some sort of hero, but I just want to kick start my acting career.” 

I can’t decide if he’s serious or pulling my leg. On the one hand, it’ll be nice to have someone on the same playing field as me. On the other hand, I won’t wish being a metahuman on my worst enemy. It’s a lonely existence, but if what he says is true . . . No.  

There is no one else like me on the planet.

“Thank you for sharing,” Dr. Whitney says. “It is up to you to choose your own destiny. Do not let your parents dictate who you will become.” 

Dean’s jaw tightens. “My parents can’t dictate anything. They’re dead.” I wince in pity. I can’t imagine life without my parents. Mutely Dean tosses the Furby to Claire, which she catches easily. 

“And what makes you think this gal is willing to share, Wonder Boy?” 

“Sharing is caring,” Dean shrugs. 

Claire’s expression sours and she straightens up. “Once upon a time, a girl was taken against her will to a dumb meeting. Spoiler alert: everyone there is certifiable. Happy?” She says in one breath. I cough to hide my laughter. 

“I do not appreciate your tone, young lady,” Dr. Whitney frowns. “I cannot help you if you.”

“I don’t need anybody’s help . . . certainly not from you!” Claire says heatedly, her arm slashing out like a whip. A blast of fire springs from her fingertips and soars toward Dr. Whitney. At first, I think I’m dreaming but there’s no mistaking the scorching heat that sucks out all the air in the room. Claire has transformed into a human torch. Her eyes glow like the epicenter of a volcano.  Nothing will ever surprise me after this. 

Dr. Whitney ducks in at the last second. The bulletin board behind him erupts in flames, red fire slithering up the ceiling as something possessed. I surge forward . . . to do what I am not sure . . . but  Bri screams and jumps onto my lap, putting a halt to any ill-advised heroics on my part. Bri’s grip is as tight as Devil’s Snare. Dean calls out for Lana in a panic, dashing to her side. He shakes her,  but she remains as still as the Statue of Liberty.  

Dr. Whitney calmly brushes off imaginary soot on his suit. “Billy, do you mind?” 

Billy stumbles over to the flickering flames, his white-blonde head resembling an ice cube seconds from melting. Timidly he rubs his pasty hands together nervously. He reaches for the flames, palm trembling slightly. A gust of cold air bursts from his fingertips, dousing the fire. I look at him and then at the frost-covered wall. Surely I’m dreaming. Pyrokinesis and cryokinesis, what’s next, the invisible boy?  

It is hard to think straight with a 110-pound girl invading my personal space. Bri’s bushy head tickles my nostrils. “I don’t like fire,” Bri wrinkles her nose. I grit my teeth and shove her back in her seat.  

“Thank you, Billy,” Dr. Whitney pats him reassuringly on the shoulder and he returns to his seat. “This,” Dr. Whitney waves at the burnt carnage behind him. “Is exactly why we have these meetings - to prevent certain missteps from occurring when you’re around civilized folk.” He meets Claire’s fiery, red-hot gaze. 

Claire snorts in an undignified manner. “I was in complete control, Grandpa.” To prove her point with a tilt of the head she smothers the flames that only seconds before trapped her in a fiery cocoon. “Plain and simple. I see someone I don’t like, they get burned.” 

“And why is that Ms. Selton?” Dr. Whitney asks. “Why do you enjoy burning innocents?”

“You and I both know you’re no shrink, so stop pretending to be one,” she bristles with indignation. “I am not sticking around to find out what you actually are,” she slings her bag over her shoulder and heads for the exit. She pauses briefly on the threshold and glances my way. “Hey, baby Kent you coming?” 

Dr. Whitney slams his cane down on the floor, and a sound like a gunshot ricochets through the room. “Mr. Kent is not done with his session.” 

“What session?” Claire challenges. “There is nothing wrong with Clark. If you hold him here against his will, I know a certain beloved sheriff that would eat phonies like you for breakfast.” I wince. Oh dang, she went there. She pulled the powerful dad card. “Baby Kent, are you going to sit there all day?” 

“But Lana . . .” I search her face for any sign of life. The bruise over her eye has darkened, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care. She stares right through me. I might as well be a ghost.  

“Lana is a big girl,” Claire drags me up by the collar.  “She can take care of herself.” I hope she’s right. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to Lana. “There’s nothing you can do,” Claire insists. “Come on, your Ma would be worried about you,” Claire tugs at my sleeve. Reluctantly I follow her out of the clinic, my heart heavy with trepidation. Lana will be okay. She has to be. She doesn’t need me. But I can’t erase her vacant eyes from my brain.    

The instant I step outside the cold, snapping wind bites my head off. I pull up my hood against the elements. A gentle snowfall has begun, the outdoors having been transformed into the inside of a snow globe. I can’t stop staring at Claire. 

“You have powers,” I gasp, falling into step beside her. Claire’s fair skin shines like a flickering candelabra. How have I never noticed that before? “How long have you been able to do that?” It’s difficult to hide the excitement in my voice. “Does Jill know? Aren’t you afraid of hurting someone?” 

“Slow down,” Claire rolls her eyes, rummaging in her purse for car keys. I hold my breath expecting the flimsy handbag to erupt in flames. But it doesn’t. How is she doing that? “Of course, Jill knows, Speed Boy.” 

  I flinch at Jill’s old nickname for me. How much exactly has Jill told Claire about me? It’s starting to make sense why Jill is so adamant about the meteor rocks infecting people when her girlfriend is one of them. 

“When did you start . . .” I swallow hard. I’m not sure how to word this next question. If Jill’s hypothesis is correct this might be a touchy subject. 

“Unimportant!” Jill snaps, unlocking the Impala and sliding into the driver’s seat. I count to ten, and once I’m positive the car isn’t going to explode with her at the wheel, I climb into the passenger seat. 

We drive in silence for a few miles. Smallville at dusk is usually my favorite time of the day. The blue, ashy light of twilight descends upon the land, painting the cornfield in hues of violet and indigo. It reminds me of a Van Gough painting I once saw in a book. But now the land is ablaze, everything I once knew going up in smoke. 

“Have you always been pyrokinetic?” 

“Pyro - what?” 

“Able to control fire with your mind,” I clarify. 

I wonder if she’s built like Kevlar. It couldn’t have been easy growing up as a human torch. Imagine the countless wardrobe malfunctions. Speaking from experience, it is no picnic explaining to your mum you need boxers because your old ones are toast. But there isn’t a single scorch mark on her clothes.

Claire’s fists tightened on the steering wheel, and smoke curled off her fingers. “My parents don’t know,” she rolls back her shoulders and looks me square in the eye. “If you speak of this to anyone - I don’t care that you’re Jill’s cuz - I will roast you.” 

Great, maybe she can put me out of my misery.   

Chapter Text

Sleep is a stranger from a galaxy far, far away. My neurons fire faster than I can keep up with them. What caused Lana to lose consciousness? Is she suffering from a tumor in her brain? Was last night a dream? Did I imagine Claire attacking Dr. Whitney with a fireball? My imagination is great, but not that creative.  

I can’t get out of bed fast enough when my alarm goes off. There are too many unanswered questions to waste the day on the farm. 

 Lana needs me. She could have another episode at the drop of the hat and if I’m not there . . . no, no point in dwelling on that. I will never abandon her again. I fumble through the mess to find a clean shirt. I settle on wearing a black tee with the quote ‘That’s A Horrible Idea. Think Again’ in bold red letters. It was a gag gift from Lana during freshman year. 

  Going back to school wasn’t my brightest idea. There will be hordes of students there, all elbowing each other to get to class. One wrong move, and I’m toast. I slip my denim jacket on and climb downstairs before I change my mind. 

“You’re up awfully early,” Dad mutters from his seat at the kitchen table. He puts down the copy of The Daily Planet he was reading and pours me a cup of coffee, which I take gratefully. 

I catch a snippet of the title and wince. Local Fisherman Finds Twelve-Year-Old Boy in Hob’s Bay. Some people have no shame. What kind of monster kills a child in cold blood? I grab the newspaper and read some of the articles. 

The body of a missing 10-year-old boy, Randy Klein, was found by a local fisherman early Tuesday morning in Hob’s Bay, police say. 

A search for Randy Klein was launched Sunday afternoon after the boy’s mother went to retrieve him at a friend’s house and found him missing. Randy Klein and his friend (Ryan James) were allegedly playing video games when Randy left the house without a single word.

Ryan James had this to say about the incident: “It was like aliens or something was controlling his mind.” 

His red Nike sneakers were the only thing that helped identify Randy Klein’s body, his face mutilated beyond recognition. Metropolis Police are investigating Klein’s murder and have not ruled out the possibility of Randy Klein being one of Madam X’s victims. 

“It is only a matter of time before she makes a mistake and we catch her,” Detective Bowman of MPD had to say when asked about the elusive Madam X, who as of yet, the authorities have not been able to I.D.      

I clench and unclench my fist, my heartbeat roaring in my head. I don’t believe it. “There is true evil in this world,” I set the newspaper down, pushing the cereal bowl away. I couldn’t possibly eat after reading that.   

Dad’s smile falls, and a shadow engulfs his features. “I know, Clark. We live in a crazy world, but someday it’ll get better.”  

“How can you be sure?” My eyes wander back to the article, and when I see a photo of Randy Klein and Ryan James smiling at the camera, my stomach twists into knots. 

A minuscule voice inside me says, ‘You could have saved him,’ but I quickly tell that voice to shut up. I would only have made things worse.  

“You’ve got to have faith that there is a brighter sunrise over the horizon.” He’s not making sense, but I hold my peace and let him have his senior moment. 

There is a creaking noise as the screen door opens, and Mama wanders in carrying a tray of cupcakes. “Jonny boy - I forgot the keys to the store again . . . have you seen -” she falters when her eyes land on me. “Clark!” an expression of joy melts her features. Relish me being out of bed while you can Ma. I’m not sure how long I can last among my peers. “I’ll whip you something up real quick.” 

I scan the clock on the wall behind Ma; it reads 7:45 A.M. I am already going to be fifteen minutes late. I silently curse myself. I forgot to calculate the driving time when I set my alarm. Usually, I just cut through the cornfield to go to school. Come to think of it, Dad is usually already hard at work. What’s wrong with him? I watch him carefully, trying to deduce if there is anything off. There are bags the size of Olympus beneath his eyes, but otherwise, he seems fit as a fiddle. 

“No time Ma,” I grab an apple off the counter and look down at my dirty tennis shoes. I am eternally grateful that Jill Kent is already long gone. Knowing her, she won’t understand my need for normalcy. “Could one of you give me a ride?” 

They gape at me like sputtering fish that have forgotten how to breathe. “A ride where?” Mom asks timidly, not betraying any emotion in her gaze. 

She’s really going to make me spell it out for them. “Smallville High, where else?” 

Mom squeals like a demented cheerleader and flings her arms around me. “I knew if we let you alone long enough, you’ll come to your senses,” she punctuates each word with a flutter of wet kisses on my face. 

“Ma cut it out,” I spring to my feet. “I am not a five-year-old.” 

“Or he’s thinking with his dick, not his brain,” Dad says quietly, but I still hear him. 

“This calls for a celebration! I’m making your favorite beef bourguignon for dinner!” Mama cries in excitement. I lick my lips in anticipation. If I knew she’d cook up a feast I would have gone back to school ages ago.  

“I’ll drive,” Dad says curtly.  Oh no. He’s using his ‘we need to talk’ voice, which usually means I’m in deep shit. On the way out, my parents share a meaningful look rife with tension; it’s the kind of silent communication that can only be established after being partners for decades. 

Knowing my luck, Dad, read the incriminating article, ‘Local Survives Gas Tank Explosion’ in the Smallville Gazette and put the pieces together. I’m sorry I didn’t cover the story. The Mainstreet accident - as the paper is calling it - is the most exciting thing to happen in Smallville since the bridge collapse in middle school. 

We drive in silence for a while, the cornfields flying past us in a swarm of white and brown. Dad stops at one of the rickety stop-and-go lights.“Did anything of interest happen in town yesterday?” 

My ears turn pink. I am trapped. If I come clean about my squabble with the gas tank, he’ll make a big deal about me being the town’s hero. If I don’t, I’ll get caught in a lie, which equals double trouble. I settle for half the truth. “Bumped into Lana,” I shrug nonchalantly. “She needed some help with . . .” I think fast. “Carrying her groceries.” 

“Yes, I imagine carrying groceries is a dangerous business,” Dad says in a dry tone. “It warrants a trip to the good doctor’s office,” all humor is zapped out of his voice. He glances sidelong at me, his gaze is turbulent. “What were you thinking, Clark?” he growls out. “You know how Ma and I feel about Dr. Whitney. You had no business going to see him.” 

Unbelievable! “You’re mad I took Lana to see Dr. Whitney, but you don’t care that your son caused an accident!” I don’t understand you, people. How does he even know about Dr. Whitney?  

“Dr. Whitney is dangerous,” Dad sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You can’t trust him.”  

“So is the guy sitting next to you!” I clench and unclench my fist. “Mr. Rogers has third-degree burns because I decided to play god.”    

“You made the right call,” he reasons. “It would have been ten times worse if you didn’t intervene.” 

I could have avoided the wreckage. I should have been faster. I should have grabbed Lana and hightailed it out of there right away. Instead, I hesitated for a second and all hell broke loose.   

Dad lets out a tired breath. “I’m not mad, Clark,” Dad admits. “I’m worried. After you went to bed, the doc called the house, asking questions about you.” 

Wow! That explains why Dad is so uptight. “Shouldn’t we report him?” 

“Curiosity isn’t a crime,” Dad says regrettably. His taut expression suggests he had contemplated calling the authorities last night, but Mama had talked him off the ledge. “Just promise me, you’ll never go back there.” 

“What did he want to know?” 

“Promise me,” Dad repeats, completely sidestepping my own questions.  

“Alright,” I shrug. “I’ll stay away from the clinic.” 

“‘Atta boy.” 

Dad’s shoulders gradually relax, his eyes crinkling as he smiles. Dad shifts the gear into park, and the rusty truck swerves to a stop in front of Smallville High. Students buzz around the front door like a swarm of bees. 

It takes me a millisecond to pick Lana Lang out of the swarm. Her hair is as red as a poppy flower in Spring, and her face shines like a star in the night sky. She laughs at something one of her girlfriends said, throwing her head back in glee. The bruise from yesterday has vanished. She seems quite chipper for someone who nearly got run over. I frown. 

“No kiss goodbye?” Dad calls through the open window. A fellow student hears him and laughs at me. I shoot Dad a look of horror and slam the car door, my cheeks turning as red as Power Girl’s cape. Thanks, Dad, for making my first day back to school a memorable one. He waves goodbye and pulls out of the parking lot, successfully locking me in the most dangerous prison known to man: High school. 

I can handle anything thrown my way... . with reason. I take one step, trip over the sidewalk, and fall flat on my face. Swell.

 I flinch, waiting for the onslaught of teasing, but it never comes. I climb to my feet and glance around for our red pickup truck. Dad is already long gone. On the bright side, it seems no one noticed my misstep. A crowd has gathered around a sleek, silver Porsche, curious whispers flying left and right. As I draw nearer, I hear a girl whisper ‘murderer’, and my heart stops. 

They’re talking about me, have to be. I’m the kid who killed the Smallville Crow’s quarterback.  Because of me, Pete will never score another touchdown. My throat tightens, and my heart thunders in my chest. I feel the force of a hundred pairs of eyes on me. My skin crawls. I wonder if it’s too late to call Mama and beg her to homeschool me. I run away from the growing crowd and don’t look back. 

My racing heart doesn’t subside till I’m safely inside The Crow’s Eye.   I take a whiff of day-old coffee and the faint smell of ink and relax. I’m back home . .  . or at least home away from home. It’s like I never left the Nest. My letterman jacket hangs over the chair by my desk where I left it after the incident. The orange Post-it notes - filled to the brim with my sprawling ramblings -are pasted all over the monitor. Squeezed between the keyboard and mouse is my cracked  MP3 player. 

I slide into the seat and turn the monitor on. The beeping noise is music to my ears. I only wait half a second for the screen to load, unlike at home when it takes a century for a basic app to load. My fingers fly across the keyboard.  I type up what I know so far, no matter how trivial it might seem. 

Creepy Furby toy with glowing eyes. Seems to be a talking stick, but is it?  Dr. Whitney singled out classmates with enhanced abilities, possibly infected by the green meteor rocks. Coincidently, except for Claire Selton, they are all adopted. I make a quick tally of the metahumans I know. Dean Reeve/ powers are undetermined.  Bri Routh, age 16/ powers undetermined.

I lose myself in the rabbit hole of research, each site more obscure than the last. Smallville is not the only home of the weird and unexplained. Two towns over a blogger is claiming his boyfriend was taken over by a parasitic organism. A lighthouse keeper’s son in Maine stopped a ship from sinking. Unconfirmed sewer monsters snatch people off the streets in Metropolis. That leads to bloggers on the dark web theorizing about an underground civilization of sentient reptiles, some even going as far as to claim there are dragons dwelling in the sewers of Metropolis. People have a wild imagination.   

I click to open a promising ad for the Meta Zone. A severe-looking woman wearing a lab coat smiles at the camera, holding a syringe in one hand. Her mouth is open as if she’s talking, a speech bubble floating by her head:

  ‘Are you tired of being different or feel like you are a ticking time bomb seconds from decimating? Have no fear. Here at the Meta Zone, we make your dreams of being a normal human reality.’ 

  My heart does somersaults in my chest. After all this time, the answer to all my problems could not be that deceivingly simple. But if I’m to believe Rayla Rofara, she has created a vaccine that can kill the metagene. It’s too good to be true. It warrants more looking into . . . but this could be the solution to all my problems.  

There’s an audible gasp beside me, rife with tension and fear.  I glance over at Bri, who is sitting two desks over. She hides behind a thick book, pretending to read.  She holds the book upside down and pokes her head over the top to peek at me. 

“Used to wonder if the myth about a dead cat was true,” I nod to the copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer she holds. Bri looks both ways and raises the book higher. “You would enjoy the story more reading it this way,” I reach over and flip the book upright. She emits a high-pitched squeal and drops the book in her lap. 

“I think you’re dying!” she blirts out. 

“Huh?” 

“That came out all wrong . . . well, not really, there’s no easy way to say this,” she blushes. “I’ve known about your tumor for a while well, tumors plural . . . but you seemed healthy enough,” she reasons. “So I didn’t say anything, but after last night,” she leans closer and lowers her voice. “The tumors are bigger now. Don’t worry Dr. Whitney can help you,” she says. “I’m sure he’ll have a cure for your rare disease.”   

    “What the hell are you talking about?”

“There’s this abnormally large bulge . . . well bulges plural… around your . . .”  

“I knew you’ll be back today!” Maisie skips toward me. “Lana Lang is in trouble, and Clark Kent is as predictable as rain in May.” She slides into the seat between Bri and I. Bri returns to pretending to read. She leans over to scan my computer. “Why do you have a list of classmates?”  I stiffen and quickly shut off the computer. “You think someone drugged Lana, that’s why she passed out yesterday.” 

 “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “Possibly.” 

  “Crazy about the accident!” Maisie gushes, her eyes alight like a kid’s on Christmas morning. 

“A car accident isn’t anything to be happy about,” I scold her. “People could have died.” 

“Lighten up Clark,” she nudges me playfully in the side. “Nobody died. And I have a theory,” she claps her hands together excitedly. “Smallville has its very own hometown hero,” the excitement in her gaze is contagious.

 “Think about it, every catastrophe since middle school has been miraculously averted, by an unnamed savior, living in the shadows.” Bri looks up from her book and narrows her eyes at me. 

 I wish Maisie weren’t so goddamn observant.

 “I’m gonna be the first one to get an exclusive!” she announces boldly. “Can you imagine Clark? An urban legend in our backyard!” 

“Good luck with that,” I mindlessly flip my pen through my fingers. “I doubt he’ll be posing for pictures.” 

“Typical male response,” her smile morphs into a scowl. “You hear the word hero and automatically assume it’s male.” 

“Sorry,” I amend, amusement leaking through my voice. “I doubt she’ll pose for pictures,” I correct myself. “She or he is in the shadows for a reason.” 

“Not for much longer.” She whips her iPhone out and scrolls through her photos. “I caught the hero on camera.” 

My heart quickens as she shows me the photo. An explosion of fire engulfs the frame. At its center is a red-blue blur, barely visible against the backdrop of wreckage and mayhem. I exhale sharply. There’s no need to worry. There is nothing there but a blob of color.  

“I don’t see anything,” I hand the phone back to Maisie. 

“See, right there?” she points at the blob in the center. “The rest of the photo is in focus, but here in the center, something is moving so fast all you see is a red blur.”

I raise one eyebrow at her. “It’s a bit of a far stretch.” 

“I know what I saw!” she insists. “One second Lana was there, and then she wasn’t.” 

I need to pay more attention to who is in the crowd when I go supernova. I don’t need Maisie chasing after every tall tale. It’s a good way for her to get hurt. “Back me up Bri,” Maisie shows the picture to her. 

“Looks like sunlight reflecting off the windows,” Bri says seriously. “Nobody could move that fast.” I smile at her in thanks. 

“That’s why it’s newsworthy!” 

“Or it’s just a fluke,” Bri shrugs and returns to reading, evidently bored with Maisie. 

 The classroom door creaks open, and Maisie swallows her tongue. 

Alex Knox looks me over coldly as he slips into his chair, silent as the grave. I involuntarily tense up. He’s been living in Smallville for two years and still creeps me out. I wonder if it’s a Gotham thing, but Bruce was never that cold in our youth - at least he wasn’t back then. 

 I hear the Castelli twins before I see them. They make as much noise as hens in a nuthouse. The two of them stop their chatter when they see me. One of them, Stella or Bella - hard to tell which - breaks apart from her twin’s hip and wraps her arms around my neck. “My baby is back!” she squeals, squeezing the living daylights out of me. 

“I told you he would be,” a crude smile cuts across her sister’s face. 

Before I can come up with a witty comeback, Mr. Moore stumbles into the room, muttering something about pesky children. “Good of you to grace us with your presence Kent.” 

“No. The pleasure is all mine,” I say through a thin smile. One of the girls giggles into her palm. 

Mr. Moore whirls on Bella. “Tell me, Miss Cavallo, do you take pleasure in being an insufferable airhead?” She stops smiling and gulps down nervously. He nods approvingly, his greasy brown hair falling over his sunken features. “You’re almost pleasant when your trap is shut.” 

I grit my teeth and hold back a crude comment. It’s true what they say: those who can’t do, teach. Frank Moore never quite healed from his social suicide. People tend to look at you funny when you claim a demon named Etrigan destroyed a priceless artifact in the British Museum of Art. Needless to say, Frank Moore, a once-renowned journalist, was fired from The Guardian and discredited by all news outlets in the U.K. 

But here in Smallville, crazy is our middle name. Frank Moore is the perfect candidate to teach young aspiring journalists. 

NOT. 

“It is Tuesday, and the most interesting thing we’ve got going for us is a fluctuation in milk prices,” he folds his hands curtly behind his back, “Well, to be fair, it is Smallville,” Bella says. 

“Keyword being: small,” Stella pouts. 

“A good reporter can find a story in a desert using nothing but his wits and a pen,” Mr. Moore gripes. 

Alex sits up straight. “Bruce Wayne has resurfaced after seven years abroad.” 

“Nobody cares about Bruce Wayne!” Mr. Moore growls with a twinkle of murder in his eyes. 

“But sir,” Alex persists, “Don’t you wonder what he has been doing all this time?” 

Maisie leans toward me with a conspicuous smile. She cups her face with one hand and whispers in my ear, “I think someone is homesick. How anyone could be homesick when they’re from Hell I would never know.”

 A smile tickles my lips. I’ve never stepped foot in Gotham, and don’t plan to any time soon. I’ve heard horror stories. 

“I don’t wonder, I know,” Mr. Moore’s hands fly to his hips. “Bruce Wayne has been drowning his sorrows in ten different kinds of liquor and shagging every eligible and ineligible woman in Europe,” he explains. 

“But according to rumors he stopped a mug . . .” Alex starts. 

“RUMORS!” Mr. Moore thunders, slamming down a book on the table. “We do not deal in unsolicited rumors at the Crow’s Eye.” He points to the wall behind him where a handmade poster hangs. “Have I taught you nothing?” 

S Stands for source . Who is providing the information? 

M is for Motivation . Why are they telling me this? 

E represents Evidence . What evidence is provided for generalizations? 

L is for Logic. Do the facts logically compel the conclusions? 

L   is for Left Out . What’s missing that might change our interpretation of the information? 

“So, Mr. Knox, who is your source?” Mr. Moore scrutinizes him shrewdly. Alex starts to sulk but doesn’t dignify Mr. Moore with a response. “That’s what I thought. KENT!”

 I nearly fall out of my seat. “I have it on good authority you were at Mainstreet yesterday. What do you have for me?” 

“What?” I stutter. “I thought the Smallville Gazette covered the Mainstreet accident in the evening edition?” 

“With that attitude, you’ll never amount to anything,” he grunts out. “There is always another angle.” 

Maisie’s hand flies into the air, her eyes all but bulging out of her skull. He pointedly ignores her.   

“I don’t know about the accident, sir,” I say quickly. “But Cassandra Fotakis seems to think Arnold Garcia is missing. Worth looking into.” 

The corner of Mr. Moore’s mouth quirks up into a smile. “Take notes, class.” My peers let out a collective groan. “Clark Kent has been MIA for three months, and yet he might just have the story of the century.”

 I duck my head and try to melt into my seat. The last thing I want is to draw attention to myself. “You know why? BECAUSE HE DOESN’T LIVE UNDER A BLOODY ROCK!” 

“More like he’s the story of the century,” Alex grumbles moodily, glaring daggers at me.  

“Not bad Kent,” Mr. Moore admits begrudgingly. “You might be a reporter yet,” he laughs sardonically. “Tell me Kent, what does the Oracle of Delphi have to say?” 

He’s mocking me. “Nothing,” I relent. 

“You disappoint me, kid,” he growls out. “Everybody knows Fotakis is as blind as a bat.” 

“Actually, bats can see in the dark,” I supply. “So with that logic, she can see as well as us . . . why am I explaining this to you?” I shake my head.  

“Nobody cares about your weird fetish with bats, Kent,” he turns away from me and starts to pace. “Somebody better pitch a good story now or you lot can kiss your weekend privileges goodbye.” 

Maisie raises her hand eagerly. 

Mr. Moore grits his teeth. “Someone besides Miss Know-it-all.” 

“But professor,” Maise says in a mock British accent. “There’s a superhero hiding among us.” 

“Choose your next words very carefully, Kidder.” 

Somebody, kill me now. I duck my head, pulling my hood up. 

Maisie fumbles for her phone and opens up her photos. “See here?” she points to the blurry photo of me. “Lana should be dead, but someone or something is out there moving faster than the snap of a camera. That . . . whatever she is saved her.” 

“I can see the title already,” Mr. Moore says, waving his hand in front of him animatedly. “Small Town Folk possessed  by Aliens.” 

“There has been no evidence to support extraterrestrial involvement,” Maisie points out. 

“Trust me, Kidder. There will be,” he says confidently. “This is Smallville.” Now he’s starting to sound like Jill. No wonder The Guardian fired him. “Kent, I want you to cover the Luthor angle - see what the prodigal son knows.”

“You think Lex knows something about this superhero?” Maisie frowns. 

“God, no!” Mr. Moore snaps. “It’s a pretty science fiction piece lassie, but unless you find more concrete evidence I can’t publish that story,” he shrugs. “Kent you’re on Luthor. See if the prodigal son knows anything about your missing patient.”  

“I’ll just stake out the cornfield and wait for little green men to abduct me,” Maisie balls her hands into fists. “Asshat,” she says under her breath.

“Twenty points from Ravenclaw Kidder,” Mr. Moore says. “And two days of detention.” 

She starts to argue with him. While Moore’s attention is on Maisie I print out the Meta Zone brochure, praying nobody would notice. I raise my hand to get a tissue and Mr. Moore waves me off dismissively, resuming to write on the board. I loudly blow out my nose, even though, I’ve never been sick a single day. I suck up the imaginary snots, like I’ve seen others do a thousand times, and grab the brochure from the printer’s tray. I pocket it before anyone notices what I did.     

There’s a note waiting for me on my desk when I return.  

Meet me in the prop rm ASAP.

• Bri

Chapter Text

“Good, you’re back,” Lana corners me at my locker, giddy with excitement, shouldering her backpack. I frown at her. She’s acting as if we didn’t see each other yesterday. “You won’t believe how much you’ve missed . . .” 

“Yeah, I know,” I shut the locker close. “I’ve got a mountain of makeup assignments to turn in.” 

“Ewe no! That’s not what I’m talking about,” she bounces back and forth on the balls of her feet. I haven’t seen her this worked up since Taylor Swift broke up with Joe Jonas. She looks both ways before leaning toward me. “Technically I’m not supposed to tell you,” she winces. “But ooo it's too juicy not to spill — Katie Gardner has a boyfriend!” Her eyes widen. “Can you believe it?” Lana shakes her head in astonishment. “She met him at summer camp, some weirdo — forgot his name Trevor, Tray or something.”  

“What?” 

I can’t believe she is obsessing over something so trivial. Kids are starving in Haiti. Lana was inches away from meeting her Maker. Who cares who is dating whom? There are more important things to worry about. 

“I know, right?” she smacks my arm excitedly. If Miss Treehugger can get a date, there is hope for you, Clark. " She smiles ear to ear. What about you and Maisie? I heard from a reliable source that she has a huge crush on you.” 

“What are you doing?” Unbelievable. I comb my fingers through my hair. 

“I’m being a good friend and playing matchmaker. I thought that was obvious?” 

“Well, yes . . . but,” I swallow hard. “Are you okay?”  

“Practically perfect in every way!” 

Now I know there’s something up. She only quotes Disney when she’s stressed. I scan the hallway to make sure there are no eavesdroppers. “You know, I’m here for you if you want to talk about what happened yesterday,” I lower my voice. 

“What are you talking about?” Lana’s smile contorts into a frown. “I went Christmas shopping and then . . .” she gasps. “Oh my god, Clark, I forgot your gift at the Talon.” 

I should have stayed with her last night. She at least has a concussion. “Lana,” I say tentatively. “I’m not sure how to tell you this . . . well, you see, you and I . . and there was a tank.”

“Whatever it is, Clark, it can’t be as bad as when we snuck into the Miller’s . .” 

“There was an explosion. You almost died,” I say quickly. 

The color drains from Lana’s face. She bursts out laughing.  “God, Clark,” she steadies herself against the locker. “You don’t have to make up such tall tales. I forgive you.” 

“Forgive me?” I ask incredulously. 

“I forgive you for leaving me.” 

“I didn’t leave.”  

“But you did,” she says crisply. “You abandoned me!” 

 I hadn’t considered how my absence would affect those around me. I was trying to protect her from the monster next door. Staying away from me was the only way to keep her safe. I see now, it was a serious lapse in judgment. 

“I’m here now,” I say. Words couldn’t begin to describe how guilty I feel. 

“Until the next catastrophe hits and you run away.” 

“That’s not fair,” I say. “You know I was sick.” 

“Bullshit,” she snaps. “You’re avoiding a certain moody ex-football player” she deadpans. “You think seeing Pete so helpless like that doesn't scare me? It does!” she persists. “He’s my friend too.” 

I grit my teeth. How could I be so stupid? Classic Lana Lang manipulates each situation to her advantage. She wasted no time in throwing the attention back on me. “I know what you’re doing, and it’s not gonna work, Beauty Queen,” I say. “I’m not the victim here, you are.” 

“Victim!” Lana’s eyebrows skyrocket. “That’s how little you think of me, Clark? I am just some dumb damsel in distress for you to exercise your testosterone on!!!” 

I deserved that. Bad word choice on my part. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.” I keep my voice level. “You passed out in the middle of moving traffic. We need to figure out what caused that . . . I want to help.” 

She laughs sardonically. “Do you have any idea how ironic that sounds coming from you?” 

“We’re not talking about me.” 

“How can I accept help from a guy who won’t even help himself?”

That’s beside the point! I’m not the one whose life was on the line. I ignore her jab at me and push on. “Lana, at least tell me you’re not doing drugs.” 

“Of course not!” she sounds insulted at the mere suggestion. “I would NEVER!” 

She hugs me.  “You have nothing to worry about.” She tightens her hold on me. My heart pounds in my chest and my arms slacken. I am no stranger to Lana Lang’s hugs, but this time I feel all  213 bones in her body that I am liable to break. My breath hitches. 

“Clark?” she holds me at arm’s length, an unspoken question in her gaze. 

“I have to go,” I blurt out. 

 Lana’s confused gaze follows me down the hallway. It takes every ounce of will to not look back. Smallville High is abuzz with news of the prodigal son’s return. I hear he shaved his head to get Daddy’s attention. No, he lost his hair in a lab accident and it never grew back. I hear he went berserk after his brother’s death, jumped off a twelve-story building, and survived. Lex's mother moved them to Smallville after he killed a fellow student at Excelsior.

 Each rumor was more outlandish than the last. There hasn’t been this much buzz in Smallville since the Waynes’ murder. They were the hot topic for three years straight. It’s no wonder Bruce became a recluse after his parents'' death.  

By the time I reach the prop room, I’ve heard six different theories on how Lex became bald at such a young age, and a rumor involving Lionel Luthor and Annette O’Toole. On the bright side, everyone is too focused on our resident billionaire celebrity to notice the return of Clarkzilla. 

In its glory days Smallville High Theater could have held a candle to Shakespeare’s Globe. The program was disbanded after four students disappeared. If you ask the old teachers, they’d say they ran away. Any alumni younger than thirty knows Mary Worthington did it. It’s not hard to believe she is haunting the prop room. It reeks of curdled paint and rat droppings. Cobwebs drape over set pieces and a thick layer of dust coats every surface.       

The only light comes from the dressing room. Voices can be heard through the ajar door—the shadow of two girls on the wall. I recognize Kaya Nanook’s wiry frame and feather earrings. Bri’s bushy hair looks like a storm cloud beside Kaya. A muddy sneaker is attached to a body that doesn’t belong to either of the girls. It would be easy enough to take a closer look, but that would be an invasion of privacy.    

  “You must stop picking up strays,” Kaya mutters. That’s the most I’ve ever heard Kaya speak. “He’s not one of us.” 

“I’ve got 20/20 vision!” Bri argues. “We have to tell him the truth. It’s the only way he’d believe me.”  

“You’ve been wrong before,” Kaya reminds her. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. For all you know, he could have been born with a harmless birth defect.”

“It doesn’t look harmless,” Bri persisted.  

“Says you,” Kaya grumbles. “The rest of us see nothing wrong with Clark.” 

“I hope you’re wrong.” The muddy sneaker moves and Billy’s white head comes into view. “I don’t want Clark to die. He’s good people.” 

“I’m not dying,” I push the door open, trying to hide the frustration. Bri has no business spreading such lies to everyone.   

A few classmates sprawl in a circle at the bottom of the dresser, sitting on bean bags, an ice box between them. Billy freezes, mouth full of Dorito chips. Kaya returns to drawing in her sketchbook, avoiding meeting my eyes. Wade  Irig looks at me with a traumatized expression. He’s Pete’s gaming buddy, other than that our paths have rarely crossed. It’s odd seeing him out from behind a computer. I almost don’t recognize him without the headset.    

“Clark, you made it!” Bri jumps up to greet me. “I saved you a snack. I hope you like Rice Krispies.” 

She drags me into the beanie bag beside Wade under mixed stares from her friends. Kaya scoffs, slams her sketchbook shut, and glares at Bri threateningly. Billy looks between Wade and me, jaw clenched in worry. 

“I didn’t sign up for this, Routh,” Wade moves to stand, but Bri sits on his lap to keep him seated. He groans. “You know how hard this is for me.” 

“I’ll make it up to you, Ghost, promise,” she whispers in Wade’s ear. “Saving lives is what we’re all about. This is just another day on the job,” she whispers. That wasn’t meant for my ears, but I still heard her. 

“Hungry?” she opens the Rice Krispie and offers it to me. I frown, unsure what her angle is.  I reach over Wade to get it.

 The second we touch Wade’s entire body locks up. His pupils dilate, breaths coming out in a shuddering rasp. I drop the Rice Krispie. Even through my glasses, I can see his heart pounding erratically. He’s having a panic attack. “It’s okay, Wade,” I clasp his shoulder. “You’re safe, amongst friends.” 

His eyes widen, staring fearfully at something behind me. “No, Clark, look out!” He grabs my arm in a vice grip. I follow his gaze, but there’s nothing there, just Billy. His whole body shakes. 

“I was right!” Bri announces, unconcerned by her friend’s condition. She grins excitedly. “You’re dying, Clark.” 

“Cut it out,” I grit my teeth. “Can’t you see he needs our help!” 

I grab a bottle of coke from the ice box and flick it open with my thumb. “Here drink this,” I offer Wade the can. He sinks deeper into the bean bag to protect himself from me. “I won’t hurt you, I just want to help.” 

     He looks at me with pure horror, chest rising and falling. Wade blinks rapidly as if surprised to see me. “But who’s going to save you?” 

“I’m right here, buddy,” I reach for his arm and falter when he flinches away. I try not to take it personally. He looks at me as if I’m the monster under his bed.“You’re going to be okay.” 

“But you’re not,” Wade says in a weak voice. “You die.” Not him too. He has no idea how hard it is to kill me. 

Billy whimpers slightly.  “Well, we still got time, Ghosty, right? We can cure Clark. Find a heart surgeon.” 

“Mother of God,” Kaya grumbles. “This insane.”  

“It’s not that simple,” Wade says. “There’s no cure.” 

“Sure there is,” Bri says. “Dr. Whitney can save him.” 

“You need serious help,” I glare at Bri. “Psychiatric help.”  

“You have a tumor in your heart,” she says breathlessly. “Multiple tumors.”  

That’s the second time she’s accused me of having a heart condition. “I’m not sick.” 

“You’ve got to trust me on this, Clark,” Bri says. “There are things I can do . . . things I can’t explain. You have days maybe weeks to live.” 

  Wade looks up at that. “Clark’s not sick.” 

“Thank you!” I explain. 

“But you said he dies.” 

“No, he didn’t,” I say. “He had a panic attack.”  And what makes Wade the expert on dying? He was homeschooled till last year.  

“Not from a heart attack,” Wade’s voice is quiet. “It was a nightmare,” he trembles. 

“Then how does Clark die?” Billy wonders. Wade studies my chest; his jaw is tight with trepidation. 

“But I could have sworn,” Bri narrows her eyes at me. I feel like I’m under a microscope. “Then what’s wrong with you? You look all wrong inside.”  

It’s hard not to take offense at that. All my life I’ve feared there was something wrong with me. I look human, but there’s something rotten inside me. And somehow she knows. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Brianna!” Kaya explains at the same time. “Don’t mind her, she has no concept of personal space.”

“No, I want to hear this,” I clench my fist. “What’s going on here? Why did you think I was sick? And you?” I face Wade. “What was that?” I make a nondescript hand gesture between us. I’m 95% positive Wade saw something when he touched me. “You obviously have powers,” I think out loud. “Otherwise you won’t be at that phony meeting,” I direct my words to Bri. 

“It’s not phony!” Bri protests. “Dr. Whitney helps people like us. He can help you too!” 

“Bri,”  Kaya warns. “Careful what you say. He’s a reporter and you might be wrong about Clark.” 

“Am I?” Bri asks me. “Maisie is right, isn’t she? You saved Lana yesterday. You’re one of us.” 

One of us. Her words echo in my head, like a drum roll. I think of the Jack Frost wannabe putting out the fire at the clinic. Bri has a reporter’s instinct– she’s too curious for her own good. My appearance at Whitney’s support group would have raised questions —questions she was too scared to ask to my face. I recall how scared she was this morning in class. She wasn’t scared of me, but scared for me. The pieces slowly fall into place.

“How could you?” I zip up my hoodie, hoping I’m wrong.  But if she’s like me that won’t protect me. I fear she can see exactly how inhuman I am.  “You can’t just go around X-raying people.” 

“Bio-vision,” Bri corrects. “My power. I can call it whatever I want and do as I please.”

“People are entitled to their privacy,” I say. “You crossed a line.” 

“Oh, please,” Bri rolls her eyes. “Like you wouldn’t do the same thing if you had my powers.” 

My cheeks flush. Only as a last resort if somebody is hurt. I wear the glasses for a reason. “No, I won’t because it’s an invasion of privacy and unethical.” 

“You’re one to talk,” Bri says. “You had no qualms about dragging Coach Arnold through the mud. He got fired because of you!”   

“Rightly so,” I say. “He was helping  his athletes to cheat.” It was child’s play finding the rigged test scores in his office. She’s lucky I didn’t tell the cops about the drugs I saw in the locker room. There was no way to come clean about the drugs without seeming suspicious. 

“We can’t all be perfect, A-straight students like Clark Kent, ” Bri mutters. I’m no longer an A-straight student. My grades have tanked since I got ‘sick.’ “So is that it, you’re super smart? Or are you as fast as Maisie suggests you are.” 

Her groupies study me with open curiosity. Nobody’s gaze is as hard as Kaya's. I wonder if she can see through me too. Wade swallows audibly. I get the feeling he knows more than he lets on. Billy waits expectantly for my answer. 

“I didn’t realize this was an interrogation,” I jump to my feet. “I want no part of . . . whatever this is.” I wave a hand over the dressing room. There are newspaper clippings on the mirrors, strange articles –some of them I wrote. 

“Don’t be like that,” Bri snatches my hand. “We just thought you’d like some friends like you.” 

“We?” Kaya says incredulously. “You mean you couldn’t leave well enough alone.”  

  Bri sighs heavily. “Sue me, I thought he was in danger. It’s our civic duty to help people in need.” 

Bri runs to block me from the exit. She plants her feet solidly apart. “Okay, so I was way off about your heart condition,” she rests a hand on my chest. I don’t miss how she can’t stop staring. Her concern is almost sweet. Except she’s looking at me like a hydra on display at Ripley’s Museum. “It was an easy mistake – you’ll understand if you could see how strange you – I’m not very good at making friends,” she admits. “Ignore what I just said.” 

How can I? She’s implying I look less than human inside. My worst fears are coming true. But then what am I? I thought I was Martha and Jonathan Kent’s son. I don’t want to be anything else. Being their son makes sense. 

“Oh wow, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Bri goes cross-eyed looking at my thudding heart. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Dr. Whitney helped me live with my abnormality, he can help you too.” She winces as she realizes her choice of words. “That came out wrong.”

“I don’t need his kind of help,” I glare at the short girl. She stays rooted in my path. “Move.” 

“If you’ll just hear me out . . . I can explain all of this.” 

I grab her by the shoulders and easily lift the 120-pound girl. I move her aside. Bri gasps. “Stay away from me,” I say, slamming the door behind me. 

  The rest of the day flies by without incident, but my mind keeps wandering back to Bri.  My insides can’t be as freaky as she implies. We watch a sex-ed video in science class and I’m too distracted to appreciate the view of Mrs. Atkins. The video drones on about pheromones and animals copulating. But what if there’s something broken inside me? I was born wrong. Or worse. What if I’m alone on this stinking planet? That’s not true. The last few days have proven I’m not the only metahuman in town. Just the only one with a tumor-riddled heart.  Of course, Bri could be lying. I’m the only one with X-ray vision. 

Or she could be the only person being honest with me. I look both ways— most of my classmates fell asleep ages ago. Pete taps his pencil repeatedly, bored out of his mind. Lana passes a note to Maisie under the table. What am I worried about? It’s not like they’d notice me. I take my glasses off and focus down on my ribcage. 

Layer by layer peels away– first the rough texture of my jacket to the unmarred skin beneath, the part that looks human. I’m scared of what I’ll find. It’s better to know the truth than to live a lie. I make out the coronary arteries and start to relax. They seem to match the picture in the textbook. But then I notice my lungs seem smaller and denser. That could be just the angle I’m looking at. There’s a strange mineral sheen, almost crystalline in places, like the membrane found in plant cells.  They look… reinforced, built for something more.

My muscles and my tendons are layered, and structured differently. Everything is smooth, unscarred, untouched by time or damage. No healed fractures. No micro-tears. Nothing to suggest I’ve ever been hurt, even when I know I have. I was an accident-prone child before puberty screwed me over.  My heart is bigger than I expected with numerous bulging chambers. I don’t recall ever seeing those on a regular heart. I can see why Bri thinks I’m dying. It looks wholly unnatural. 

“You’re not doing what I think you’re doing?” Pete whispers to me. 

“And if I was?” I put my glasses back on. 

Pete drops the pencil and shoots me a hard look. “I’ll be very concerned.” 

“Funny,” I say. “You didn’t seem that concerned when you announced to the whole world I’m an alien,” I whisper. 

“Like anyone actually believed that crap?” Pete laughs uneasily. I’m starting to believe that crap. I don’t want to, but how do I explain the extra chambers in my heart? It doesn’t look human. What if Pete has been right all along? 

“Whatever you’re thinking, Clark, it’s not true,” Pete says.  

I’m saved from having to answer by the bell. I pack my backpack and don’t give Pete a second glance. Lana is waiting for me outside the school. I’m in no mood to be around friends. Friends I’ll likely hurt. Friends that have no idea what a freak I am. I run to the parking lot, careful not to bump into anyone, and swear colorfully when I see Jill’s car is gone. There’s a text from her. 

Jill: Use those feet, Hermes.   

“Come on, this is not my day,” I kick a pebble and it rockets into space. “Lovely.” I hope nobody saw that. I scan the many faces in the parking lot and inwardly groan. Wade Irig leans on his car, gaze fixed on me. 

“Need a ride?” Wade asks. “We are neighbors after all.” He lives two miles down the road from the Kent farm. This is going to be awkward, but he’s my only option if I don’t want to run home. I squeeze into the passenger seat. Wade drives a tiny pickup truck that is so low to the ground it should be illegal. It’s excruciatingly uncomfortable. 

“Sorry about the wheels,” he says. “Saving up for my own car,” he explains. “Till then I’m stuck with Dad’s hand-me-downs.” 

“It’s fine,” I say. “It’s a short ride.” I look anywhere but at Wade. His screams echo in my head. Frankly, I’m surprised he wants to hang out. I thought he was afraid of me.

 I gasp and press my nose on the window, sure I’m hallucinating. Bri is on the back of Kenny Selton’s motorcycle. She hugs the school bully from behind and steals a kiss. She giggles as they speed through the parked cars. 

“Those two, really?”  

Wade makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. “Girls love a bad boy.” 

“But Kenny, he’s such a jock and Bri is such a bookworm.” 

“Ever seen the movie Grease?” he pulls out of the parking lot. 

“Greece as in the country?” I feign stupidity. Lana has forced me to watch all her favorite musicals.  

“Lucky,” Wade says. “Movie makes me wish I were deaf.” 

Wade stops at a traffic light. Bri and Kenny are in the lane beside us. She sees me and waves enthusiastically. 

“How did that happen?” I gesture at them as they speed past. 

Wade tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “She’s had the hots for Kenny for a while,” he grumbles. “But he never noticed her. Least not till she used her powers around him.” 

“Let me guess, he took Bri to see Dr. Whitney,” I say, a theory slowly forming.

“Actually, yeah, how did you know?” Wade asks. 

 “Lucky guess,” Kenny had roped Dean into attending the meeting. So what did that make Lana? Did Dr. Whitney have something to do with her blackout? She only started acting odd after Pete accused me of being an alien. Normal people don’t walk into upcoming traffic. “You’ve been to the support group?” 

“No, it’s invitation only,” Wade admits. “Don’t want to go anyways.” 

That’s bullshit. All metahumans should be welcomed in his group. I made a mental list of the metahumans that attracted his attention. “Can Bri see through anything?” 

“She wishes,” Wade mutters. “It’s limited to only living organisms.”  

Not exactly like me. It’s probably just a coincidence. Claire has a fiery disposition, kind of like me. Both Bri, Dean, and Billy are adopted. But I’m not. I was raised and born in Smallville. I look down at my chest, too afraid to do a repeat of earlier. At least, I don’t think I’m adopted. 

Wade pulls to a stop by the Kent mailbox and kills the engine. It’s a decent distance from the fence to the main house, but I still smell Ma’s cooking.  I took my sensitive nose for granted, thinking everybody else could smell like me. What if they can’t? What if it’s one more thing that makes me a freak? 

“Listen, Clark,” Wade says tentatively. “We don’t know each other very well,” he starts. “That’s partly my fault... . but you got to trust me on this,” he looks at me sidelong. “You can’t ever leave Smallville. Bad things will happen.” 

“Don’t worry, I’m not cut out for big city life,” I tell him. Smallville is home. Though, it’ll be cool to be a full-fledged reporter someday. See the world beyond this cornfield. 

“If you leave Smallville you’d die brutally.”

He’s talking crazy. Nothing can kill me. I’m as invulnerable as Achilles. I wait for the punch line, but he remains grim-faced. 

“You’re serious?” I ask. I look down at my chest and wonder if Bri was right. I can’t imagine anyone killing me. I shoved my hand into a wood chipper and didn’t get a scratch on me. It would take more than average weapons to take me down. So I must die of natural causes.   

“Deadly,” Wade says. “When I touch people, I see the moment they die. You die on Christmas day . . .”

“Don’t tell me more,” I quickly cut him off. “Everybody dies.” 

“But Clark, you don’t just die you’re slaughtered . . .” 

“I don’t want to know the gory details,” I say. I’m just glad there’s someone stronger than me out there. It means I’m not the only one like me. 

“You believe me?” Wade marvels. 

I’m not sure I’d go that far. There’s not much that can hurt me. Wade seems to believe his vision.   “All things considered, this isn’t that crazy.” 

“Usually this is the part where people call me a freak.” he looks at me funny. “It’s okay if you don’t believe me. I’m used to it.” 

“I believe you,” I say. “I’m just not going to worry about something that might never happen.” 

“My premonitions always come true,” he says. “Even when we try to stop them.” 

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” I climb out of the truck. “Thanks for the ride, I’ll see you around.”

Chapter Text

Friday arrives in record time. I have a mountain of makeup assignments from all my teachers. I spent the remainder of the week avoiding Bri’s friends. Everywhere I turn there they are. I lock eyes with Kaya by my locker. Wade and Billy huddle around her. If it weren’t for the strange look from Wade, I would believe the other day never happened. 

You leave Smallville, you die.  

Yeah right. It’s hard to imagine. 

I tiptoe into Mr. Moore’s class and slip into the seat next to Maisie. Mr. Moore is in the middle of writing on the whiteboard and doesn’t notice me. My frown deepens when I see the empty seat beside my desk where Bri Routh is supposed to be. That’s odd. Bri has had perfect attendance since Pre-K.

  Maisie smiles in greeting and slides a note over to me. Quietly I unfold the wadded-up piece of paper she gave me. 

You okay? 

 That’s a loaded question. Honestly, no one is ever truly okay. Even the richest person on the planet isn’t immune to anxiety or self-doubt. I write a reply and slide it to her. 

Never better. Heard from Bri? 

I tilt my head toward the empty seat beside me. I hope I didn’t scare her away. Maisie worries at her lower lip, scribbles another reply, and hands it back to me. 

Went 2 her house yesterday. Folk said she hasn’t been home in 2 days. They think she ran away.

I am starting to worry. I flip the paper over and write another response.   

That’s not like her. Any idea what’s wrong? 

 I wanted to ask her about what she saw. I can only see a small portion of my internal organs.  

 “Mr. Kent,  since you are so fond of writing,” Mr. Moore turns away from the whiteboard and faces me with a cool glare. He strides over to my desk and snatches up the note I wrote. “You can copy the ‘I’ section in the dictionary and pay close attention to the meaning of the word insolent.”  

“That’s not fair!” Maisie protests. “I started it!” 

“Detention both of you,” Mr. Morre smirks. “I hope you had no plans after school.” 

“No,” Maisie and I say together. 

“No sir!” he corrects. 

“No need to call me sir, Professor,” Maisie smirks. 

“Ten points from Ravenclaw, Kidder,” Mr. Moore says unamused, turning back to the front of the class. I snicker.  

Maisie’s mouth falls open. “How does he know my House?” she mouths to me. “I swear sometimes I think he’s a psychic.” 

After what I’ve seen the last few days, nothing surprises me. We spend the rest of the class comparing and contrasting  articles that correctly use attribution and articles that ‘reek of opinionated, biased prose.’ 

While Moore isn’t looking I snoop online. When Wade Irig was six he went ballistic outside a roller coaster, claiming that somebody was going to die. Nobody believed him. They restarted the ride and one of the cars broke loose, killing the woman in line with Wade. 

No way! I can’t die, I’m invulnerable. Mostly. Wade said I’d be slaughtered. That is highly improbable.  Well, at least I know I can die. That’s encouraging. I’m just like everybody else. Mortal and able to bleed.  

I am relieved when the bell finally rings signaling the end of the first period. “Kent, a word,” Mr. Moore says. 

I head to Mr. Moore’s side.  It’s not enough that he gives me detention, he has to humiliate me too.

“Have a seat, Potter,” he says in a drawling voice, not unlike Professor Snape. I drop into the seat opposite him. I can’t be in too much trouble if he’s in a joking mood.

 “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” he slams an essay on the desk. It’s my expose on how the corporate world is destroying small family-owned businesses one at a time. 

“Your last article read like a blind woman’s grocery list,” I wince. “You spelled five relatively easy words wrong and rambled on for an entire paragraph before finally getting to your point.” he rolls his eyes at me. “I was so bored I wanted to shoot my brains out.”

“Lucky you don’t own a gun. Otherwise, I’d be an accomplice to murder.” 

“Hilarious,” Mr. Moore says humorlessly. “If you fail as a journalist, you can always fall back on your career as a comedian.” 

Metahumans don’t get to have careers or live a life. It’s too risky. There are only two options for me, death or imprisonment.  

“Seriously, Clark Joseph Kent,” Mr. Moore studies my face shrewdly. “You are deliberately writing shit. You were one of my most promising cub reporters,”  he says. “I can’t in good conscience recommend you for the internship at the Daily Star this summer if you continue to fudge your stories.” 

“You can’t be serious?” 

The Daily Star is no Daily Planet, but it’d be a step up from the Smallville Gazette. I could stay with Uncle Emil over the summer and report on real news, finally being able to make a difference. I’d be within walking distance from the famed Daily Planet. I might even bump into Perry White on a coffee break.  We’d shake hands and . . . I’d crush him and he’ll never be able to type another word. 

“Gee that sounds great, but my parents need me here,” I say. “Metropolis is so far away. I couldn’t do that to them.” 

“Your parents can survive twelve weeks without you. They’re not what is holding you back.” 

“It’s complicated,” I scratch the back of my neck. I don’t deserve that internship. There is probably someone in Metropolis more qualified than me. Someone normal. 

“You can’t wait around for Miss Lang forever,” Mr. Moore smirks. “You need to live your own life.” 

“Lana has nothing to do . . .” 

“I’m sure you’re about to tell me a riveting story about teen angst and ‘the one that got away,’” he grits his teeth. “But I don’t want to hear it. When you’re old and gray, sagging in all the wrong places, and struggling to make ends meet, you’ll look back on your Golden Years and say, ‘Gee, I wish I listened to that old wanker and went on that internship.”

“You’re probably right,” I say, not sure how else to respond to that analysis. I wish girl troubles were the only thing that made my life complicated.  

 “I expect to see better work from you,” he says. “Starting with an in-depth expose on Lex Luthor.” 

“You want me to write a fluff piece,” I scowl. 

“No. Castelli would have written a fluff piece. I want you to expose the truth.” 

I don’t see how interviewing a spoiled brat will help anyone, but I nod anyway. Mr. Moore dismisses me with a wave of his hand and I brave the halls of Smallville High. Some stragglers linger in the halls. I recognize a few of the students from New Carthage who make the trek to Smallville High every day. They huddle together by the lockers in their monogrammed clothes, trading gossip as if there is no time in the world. 

One of the girls waves at me as I pass. I wave back and duck my head, heading toward biology class. 

Something shatters underfoot. I stumble back and bend down to pick up the remains of all too familiar round spectacles.

  Billy . I jolt up and scan the deserted hallway. It’s no big deal. He probably misplaced his glasses and is waiting for me in biology class. Yeah, right. He could be playing hooky. Doubtful. I should mind my own business and go to class. 

 I slide my glasses down and brace myself for the onslaught of colors - colors that mankind has not invented a name for yet.

The school walls are as transparent as a freshwater spring. Ms. Atkins perches on the edge of her desk, her tight dress hugging her figure. The boys snicker while the girls look on mortified. Lana smiles and passes a note to Dean, who is blushing. I pull my eyes away from Lana, throat tight, and look around for Billy. Billy is the one that needs my help, not Lana. But he’s not in Biology class where he’s supposed to be. 

 It takes me a second to find him. 

I hurry to the restroom and barge in. There isn’t a single bone of originality in Kenny’s body. He grips Billy by the scruff of the neck and shoves him headfirst into the icky toilet. Gurgling protests escape Billy’s lips. Mercifully Kenny hasn’t seen me yet. Kenny pulls  Billy out of the reeking toilet, and he grabs ahold of the toilet. Spiderwebs of frost fan out from Billy’s fingertips.  

“Please!” Billy chokes out. “I won’t tell anyone! Honest,” he whimpers. A bruise the size of a plume hugs his left eye. 

“You bet you’re not,” Kenny says crisply, and Billy flinches. “I know where you live,” Kenny growls into Billy’s ear. “If you breathe a word of what you think you saw my sister do, I’ll find you and make it look like an accident.” 

“Is that a confession?” I step out of the shadows and turn on the recorder. 

My knees buckle. The smell hits me first, like ash and flesh burning. It’s as if I am drowning in a pool full of scorching acid.  I brace myself against the wall, straightening my back, trying to appear strong when all I want to do is curl in a ball and die. 

The closer Kenny gets to me the more pronounced the pain becomes. My head thunders in protest, and I swallow bile as my stomach churns. I glare at Kenny’s cursed emerald ring. 

 “Bri unearthed a family secret, and you punished her. . .” I speculate. 

 The Seltons won’t be the first family in Smallville with a dark secret. However, adding kidnapping to Kenny’s rap sheet seems a bit overkill. His sister, Claire, is one odd gal, but I can’t imagine her doing anything illegal. Well, unless Jill Kent is present.    

  Kenny sputters and gapes at me like a fish who has forgotten how to breathe.  He snaps his mouth closed.  

 “What did you do to Bri, Kent?” His nostrils flare. 

“Classic bully behavior,” I cross my arms over my chest and take a few tentative steps back. “You blame everyone around you for your problems, except for the person staring back at you in the mirror.”     

“Why, you little shit!” 

 Kenny lunges at me. My face explodes in pain. Billy screams and covers his eyes with his hands as I topple backward into one of the stalls. I hit my head against the edge of the toilet seat, and wince. I try to stand and Kenny Selton’s green, bejeweled fist cracks against my jaw, and I spit out blood. I massage my sore jaw. 

I struggle to breathe, each breath harder than the last. I brush my lip where Kenny’s emerald jewel cut through my flesh, and my fingers come back covered in red. My head spins. Bile rises in my throat. 

I try to stand and fall promptly back down. My strength fails me. The number of times I’ve had my ass handed to me by Claire’s brother, you’ll think by now I would have learned to stay away from him. 

But there was someone . . . I can’t think straight with the pain clouding my mind.    

“This is for Bri,” Kenny bites out, grabbing a wad of my hair and pulling me up. He headbutts me and there’s a distinct crack as my nose shatters. My eyes water from the pain. “And this is for Pete!” Kenny punches me in the abdomen and I keel over. 

“Clark is innocent!” Billy screams. “He won’t hurt Bri!” 

I don’t have the strength to fight back. I am vaguely aware of Billy hitting Kenny in the back of the head with a notebook, but it doesn’t make any difference; Billy might as well be a mosquito on the wall for all the difference he makes. Kenny easily elbows Billy aside. Billy falls to the floor and smartly decides to stay down, cowering in the corner under the sink.   

“Nobody wants you here, Kent,” Kenny punctuates each word with another punch to my face. The throbbing ache blocks out all other senses. “It’s your fault we’re a quarterback short!” He kicks me in the stomach. “It’s your fault Bri is MIA!”  

Hot, red, blood streams down my face. I grimace and try to block his next blow, but he manages to knock my glasses clean off, and I freeze. Kenny’s face morphs into a skeleton, and I feel like I am staring into the unforgiving face of the ghost of Blackbeard. 

I grasp blindly for something . . . anything to anchor me to the world of the living. Finally, my grip tightens around the edge of a stall door. 

Kenny’s jaw keeps moving, but I can hear nothing over the roar of my heartbeat. At the base of Kenny’s neck a worm-shaped circulatory writhes and pulses like something alive; I am in too much pain to care what it is—Kenny’s dark heart thuds between his ribcage. A fresh wave of panic chokes me. Seconds tick by, and it grows harder to breathe. Instinctively my eyes heat up, and the world gradually turns red. I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow down a scream as my eyelids burn.    

A whimper echoes through the bathroom. The sound of a fist connecting with flesh crashes through the room and weight lifts off me. 

Vaguely I register there’s a new person in the room. The expensive cologne gives him away. I chance a peek at my rescuer, but without my glasses, he looks like an average X-ray of a red-blooded male. I blink rapidly and try to focus on one detail at a time just like Dad taught me. Shiny Cucinelli loafers. Purple blazer. Hazel eyes. 

“Are you okay?” The skeleton speaks. 

“Dean?” I ask. 

“I suppose you’ll need these,” the newcomer places my glasses into my hand. I gratefully slide them back on and relax once the world stops being a horror movie. Billy’s worried-stricken face swims into focus, and next to him stands my rescuer. Lex Luthor. 

Lex wears a black baseball cap to cover his baldness. He is not amused. “You should stand up for yourself, kid,” he scolds. “Bullies can smell a spineless freshman faster than a trained hound dog.” 

“Clark is not spineless!” Billy jumps to my defense. “And he’s no Freshman. Clark was helping me.” 

“Well, he didn’t do a good job, did he?” Lex drawls. “I have a Black Belt trainer. I can give you his number if you want,”  he offers.

I shoulder my backpack. “Thanks, but I can’t afford a trainer.”

“Oh, that’s right, you’re a farmer’s son,” Lex realizes. He quickly recovers from his misstep. “If there is anything you need, let me know,” he scrunches up his face as if the words are poison dripping down his throat. “No offense, you look like Hell spit you back out.” 

I glance at my reflection in the mirror. He’s not wrong. My complexion has turned a sickly green color, and the left side of my face is rendered unrecognizable with bruises and cuts. My lip is split open, and blood trickles down my neck. Distractedly I think I look like Dracula. 

I’ll be good as new by tomorrow. “Don’t worry,” I brush some blood off my chin with the back of my sleeve. “I’m a fast healer,” I grimace as a stab of pain rockets through the upper half of my face. It hurts to breathe. 

There is a groan from the floor, and Kenny stirs. I don’t have the energy to move. Billy yelps and jumps back, crashing into me, and a whimper escapes my lips. Billy’s books topple out of his open backpack as he runs away.  He doesn’t pause to pick them up. 

Kenny opens bleary eyes and has enough time to glare menacingly at me before Lex knocks him out again with a well-aimed kick to the nose. 

I swallow down another wave of nausea and climb to my feet. “You didn’t have to do that,” I chide, bending down to pick up Billy’s things.

I take one step, and the world slips out from under me. Lex catches me before I fall on top of Kenny. “You are not fine,” he states candidly. “Let my physician check you out.” 

 Since when did people like Lex Luthor care about the well-being of a farm boy? “Just help me to my next class,” I wheeze. 

Get me far, far away from that godforsaken rock. I glare at Kenny’s ring, the edges stained black with my blood. 

“Is the nurse here any good?” Lex asks, arching one eyebrow doubtfully. “At Excelsior we had nothing but the best.” 

“No nurse,” I croak, Lex’s arm around me the only thing holding me upright. There’s a searing pain cutting through my forehead.

“Typical,” he cuts out. “Modern medicine is all but nonexistent in rural America. I’m calling my father.” 

“No, don’t do that,” I’m conscious enough to know that is a bad idea. “Class. Will be fine in a jiffy.” 

“You farmers are exceedingly stubborn,” he observes but doesn’t mention the nurse again. 

As luck would have it, Lex and I are in the same class. He deposits me into a seat in the back row. Lex keeps staring at me during the lecture. If I didn’t know better I would think this is the first time he’s seen blood. He’s not the only one gawking. Pete looks at me with a mixture of worry and distaste. Figures. The days of me recuperating at Pete’s house are over. 

“You’re a moron if you’re refusing to see a doctor,” Lex hisses. 

“Trust me, this is nothing,” my eyes droop in defeat. “I’ve had worse.” 

  Though at the moment I can’t think of anything. 

Classes are a haze of pain. The numbers in Math Class fly off the page and give me a headache. I fall asleep in Shop Class and wake up an hour later with Q-tips sticking out of my nostrils. Lunch is much of the same, except for the mystery prankster giving me a ketchup mustache. I’ve had enough of people. I pack my lunch and head to the Prop Room, hoping to find Bri. 

Bri’s friends had the same idea. They are eating lunch in the dressing room. I drop into an empty bean bag beside Billy, careful not to touch Wade. Kaya stops drawing and narrows her eyes at me. 

 “You forgot these,” I grab Billy’s textbooks out of the backpack. 

Billy grimaces. “I’m sorry I panicked!”  

“It’s okay,” I say. I’m a fast healer.” I wince; it hurts to talk. Kaya wordlessly scoots closer and places an ice pack on my swollen eye. The ice intensifies the pain. I swat her hand away weakly. “No more.” 

“It’ll help keep the swelling down,” Kaya insists. 

“I just need rest,” I tell her. She shares a concerned look with Wade. 

“He’d be fine,” Wade says through a mouthful of a sandwich. Kaya looks at me like I’m an idiot. We eat in silence, the gang occasionally exchanging charged glances. The empty pink bean bag, Bri once occupied, is a festering blister.  

“Billy,” I start carefully. “Why did Kenny think you did something to Bri?” Billy ducks his head.  

“Because he’s a total jackass,” Wade grumbles. “I won’t be surprised if he’s the one behind the disappearances.” 

“Wade,” Kaya growls.  

“Bri trusts Clark,” Billy says. “So can we.”

Kaya surveys my banged-up face dubiously. “That’s not a ringing endorsement. Bri trusts everyone.”   

“Something you two have in common,” Wade says. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I challenge. 

“You’re friends with a killer,” he states candidly. I frown, unsure of who he’s referring to. None of my friends have ever killed anyone. 

“Back off,” Billy cries. “Lex isn’t the bad guy here.” 

“Lex was present when Allenmeyer died. Bri was last seen at the Luthor Clinic. You do the math.” 

“Bri is not dead,” Kaya persists. 

“How sure are you?” Wade grounds out. “She had an appointment with the good doc and never made it home,” Wade points out. “Tell me, Kaya, where is Dr. Whitney’s office?” 

“It’s all circumstantial. Lionel Luthor employs lots of people in Smallville,” Kaya says. “For all we know she’s chasing a story,” she looks at me when she says that. “Did she say anything to you?” I shake my head, too tired to speak. 

“That’s something Clark would do,” Billy says. “Not Bri.” I glare at him. “Hey, won’t be the first time you skipped school to follow a lead.” 

“Face it, she’s been taken like the others,” Wade says. 

“What others?” I ask. 

The boys exchange heavy looks. “No,” Kaya immediately says. “The less that know the better.” 

“Clark already knows,” Billy says. “He’s one of us.” 

“He’s best friends with the Gossip Queen!” 

“You’re outvoted, Moonie,” Wade struts out of the bathroom. “This way, Clark.” 

The bean bag is so comfortable I don’t want to move. Billy takes pity on me and heaves me up with some difficulty. “Man, you’re heavy.” The room spins as I stand, my head pounding terribly. I lean on Billy for support. Something is seriously wrong. I should be healing by now. Kenny and that cursed ring are nowhere in sight.  

Billy ducks into the storage place under the stage, which like the rest of the prop room is riddled with cobwebs and dust bunnies. I hunch to fit in the small space. Blood pumps in my ears, heart pounding inside my chest. “You okay?” Billy asks. 

“I don’t like tight places,” I admit. 

“Makes sense,” Kaya says from behind me. “You’re a big guy.”  Growing up hearing horror stories about being dissected in a lab also didn’t help. 

Wade flicks the light on. It shines on a case board littered with articles from the past sixteen years – some I wrote. In the center is a Times Magazine clipping: Meteor Shower Orphans Hundreds. There’s a photograph of an EMT holding a sobbing baby Lana. My heart clenches. Local Farmer Shot During Meteor Shower .  

That’s Dad. No, that can’t be right.  He sprawls on a stretcher, blood oozing from a gunshot wound in his knee. A woman wearing a pink sweater hovers behind him. Her head is cut off in the picture, but I recognize Ma’s gold cross around her throat. She holds a baby wrapped in a crimson blanket. The baby’s head is turned away from the camera, but the thick black curls are dead a giveaway. I’m 95% sure that’s me. I was born six months before the meteor shower. Yet, the baby she holds looks only a few weeks old, maybe days. 

“It’s a hobby of Bri’s,” Wade explains. “She calls it the Wall of Weird. Every strange occurrence in Smallville can be traced back to the night of the meteor shower.” 

 “It’s a working theory,” Billy explains. “Bri thinks the green meteorites give people powers.” 

I’m only half listening. I can’t stop staring at Dad’s ugly gunshot wound. I was just a baby when it happened . . . but it’s a huge cliffnote to leave out. A military man crouches beside Dad. His black hair is cropped short to the scalp, military style.  He presses a bloodied towel to Dad’s wound. 

“People like us are being taken . . .” 

“Who’s that?” I cut Billy off and point to the FED. 

They follow my gaze and frown. Jonathan Kent getting shot is the least interesting story on the board. It’s rather ordinary next to articles like ‘Farmer Grows an Extra Finger after Freak Accident’ and ‘Family of Four Survive Bridge Collapse.’   

“No idea,” Billy says. 

“Probably a reporter,” Wade guesses. “There were tons of journalists in town during the meteor shower.” Why would a reporter be carrying a concealed gun? There must be more to the story. I skim over the article, and one line stands out, ‘Federal Agent shot a civilian due to mistaken identity.’ It screams a cover story. Everybody in Smallville knows the Kents on sight. Something stinks.    

Chapter Text

My head pounds as Jill drives over a bump in the road. Dad’s pain from the gunshot was probably much worse. I wonder if the leg still hurts after all this time.   

“I’m gonna kill my brother!” Claire screams from the passenger seat. “And make it look like an accident.” 

“I’d help you hide the body,” Jill says seriously. “What am I supposed to tell Auntie?” 

“Tell her the truth,” Claire says. “My asshat of a brother is a bully.”

“No,” I croak, sitting up. I brace my head on the headrest, my brow encased in sweat.  “Ma can’t know. She’d freak and start home-schooling me again.”   

“That’s a lot of words for someone who couldn’t hold a pencil in the Sixth period,” Claire muses. “We should take him to Pete’s.” 

“I . . . sup-pah,” I slur my words. “Take—home. Fine by morning.” My eyes drift closed, my muscles slackening. 

“You’re about as super as Joey Tribbiani,” Claire says. The cornfields fly past in a blur of white and brown.   

“There’s something wrong,” Jill says. “He should be healing by now.” 

“Then take him to a hospital!” Claire insists. 

“My family is weird about doctors. They don’t trust —” 

Her words fade away to nothing and darkness swallows me. I am alone, encased in a cocoon. Vast darkness spreads out for an eternity that has no end in sight. I soar through a sea of stars, their light the only thing keeping the demons at bay. Hard walls close around me. Fire erupts in the heavens, drowning out all noise.  

“Clark, we’re home,” Jill gently nudges my arm. I don’t make any sudden movements and open my eyes.

The smell of rich beef bourguignon wafts toward me through an open window. But I am not sure I can make it to the door, let alone the kitchen table. Every part of me aches. When I blink, it feels like a doctor is slowly cutting me open with surgical tools. The cold surface of the car window does wonders for my bruised face. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to Pete’s place?” she asks for the millionth time, sharing a worried glance with Claire. I shake my head. 

Pete made his position quite clear. He will not want to be bunkmates with an ‘alien.’ Our friendship is as dead as the people who sank on the Titanic. I can no longer hide at Pete’s house when the scrapes and bruises are too severe to conceal. 

“No love among bros,” Claire shakes her head in dismay. 

“Auntie is going to murder me when she sees Clark,” Jill sighs.

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” Claire promises.    

With some effort I sit upright, my head spinning. I clutch the door handle, willing the world to stop spinning. “Just act normal,” I instruct them. “Normalish for you,” I add. “There’s an off chance Ma might not notice,” I climb out of the car and promptly fall on my face.  

“Idiot,” Jill mutters, dashing to help me stand. With tender hands, I didn’t think Jill possessed, she rubbed some dirt off my chin with the base of her thumb. 

Claire stomps out of the car, slamming the door behind her. Smoke curls off her fingertips. She looks anywhere but my face. Claire’s eyes turn crimson, and I feel like I’m staring into the unforgiving gaze of a forest fire wrecking everything on its path. The snow under her feet starts to melt. I am thankful her anger is not aimed at me. I don’t need to be a psychic to know she’s beating herself up for what happened.   

 “Easy, Claire,” I wheeze. “If anyone is to blame it’s me, not you,” I say, my voice weary. 

“Now you’re being delusional,” Claire seethes. “Kenny is the one that should be sorry.” 

“Maybe Claire is right, Clark,” Jill says tentatively. “We talked it over while you were catching some Zs. We should tell your mom the truth.” Jill offers uncertainly as we step through the gate. “You can’t keep facing him at school. It’s unhealthy.” 

“She’s right,” Claire says. “Kenny will be there tomorrow and the day after that. And he sleeps with that ring on. It’s disgusting.” 

He’s only beaten me up seven times since middle school. It’s not that big of a deal. I’ve gotten used to Kenny’s impromptu lessons.  

 “I am swell,” I push off Jill. “You can’t tell Ma . . . she’ll never let me go back to school!” 

“I don’t understand you,” Jill shakes her head in wonderment. “A week ago, we couldn’t get you to leave the farm, and now you’re as eager as one of Ms. Frizzle’s star pupils all of a sudden.” 

“I like learning,” I jump to my defense.

Jill grits her teeth. “Knowledge is not worth your life.” I disagree wholeheartedly. Knowledge is power. “Did something more happen you’re not telling me about?” 

Claire and I lock eyes. Without having to ask, I know we’re both thinking of Dr. Whitney. Silently she pleads with me to stay silent. I thought she told Jill everything. They’re Bonnie and Clyde reincarnate.  

“Please Jill,” I ignore her questions.“I’ve never asked you for anything in my life. Don’t breathe a word of what happened with Kenny to Mom.” 

Jill looks like she wants to argue. “If you can make it inside without falling on your face, you’ve got yourself a deal Speed Boy.” 

“Easy,” I say, letting go of Jill. She watches me, her face colored with doubt as I limp to the door. I get to the door without making a total buffoon of myself. 

“Beginner's luck,” Jill says. 

“I’m so sorry,” Claire shakes her head. “This is all my fault.” 

“Hey, Calcifer,” Jill embraces Claire. “Listen to me. Kenny is to blame. You’re nothing like that monster.” 

“I should have been there,” Claire persists. “I could have stopped him.” 

“Trust me,” Jill winks at me. “Clark is quite capable of taking care of himself.” Claire looks doubtfully between the two of us. “Now come on, dinner is getting cold!” 

“No,” Claire steps back. “I can’t go in there . . . not like this.” she tries to hide her smoking hands under her jacket, and the fabric starts to burn. With one look she douses the flames. “I need some air.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Jill asks. 

“No,” Claire shakes her head. “Clark needs you.”  

“Don’t do anything stupid without me,” Jill pecks her on the cheek. 

“Never,” Claire promises. She heads in the direction of the barn.  

“The two of you are quite a pair,” Jill grumbles. “If I had powers I wouldn’t hide on a farm,” Jill rolls her eyes and tosses the keys onto the countertop. Mom smiles warmly as we file into the kitchen. A pot of beef bourguignon simmers over the stove. I suck in a grateful breath and grimace as my chest throbs in protest. I feel a smidge better. Mama’s cooking works like magic. I’ve died and gone to heaven. 

“I went to school too, does that mean I get a Hogwarts feast?” Jill pouts as she assumes her usual position at the end of the counter, right next to the landline on the wall. Mama winks at Jill and sets a plate of fried cheese sticks before her. Jill gasps. “You should have mental breakdowns more often, baby cuz,” she teases, elbowing me in the side meaningfully.  

I  struggle to stay upright as my head spins. Jill is a real piece of work. She’s only trying to get Ma’s attention. I play off my discomfort as a clumsy moment and knock over the pen holder. Pens and pencils tumble over the countertop. Mama isn’t fooled for a second. She cups my face between her hands and studies my face. The sudden movement causes my hood to slide off. 

“Oh, my God, Clark, you’re bleeding!” Mama’s eyes widen in horror. She grabs a damp towel and presses it against my mouth; instantly it turns scarlet.“You’re bleeding,” she repeats, her frame starting to tremble. 

I whack her hand away. “Tis but a scratch,” I grumble. “Nothing a warm meal can’t fix right up,” I offer her what I hope is a carefree grin, and grimace. It’s too painful to smile. 

“Clark, this is no joking matter!” Mama folds her hands together tightly. “There is not much that can hurt you, now answer me straight, what happened?” 

 “No chance of you making Detective, that’s for sure,” I point out. I wince as she presses harder on my lip with the cloth, Mama’s gaze turbulent. 

Jill giggles. “Well, his tongue certainly isn’t injured. That counts for something.” 

“You know those rocks can kill you. You could have died!” she says in a high shrill voice. Now she’s being a Drama Queen. Sure, I am a tiny bit allergic to meteor rocks, but plenty of people have stranger allergies. But I doubt a peanut allergy would cause someone’s nose to bleed all day. It probably did not help that I had the eighth period with Kenny. Mama releases me and starts to pace back and forth in the narrow kitchen. 

“Need to call Pennyworth,” Mama mumbles, starting to wear a path on the rug.  I frown at her. What does Alfred Pennyworth have to do with anything? 

“Promised he took care of all the meteor rocks . . . should have never trusted a teenager!” Mama squeezes the life out of the hand towel, her face crimson. “Self-absorbed little boy!” she runs a cloth under the faucet, mumbling a prayer under her breath.  

“Take a chill pill Ma,” I say, but she’s not listening..  “I’ll be good as new by tomorrow.” 

“He always is,” Jill adds her two cents. I glare at her,  “Oops,” she hiccups, too late she realizes her mistake. 

“This has happened before!” Mama whirls on Jill furiously as if she were the one who hurt me. 

I share an uneasy glance with my cousin. We’re both thinking the same thing: everything was simpler before the accident. Mama would never let me go to school if she knew the school bully wore a meteor-studded ring. The way I see it, Kenny is my karma for all those times I’ve misused my powers. 

“Jill, what are you not telling me?” Mama’s hands fly to her hips. 

I silently plead with Jill to come up with something - anything to get Ma off my back Jill glances sidelong at me. For a heartbeat, I fear she’d tell Ma the truth. It’s a miracle Dad isn’t back yet. 

“Nothing to tell, Auntie,” she beams. “Clark was being his usual clumsy self and fell in a ditch near Shuster’s field,” Jill lies smoothly, not missing a beat. “There were a few meteor rocks in the ditch.” 

Mama narrows her eyes. “What were you doing in Shuster’s Field?” 

“We learned about Plein air painting in art today - Ms. Daly thought it’ll be fun to paint outside.” Jill lies smoothly.

 I can’t help smiling. One truth wrapped up in a falsehood. She’s incorrigible. I am thrilled she’s the one lying and not me. When I lie, I get all sweaty in the wrong places and can’t seem to stop breaking things in the near vicinity. 

Mama purses her lips, her gaze colored with doubt. “Clark, is that true?” 

“Yes, ma’am,” I squeak, aimlessly starting to twiddle my thumbs. “Scout’s honor,” I salute her and knock the plate off the counter. 

“Goddamn klutz,” Jill swears and hurries to save her snack. 

“Young lady, should I find out you are lying to me, there will be severe consequences,” Mama states seriously. 

“What are you gonna do?” Jill mocks. “Make me muck out the horses stall, mop the floors? I already do all that!” 

“Don’t you dare take that tone with me Jill Eileen Kent! If your father were here he would wash your mouth out with soap!” 

“Don’t bring Pa into this!” Jill screams, her face turning as pink as her hair. “You’re pissed because your little star sweeper has a booboo. And you are powerless to help him.” 

“Go to your room!” Mama retorts, turning beet red.

“Gladly!” Jill announces. She grabs a bag of vegan chocolate chip cookies from the pantry, offers me a sympathetic look, and stomps outside. Ma doesn’t even notice Jill is going the wrong way. 

 Mama pours some rubbing alcohol on a cloth and wipes my face. I swallow down a scream. Each time she dabs my forehead it feels like a shard of glass is digging into my brain. I fear I am going to pass out from the pain, but Mama starts to quietly sing, ‘Broomstick Cowboy,’ and her lilting voice anchors me to the world. Her voice takes me back to a simpler time; a time when I was afraid of the boogeyman under my bed, a time when I collected the strangest insects I could find, a time when I was somewhat of a normal kid. 

She reaches the lyric ‘And then you’ll have to learn to hate - you’ll have to learn to kill,’ and I can’t take it any longer. There’s something in her voice that makes the dam I’ve carefully built the last few months break, treacherous tears leaking out.

“Ma, why am I so different?” I ask. “Am I a monster?” 

“Oh honey,” Mama sighs and hugs me to her chest. Mama can make me feel good just by walking into the room. She has one of those smiles that can warm the chilliest corners of the North Pole. A few gray streaks mix in with her red hair, which she wears loose around her shoulders, but I never think of her as old. When the light touches her eyes, they sparkle like miniature stars. 

“There is nothing wrong with you,” she reassures, planting a wet kiss on my forehead. I wince. “Everybody has their sack of rocks to carry, your bag is just bigger than most, sweetie.” 

“Except my rocks can kill me,” I snort. Or hurt those close to me. If Bri’s theory is right, normal humans get superpowers when near the strange green rocks. I get a serving of pain with a side of humble pie. What does that make me? 

“What am I?” I ask. 

Mama’s mouth forms a thin line. “You’re my son, Clark,” Mama hugs me towards her and kisses the top of my head. “That’s all that matters,” she brushes my tears away. She’s hiding something, but I don’t have the energy to argue with her. My eyes droop in defeat and I fall into an uncomfortable slumber. 

 There’s a jarring pain in my head as I wake. I don’t know how long I was out.  When I look outside it’s night.  I lay sprawled across the couch, the cold air stabbing my bare chest. 

“I’m worried Emil,” Mama says. I crane my neck to get a better glimpse of her. All I see is her silhouette through the screen door that separates the kitchen from the living room. She balances the phone on one shoulder. It would be easy to use my powers to see her clearer, but I don’t have the energy to remove my glasses. 

“He should be healed by now,” she pauses as Uncle Emil says something on the other line. “Yes, I cleaned and dressed the wound . . . honestly, I wasn’t born yesterday,” she hisses, a note of irritation in her tone. She sighs sharply. “No. I don’t think it’s in his system,” she grumbles. 

“Of course I’m sure, Clark won’t lie to me,” Mama thunders. “He’s a good boy.” 

I wince and it has nothing to do with the pain. I did lie. I lied to protect her from the truth. Hasn’t she done the same? She hid Dad’s gunshot wound and so much more. 

“No, out of the question!” Mama screams. “He doesn’t need to know. The technicalities of his birth have nothing to do with his injur —-” I hear muffled screaming on the other end. I flinch. “I know what is best for my son —” 

“YOU CAN’T HIDE HIM ON A FARM FOREVER!” 

I hear Uncle Emil’s booming voice as if he were sitting beside me. There’s a sharp WHANK as Mama slams the phone down. “Lord have mercy.” That’s the closest she’d ever come to cursing. Through the screen door, I watch as her form slouches in defeat and she wipes at her eyes. 

She takes a fortifying breath and wanders into the living room. Her face is flushed. Other than the tightness around her eyes, there is nothing to suggest she is upset. She smiles affectionately at me and fluffs up the pillows around my head. “How are you feeling, son?” 

I open my mouth to say ‘Better,’ and promptly close it. I’m not sure I have the stomach to lie to her again. “My head hurts.” 

Any other mother would give her kid some Motrin, but we learned the hard way medicine does not affect me. Tenderly Ma pries the bandage off and inspects the cut. Her frown deepens and she grits her teeth. “I’d be damned, he was right.” she laughs mournfully. 

“Uncle Emil usually is,” I grit my teeth as another stab cuts through my scalp. Flames spring to life, their fiery fingers slithering across my brow. Sweat trickles down my spine. Blood pulses under the surface. 

“This will hurt slightly,” she warns. “Hold my hand, Clark.” I shake my head. Even in my weakened state, I could hurt her. I can hear nothing through the aching ringing in my head. I blink, silently counting to one hundred. The prick of a tweezer digs into my head. I bite down on my tongue to keep from screaming, eyes flaring up.

 “I’m sorry, sweetie . . . almost got it.” She carefully pulls out the tweezers, which have a shard of the foul, green rock clasped between the tips. Slowly the pain starts to subside. The irksome woodpecker drilling in my skull flies away.  

Fear coats Mama’s features as she gapes at the rock. I can see the gears turning in her head as her mind floods with countless scenarios, each worse than the first. Wordlessly she dashes to the door and flings the cursed rock outside. 

“So,” Mama muses, slamming the door behind her and facing me.  “You fell in a ditch full of meteor rocks.” 

“It was a super deep ditch,” I sit upright and brace my arms against my knees.  

“Oh, really?” Mama says dubiously, crossing her arms. Now that immediate danger is gone, untapped anger lurks under the surface.  “You must have hit your head hard.” 

“Yeah it was ugly,” I say. 

“Well, then I guess I have no choice but to report Frank Shuster to the authorities for worker endangerment. Shame, the poor man is already dealing with so much – what with his wife in hospice and a son turning to a life of crime to make ends meet. The last thing he needs is a lawsuit.” 

“No, you can’t!” I scream. “It wasn’t his fault! He’s innocent.” 

“You mean to say, you never fell at Shuster’s Field?” she frowns, two veins pulsing on her forehead dangerously. “I can’t protect you, Clark, if you are not honest with me.”

“I don’t need your protection!” I fling the quilt off and jump to my feet. “I am sixteen years old — in some cultures that’s a grown adult.” 

“You could be sixty years old, and that won’t change anything. You will always be my baby. I can’t bear it if someone hurts you. Now tell me, Clark, what happened?” 

“Ma,” I sigh, combing my fingers through my hair. I want to call her an overbearing, helicopter mom, but the sad, pathetic way she’s looking at me makes me hesitate. “It doesn’t matter – I’m fine now,” which is true enough. 

“Doesn’t matter?” Mama says incredulously. “If there is someone with a weapon out there that can kill you, I need to know. NOW.” 

“There isn’t,” I say, the lie coming out easier than the truth. 

“I do not appreciate being lied to, Clark,” she says in a deadly quiet voice.

“That makes two of us,” I say. 

“When have I ever lied to you?” 

“Why didn’t you tell me Dad was shot when I was a baby?” 

Mama gasps, faltering for half a second. “Nothing worth telling. A confused man shot your father. Thank God, he’s behind bars now.” Her tone leaves no room for further discussion and she busies her hands, fluffing my pillow.   

I look down at my chest, Bri’s words echoing inside my head. The implications leave me with a sour taste in my mouth. It can’t be true. But I look nothing like my parents. They say I take after Grandad. That could be another lie. I wrap the blanket around myself and struggle to my feet. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” 

“Away from you!” I slam the door behind me and head upstairs.  

Fuzzball is waiting for me on the bed. Her ears twitch when she sees me. I scratch the back of her head as I sit down. She nuzzles me in the chest and sprawls in my lap, offering me her belly. “Sometimes, you’re more dog than cat,” I laugh and rub her tummy. She gives a satisfied purr and stretches. “You’ll tell me the truth if you knew it,” I say. “You’re the only one I can trust.” She meows loudly in agreement.

 I’m a reporter . . . or I will be someday. Uncovering secrets is what I do. I read through articles from the year of the meteor shower on my computer, disheartened by how evasive they are. The Feds were in Smallville to clean up satellite debris. But then why shoot a farmer? On the surface, those two events don’t seem related. Yet, there’s an interview with nine-year-old, Cyrus Krupp, who claims to have seen a spaceship during the meteor shower. Authorities dismissed his story as a trauma-induced hallucination. I almost dismiss Krupp’s story completely, except the drawing he drew of the spaceship matches the photograph I saw hanging in Dr. Whitney’s office. 

My throat closes up. The hard, scary truth settling in. I’m not from Kansas. 

‘Everything changed the day you arrived,” Cassandra Fotakis had said.

Arrived not born. 

‘You can’t hide him on a farm forever!’ 

My parents weren’t hiding me. I was part of the Smallville family, free to go where I pleased and hang out with whoever I wanted. There were no secrets. The Kents were an open book. Except for that one thing. ‘If people ever learned what you could do, son, they’d take you away from us and dissect you like a frog.’  

No human could do what I do. It was the only explanation, but it was so crazy and far-fetched, I couldn’t believe it. I would have seen a spaceship in the barn, in the storm cellar, somewhere . . . Babies don’t just fall out of the sky. I couldn’t possibly be from the stars. This was insane. My parents are Martha and Jonathan Kent. I am Clark Joseph Kent, born and raised in Smallville. I was born during the most brutal blizzard Kansas had seen to date. The storm was so bad Ma had to give birth at home–I’ve seen the photos in the family album.        

 Photos can be staged. Mom drilled the importance of being honest in me. Could she have lied on such a grand scale? Miss Lie Detector? Is my whole life a lie? I have parents somewhere out there, waiting for me. 

I look up at the canopy of vast stars. I’ve always felt a kinship with the stars. Even though we’re so far apart, it helps to know someone in the big universe is looking at the same star. The winking stars feel like scalpels cutting me open. I rip my gaze away, blindsided by a vision of me strapped to a medical table. Faceless doctors probe me from every direction.      

That’s why the FEDs shot Dad. He was protecting me. “The alien,” I say out loud. A startled laugh escapes from me. It’s too crazy to be true, even if all the evidence points in that direction. There’s no spaceship, so therefore I am not an alien. I’ve allowed Pete to get into my head. There are a thousand reasons a FED would shoot a farmer. At the moment I can’t think of anything. 

The screen beeps, alerting me to a message. I don’t feel like talking to another human. I force myself to open WordBattle and play a few rounds. Words make sense. People might lie but words are just letters on paper. It’s the people who string the letters together that are liars and cheats. I hear Ma slamming pots around downstairs. A few minutes later, I smell cake cooking in the oven. I point blankly asked her, and she continued to lie to my face.

But was it a lie? All she did was reassure me I was her son. Why would she do that, unless I wasn’t her son to begin with? 

LadyTruth: Don’t take this wrong way Skywalker. U seem 😡 

Is it that obvious? I debate not answering, but she knows I’m already online. I sigh and type a response. 

Skywalker16: Nothing for you to worry about. 

LadyTruth: Pro @ disfunctional families. 

I gasp, briefly wondering if she’s a mind reader. After the week I’ve had, nothing would surprise me. I fight the urge to X-ray my chest and find more abnormalities. 

Skywalker16: How could you possibly know I’m having family issues? 

LadyTruth: Not hard to figure out you live in a small town nuthing of import happens so you’re either having girl problems or family problems. You wouldn’t be talking to me if you had a gf so therefore family problems. 

I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s shown a knack for reading between the lines before. 

LadyTruth: Did your mom forget your birthday?    

 Skywalker16: No

LadyTruth: That’s good. My Dad always forgets

Skywalker16: That’s rough. A father is someone you should be able to rely on. 

LadyTruth: He cares more about his job than me.

I know what she’s doing and it’s not going to work. I have years of experience with Lana. I am not going to let her trick me into spilling my guts. LadyTruth might be fun occasionally . . . but at the end of the day, she’s still a stranger online. 

I’m saved from having to respond when the laptop screen starts to flash blue, and the familiar Skype ringtone blares into the room. I recognize the pixelated profile pic of Plankton and inwardly groan. I’m surprised he’s calling, not just calling, he wants to video chat, face to face. The last time we talked he accused me of being the source of all the bad things in Smallville. He might be right.  It’ll be easy to ignore his call and save myself from the stress, but I’m not ready to give up on our friendship. 

Pete’s taut face comes into focus,  a stark contrast against the white pillow. His face is swallowed in shadow save the white of his eyes. He opens his mouth, the light catching the tip of his teeth. And sharply closes it. I’m going to have to be the one to break the ice. He’s too scared of me to speak.

“You look cozy,” I say. 

“Yeah,” Pete says, eyes skittish as a stoat. “Not much to do, but lay in bed,” Pete says. I’m not sure how to respond to that. There’s nothing I could say to lift his spirits. 

I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’m sorry,” I say, at a loss for words. “I know I already apologized, but I wish I could have . . . ” 

“So it’s true,” Pete cuts me off. I wonder if he’s referring to what Bri saw or any of the strange occurrences from the past week. It’s a small town. News spreads fast. Pete’s gaze drifts to the cut on my forehead, which had scabbed over the last few minutes. “Why didn’t you come?” Pete demands. “We could have played Super Mario like old times.” 

Except it’s not like old times. Pete wishes he never met me. It would have been easier for everyone if I were never born . . . or never arrived. I run a hand over my face, wincing as I scrape against the torn flesh, reopening the scab. 

Pete audibly gasps, almost shrieking. “You’re still bleeding.”    

“Why should you care?” 

“We’re still friends . . . I don’t want to see you hurt.” 

“Really?” I ask, scarcely believing my ears. His concern takes me by surprise. It’s a simple enough question, but it ignites a spark of hope inside me I haven’t felt in a long time. 

“You are going to be okay, right?” His asks. 

“I’ll survive,” I say through a big yawn. “Nothing a long nap and tender love can’t cure.” I wait for him to call me a Mama’s boy. He simply stares slackjawed at the blood on my forehead. 

“That’s good.” More silence. Minutes that feel like an eternity tick by. I half expect him to hang up right there. He doesn’t have to concern himself with me anymore. He no longer needs to be the one who jumps to my defense. He made his stance perfectly clear. 

 “Look Clark, I said some pretty nasty things the other day . . .”  

“It’s okay,” I stop him right there. Daphne probably put him up to this ill-advised apology. “I deserved every word of it. I ruined your life. If I could go back in time to that moment I would do . . . ” 

“Clark,” he snaps. “For one second - can you stop being a sacrificial idiot and let the sidekick talk?” I smile. For a moment there, he sounded like his old self. 

“You’re not a sidekick . . .”  I start to protest. 

“What did I just say?” 

“Right, sorry,” I say. “I’m all ears.” 

“I’m not proud of the things I said the other day. You might not be my favorite person right now, but you’re no lab rat either. I hope you know I don’t want you to end up as one.” 

“It could be worse, Clark,” Pete admits begrudgingly. “I could have been beheaded. That would suck. I’m very fond of this head - it’s a lady's magnet.” 

“It still sucks,” I hate to point out the obvious. “No amount of joking is gonna change that.” 

“Wow,” Pete marvels. “Great pep talk, Oprah.” 

“Sorry,” I mutter. I am having a hard time looking on the positive side right now.  

“I know you are sorry,” Pete consents. “I just need more time . . .” he lets that unfinished thought hang in the air between us. More time to heal , more time to adjust , more time to forgive you.  

Guilt burrows deep in my stomach. 

“You know,” I say after a long pause. “A friend of mine told me that those with spinal cord injuries, about two in eight of them, might eventually regain the use of their legs,” I recall LadyTruth’s words of encouragement the other night; though I am not sure I believe her, I’ve gotta stay strong for Pete’s sake. “I believe in you Pete Ross, you can be part of that two percent that heals.” 

“Who told you that piece of science fiction?” Pete asks with a hint of accusation in his tone. For a second I fear he’s angry with me. I was only trying to shine some light on a really bad situation, but I’m hardly qualified to give advice when I’m starting to doubt if there will ever be a light at the end of the tunnel.  

 “It’s definitely not Lana,” Pete answers his question. I could be imagining things, but there seems to be a trickle of amusement in his voice that wasn’t there before.“She doesn’t have the brains for that.” 

The tension in my shoulder blades relaxes. I catch the white of his smile. “Lana is . . . uh - smart in her own way,” I stumble over my words, unsure of where this conversation is going. Lana is the only girl I know who can write lyrics in her sleep. She makes Taylor Swift look like an amateur. 

“So that leaves only one other option,” Pete says, ignoring my comment about Lana.  “Clark Kent has a new lady friend!” Pete says with forced enthusiasm. 

“You don’t have to do that Pete,”  I sigh heavily, rubbing my tired eyes.   

“Do what?” Pete asks, confusion ringing in his voice 

“Pretend everything is back to normal . . . pretend to be my friend,” I say dejectedly. “I am not normal.” 

“No shit Sherlock,” Pete marvels. “You’re from outer space!” 

“Gee thanks,” I grumble, his words cutting deep. Hearing it spit out so bluntly makes me want to throw up. It can’t be true. There’s no spaceship. Smallville is all I’ve ever known. 

“Goddamnit,” Pete curses. “I did not mean to say that out loud . . . it came out all wrong. I’m sorry man.” This is the second time he’s called me an alien. It’s not funny anymore. Never really was. 

Alien. Freak. Mutant. At the end of the day, I am all of the above. “Sometimes I think I’m not human too.” 

I glance at the Meta Zone flyer inside the backpack. I shouldn’t be able to Dr. Rofara’s smiling face. A human would have just seen a backpack. Would the cure even work on someone like me? It’s my only hope to have a normal life. Money be damned. I’ve been saving up for a new computer. It’ll be a small price to pay.   

Pete lets a slew of curses out. “I am not very good at this,” he admits. “Listen, Clark, you are human,” Pete says candidly. “You’re human where it counts.” The conviction in his voice surprises me. 

I wish I could believe him. “This human managed to rob you of your legs,” I remind him. 

There’s a grunt of frustration on the other end. “What happened to Mister ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life?’” 

“He came to his senses and realized real life is not a Monty Python movie,” I admit begrudgingly, scanning the stack of DVDs on my shelf with a heavy heart. The days when the three musketeers came together to analyze every little detail in a moving picture are long gone. Pete will never trust me again. And Lana . . . Well, Lana might as well be on another planet altogether.   

“I’m really trying here, Clark,” Pete says almost pleadingly. “You think talking to you is easy?” You’re the one that ruined my life , hovers unspoken between us. 

“Nobody is making you talk to the alien next door!” I say sharply. 

“You’re not gonna let that go,” Pete groans. “It was a figure of speech, nothing more . . .” 

I’m done having this conversation. I slam the computer shut, head reeling from the pain and the fear that Pete might be right.

Chapter Text

Every single person in Smallville has come out of the woodwork to help with the preparations for The Festival of Light. It's a stupid festival. The people of Smallville are always concocting new reasons to celebrate, even when nothing is worth celebrating. Some old fart breaks the record for fastest pie eater in the world - Pie Day is born. A meteor shower annihilates half of Smallville’s population and some loony from Loonsville thinks it’s a good idea for the survivors to celebrate with a big bang. Lanterns galore. Decorations that make a Wayne Gala look like a circus. More food than you can eat. Oh, and of course more pie. An abundance of it. Yes, siree, Smallville loves its pie.

The Kent General Store has become Grand Central Station for the hungry and exhausted locals. Every year when The Festival of Light rolls around, Ma transforms The Kent General Store into a makeshift diner that rivals Big Belly Burger. People of all ages and sizes have squeezed into the tiny shop to escape the stress of preparations and get a taste of Mama K’s famous cooking. It is so crowded that a line winds around the curb. 

I should be helping her serve, but I couldn’t stomach another second there. It’s an accident waiting to happen. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. It’s no less stressful outside. The Town Square crawls with innocent bystanders, all bundled up against the elements. Innocent bystanders are put at risk just by breathing the same air as me. Colorful booths are set up down Mainstreet standing out like M&Ms in whipped cream against the backdrop of snow and bricks. 

A station is set up for the children to create lanterns in honor of the people lost during the meteor shower. Jordan locks eyes with me from across the street. I quickly break eye contact, feeling inexplicably guilty. As of today, Bri Routh has been missing for five days. And it’s all my fault. I could have stopped Dr. Whitney. 

Or the rumors are true and she ran away.   

  At least outside, there is room to breathe and ample area to move my clumsy legs. Mr. Dyke, the owner of Toots Sweets, wasted no time in putting this ‘slacker’ to work. He expects me to have two hundred pullout chairs lined up by the stage in one hour and then set up the tables. I lug a stack of chairs to the front of the stage, exhaling sharply. I lean against the stage, pretending to be out of breath. 

“Put your back into Kent!” Mr. Dyke screams from across the cobbled street, waving a clipboard midair like a flag. “At your age, your forefathers built this town, brick by brick! They were no whimps!” 

“Yes, Mr. Dyke,” I scream back. I haul chairs out of the Town Hall ten at a time. 

I set up another row of chairs and tense, my neck prickling. A pair of dead eyes drill into the back of my skull, their gaze calculating and precise. I sag in defeat and pretend not to notice my chilling shadow, keeping my movements slow and battered. I bend down to retrieve a stack of chairs. I glimpse a puff of white hair reflected in a nearby window. A pair of crimson, dead eyes stare at me. For a second the reflection ripples and a grotesque metallic face stares back at me, red as blood and cold as death. I gasp and drop the chairs. Fear burns in my stomach. But when I face my stalker, there is no scary robot, only the wrinkly face of Dr. Whitney. He smiles, not breaking eye contact with me as he wraps LED lights around a tree.  My heart pounds so loudly that I’m sure the doctor can hear me across the street. I don’t like how he’s looking at me as if I’m a unique specimen in his lab. 

A shrill beep echoes and I jump out of my skin. I take soothing breaths to calm my nerves, finally remembering the old iPhone stashed in my pocket, and pull it out. There’s a notification from WordBattle. I hurriedly log in, grateful for the distraction, but I can still feel Dr. Whitney studying me. Dean timidly helps Dr. Whitney wrap lights around trees with the nervous energy of a cornered deer. He looks pleadingly between me and the doctor. 

 There are five unread messages from LadyTruth, all ranging from ‘Did Dolly eat you?’ to ‘I’m bored wanna play?’ 

I swallow hard. I don’t owe LadyTruth an explanation for my absence. Talking to her is a mistake. She’s another person I could hurt. Talking to a girl online was safer, but it couldn’t last forever. In time I would hurt her too. But wasn’t I doing that, by ghosting her?  Ignoring her wasn’t the answer.       

Skywalker16: Ever heard of books? They’re these little dandy things that allow you to travel the world free of charge. 

I hold my breath, waiting for a response, all the while wishing one of my powers was invisibility. I feel like an exposed vein an inch from being punctured by a needle. I swallow hard, keeping a weary eye on Dr. Whitney who has taken up small talk with Billy. I’m losing my mind. There was nothing out of the ordinary going on. I must have imagined the robotic reflection.  

 A response pops up on the screen. 

LadyTruth: I didn’t know you could read. 

Skywalker16: Are you implying farmers can’t read? 

LadyTruth: Well, Idk maybe? 

LadyTruth: They don’t exactly have time to read or the need to know how. 

I can’t believe her. This is a classic example of an uneducated city dweller, who knows squat about agriculture. Another reason to cut all ties with the online girl. She would never understand me. 

Skywalker16: Literacy is a necessary skill set to have, even on a farm. When the tractor breaks down you need to know how to read the manual so you can fix the problem yourself. Keeping track of the equipment on hand can prove difficult if you don’t know how to write an inventory list. 

LadyTruth: LOL 

LadyTruth: It is too easy to mess with you. 

My cheeks grow warm. I knew that. Of course, I knew she was messing with me all along. LadyTruth makes me smile without trying. Yet, so does Lana. 

Skywalker16: I’m an idiot. 

LadyTruth: A cute idiot. 

LadyTruth: At least I imagine you to look like Dawson Leery. A cute dork :) 

I have no idea who that is but from the sounds of it, he must be something special. I do a quick Google search for him and scowl when I see him wearing a red and yellow flannel shirt similar to the one I am wearing right now. Well, our fashion sense is at least on par, but otherwise, we look nothing alike. 

Skywalker16: I’m not blonde. 

LadyTruth: Burnet?   

Skywalker16: No and you spelled brunette wrong. 

LadyTruth: redhead? 

LadyTruth: God, please say no. I despyz redheads. 

Skywalker16: What did redheads ever do to you? 

LadyTruth: They’re all pigs with a personallitty disorder. 

LadyTruth: Just my luck, the only sane guy in my life is Ginger. 

Skywalker16: No I’m not, but a close friend of mine is a redhead. She’s no pig.  

Talking to LadyTruth is a mistake. Lana would be crestfallen if she ever found out about her. Lana is my best friend, we’re supposed to tell each other everything, not a stranger online. I need to let LadyTruth down easy. We’re not even a couple, why is this so difficult? 

LadyTruth: Trust me she is. She just hasn’t shown her true colors yet. 

Skywalker16: I’ve known her all my life. 

LadyTruth: Then why are you talking to me instead of her? 

Skywalker16: It’s complicated. 

It shouldn’t be. When two people care so much about each other, like Lana and I do, it shouldn’t be hard to discern the next step in their relationship. Under different circumstances, we could have been the town’s Ross and Rachel. I’m too different.  

LadyTruth: No it’s not . 

LadyTruth: Let me guess. You are childhood friends and have been in love with 

                    her since you were seven, but she is now with another man. 

I hadn’t even considered that. I wasn’t the only guy in town who had the hots for Lana. Lana could have the pick of any man in Smallville she wanted. Now that I think back, Dean and Lana seemed cozy at the Talon. I hope so, he’s a good guy.  He can love her in a way I can’t. 

LadyTruth: Relax, I’m not psychic. I’ve seen the movie. 

LadyTruth: Good news, eventually the best friend gets the girl in the end.  

LadyTruth: But she’s a redhead, so that doesn’t bode well for you. 

I shake my head and laugh. She’s incorrigible. 

Skywalker16 : You can’t have all this animosity towards redheads for no reason. What 

happened? 

LadyTruth: I’m sorry I don’t answer personal questions. 

Skywalker16: It’s okay for you to ask me personal questions but when I do it it’s wrong?  

LadyTruth: Asking for details on your physical appearance does not count as a personal 

                    question. If we were on Facebook I would already know what you look like. 

Skywalker16: I don’t have Facebook.

LadyTruth: Gee. What planet are you from? 

Skywalker16: Earth . . . I hope 

I try to ignore the big crater opening up in my chest. A small voice in my head asks, ‘What if Pete was right?’ But he can’t be. Things like that only happen in Sci-Fi movies. I am not E.T. The more I think about it the crazier it seems. It’s not like my parents just happened to find a spaceship in a cornfield. If they had, there would be a spaceship in the storm cellar and there isn’t. The mere thought is laughable. No. I am Clark Kent. Jonathan and Martha Kent’s, very human son. Albeit I have a bit more issues than most, but human nonetheless. 

LadyTruth: Of course, you’re an Earthman! What kind of answer is that? 

LadyTruth: But how freaking cool would that be if we were aliens! 

Skywalker16: Technically we are. We’re just one planet in a vast galaxy. 

Somewhere out there, someone is looking up at us and calling us aliens. 

LadyTruth: Huh, never thought of it that way. You’re not half bad for an alien. 

Skywalker16: Right back at you alien girl. 

LadyTruth: See? 

LadyTruth: Isn’t it killing you not knowing what I look like? 

Skywalker16: No. I’m happy imagining you as Elizabeth Taylor. 

LadyTruth sends the rolling eyes emoji and I laugh. 

LadyTruth: Why am I not surprised? It’s no wonder I imagine you as Dawson Leery, 

                       you're such an old movie buff. 

Skywalker16: Black hair not blonde. 

LadyTruth: Not much, but I’ll take what I can get. 

LadyTruth: I have dark-brown hair in case you were wondering. 

  “Do my eyes deceive me, or is that a blushing Clark Kent?” 

I freeze and my face grows hot. Maisie Kidder skips over to me holding a lantern like an Easter basket. She wears a loose green turtleneck, which brings out flecks of green in her gray eyes, her choppy blonde hair framing her rosy face.  

“I’m not blushing!” I protest, pocketing the phone before anyone can notice. Maisie watches me with a twinkle of amusement as I trip over the leg of a chair and fall on my rear end ungallantly. Maisie bends down and helps me stand. 

“That was LadyTruth wasn’t it?” she asks with a teasing smile. 

“What . . . no . . . I mean how . . . not important,” I stumble over my words making a complete idiot of myself, and right the chair I tripped over. 

“Jill told Claire and Claire told her brother, who told Dean who then told Lana, who then told me,”  Maisie explains in one breath. “It’s a small town, Clark, how long did you expect to keep her a secret?” 

“Longer than a few days,” I shake my head in wonderment. Leave it up to the Smallville mafia to trade secrets faster than a shooting star. I have to be double careful while talking with LadyTruth or stop talking with her altogether. 

“Please Clark,” Maisie rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “It’s Smallville. You couldn’t keep a secret from your fellow man even if your life depended on it,” she informs gravely. “You’re lucky the Cavallo twins haven’t caught wind of your little girlfriend yet. You might just make the Gossip Column of the Crow’s Eye .” 

“Wait,” her words sink in. “Lana knows about LadyTruth?” 

“Duh,” Maisie shrugs. 

“Did she seem upset?” I wonder. “I mean did Lana say anything about me or how she feels about another girl in my life?” 

“No, why would she be upset?” Maisie frowns. Her eyes slowly widen, and a light bulb goes off in her head. “Oh, my God!” Maisie claps her hand over her mouth. “She finally broke the bad news to you!” She gasps. “Are you okay, Clark? I’m here if you need a shoulder to cry on.” 

“What bad news?” I gape at her. “Is she dying?”
Maisie grimaces. “There I go putting my foot in my mouth again.”

“Maisie,” I warn. 

“Speaking of Lana,” Maisie nonchalantly examines her fingernails. “Nice save the other day.” 

“What are you talking about?” I gape at her in disbelief. 

“I’m talking about you being the elusive guardian of Smallville,” she smirks triumphantly. “It all makes perfect sense!” 

My eyes skid nervously to where Dr. Whitney is untangling a wad of Christmas lights, a stone's throw away. He’s listening to every word Maisie utters with rapt attention. I need to nip this theory in the bud before she says something incriminating. 

“I was nowhere near the accident,” I insist. 

“Funny,” Maisie muses, resting her hand on her hip and narrowing her eyes at me. “One moment you stood right next to me and then POOF!” her hands mime exploding. “Gone.” 

“You need to get your eyesight checked,” I push the glasses up the bridge of my nose. “I was nowhere near you during the crash.” 

“I didn’t know lying was one of your superpowers,” Maisie says. “So Mr. Kent, how long have you been faster than a speeding bullet? And how did you get your powers?” 

“You think I’m . . . the urban legend?” I say through a mouthful of laughter. “Wow Maze, you’re something else.” 

“It’s not funny!” Maisie turns beet red. “There is someone in Smallville saving people. A red-blue blur.” 

“A few days ago you were convinced the guardian is a girl!” I protest. “What made you change your mind?” 

Maisie looks down at her boots. “Isawapucture of youwarringrbluejacket,” she mumbles incoherently, avoiding eye contact. 

“I’m sorry, what?” 

She swallows a lump in her throat. “I saw a picture of you wearing a red leather jacket and a blue flannel shirt and put two and two together.” 

“You’ve gotta be joking.” I laugh. “You’re staking your story on the fact I wear primary colors. If that’s the case, I have a list of people that fit the bill under my bed. Want me to go fetch it?” 

“Har-har,” Maisie says unamused. “It’s not just the colors, you’re a good person, the sort of guy that stands up for what is right. You’re exactly the sort of hero the world needs!” 

“Trust me, Maze,” I say. She blushes as I use her nickname. “I’m no hero. I’m not the one you’re looking for.”   

“I was so sure I’m right,” Maisie says. “I need it to be true. Mr. Moore would never let me live it down if it’s a dead end,” there’s a whining plea in her voice. 

“Sorry to disappoint,” I say. “But I read about a streak in Metropolis saving people — maybe they migrated to Smallville.” I hate lying to Maisie, but there’s no other choice. 

“Maybe,” Maisie says, not sounding convinced. “Or maybe you’re trying to throw me off the scent.” 

A snowball hits her squarely in the face. Billy pops out from behind a trash bin, arms full of snowballs. “Oh, it’s on, Shortstack!” Maisie crouches and rolls a snowball. “I’ve got Superboy on my team!” 

“No, you don’t!” I scream. At the same time, I get a mouthful of slushy snow. 

Dean hoots triumphantly, punching the air. “Reeves takes the lead! Kent, score ZERO!” Dean taunts. He throws a volley of snowballs into my ribcage. It tickles. “

“Come on!” Maisie screams as she throws snowball after snowball. “You Kent let that slide!” 

I brush the snow off, scowling. “You’re not that funny.” 

“I’m hilarious!” 

Billy giggles and whacks her with another snowball. Maisie calls out a battle cry and charges. Billy ducks under a table just as a snowball slams into the spot he had been standing before. 

“You guys are going to break something!”  I rush to catch a chair that toppled over. What is wrong with them? I save the first row from the domino effect. I expected this kind of chaos from Jill, not Billy. A snowball flies overhead. Dean pounces midair and catches it, flinging it at me. I grit my teeth and grab it out of midair. I crush it to dust before it hits me. 

There’s a grinding-whining noise. Maisie freezes, arm outstretched ready to launch another snowball. A shadow falls over her, as the stage tilts forward. Maisie screams and drops the snowballs. She tries to run, but her boot is entombed in ice. The guardrails screech as they plunge on top of her. I move without thinking, the world crawling to a standstill. 

I brace my hands on one of the trusses, knees buckling under the weight. Billy pushes Maisie out of the way. In the same breath, Dean heaves against the base of the stage, relieving me of some of the weight.

 “Get out of the . . .” I start to say and then remember I’m moving too fast for anyone to see or hear me. I release some of the weight, stunned when Dean doesn’t crush under the pressure. He’s given me the perfect out.   

I stick to the shadows and help Dean right the stage, but surprisingly he doesn’t need my help. Just when I thought this week couldn’t get any stranger. I slide behind a Christmas tree. Maisie cowers at Dean’s feet, shielding herself. Her eyes widen. People blink as if waking from a trance. 

 “It’s you!” Maisie crawls out from under the stage, which Dean is miraculously keeping aloft. “You’re the Guardian,” Maisie blinks rapidly.    

Dean gently shoves the stage back in place. The crowd that gathered erupts in cheer. A few people clap him on the back. “It wasn’t just me. . . I had help. I think?” Dean says. 

What the hell is he doing sticking around for small talk? I would have hightailed it out of there by now. Except he doesn’t have much of a choice. He’s trapped inside a circle of locals who each want a piece of him. Lana grabs his arm possesively, smiling as if she’d won the lottery. One of the Castelli twins shoves a camera in Dean’s face. Dyke looks baffled between Dean and the stage. He scratches his bald head. There are two sets of handprints indented in the steel. Dr. Whitney towers above the crowd, looking at Dean like he’s the answer to his prayers.    

“Don’t play dumb,” Maisie beams. “You’re the one saving everyone! I want an interview like yesterday!”

“There’s been some kind of mistake,” Dean says. 

“Are you an alien?” Billy stares slack-jawed at Dean. 

“You’re talking crazy!” Dean laughs in disbelief. His eyes skid to my hiding spot. I disappear deeper into the shadows.   

“Or a demigod like Hercules?” Maisie squeals. 

“Honey, you mean Hunkules,” Lana smirks.  I’m going to be sick. 

 “But why did you stop?” Maisie fires away. “There was a barn fire last month. Why didn’t you help?” 

I did try to help. My stomach plummets as the memory consumes me. Flames slithering down my throat. The raw fear turned to shock as the flames didn’t harm me. I was too late. The smoke suffocated the animals, but I managed to save Wayne Irig before he got fatal burns.

“And then you missed a mugging the other day,” she continues.     

 “I might be strong,” Dean admits sheepishly. “But I have no interest in being a hero.” 

“And then there was the school bus incident,” Maisie prattles on. “What was going through your head when you saved your classmates from drowning?” 

I was thinking I’d never forgive myself if I let my friends die. 

“I remember that!” Lana explains. “Dean sat next to me. He slept through the whole thing.” 

They bombard Dean with questions. I’m thrilled it’s him and not me. Something stinks here. First Lana and now Maisie? If I were paranoid, I would think I’m being tested. The accidents have nothing in common, except that both victims are close friends of mine. Though, that could mean nothing in such a small town. 

Or 

Someone staged both accidents.

I tiptoe around my classmates and search the stage for any discrepancies. Bingo. One of the support beams is encased in thick, crystalline frost. Ice clings to the splintered metal. A sheet of ice creeps over the floor and equipment as if the Winter Warlock had taken a deep breath and exhaled. In the middle of December, a frozen support beam is a likely story. I know better. 

A pair of crimson, dead eyes appear in the void under the stage. They seem to stare at me right through the deck. I look deeper and for a second I see the outline of round spectacles and a whisper of white hair. 

A cold hand digs into my shoulder blades. “See something of interest in the rubble?” Dr. Whitney asks.  

I nearly have a heart attack. “No.” 

“Sir,” Dr. Whitney commands.

“No, sir,” I echo. 

 “We missed you at the last meeting,” He smiles, not breaking eye contact with me. “I understand Ms. Lang has you to thank for her life.” 

 My heart pounds so loudly that I’m sure the doctor can hear it. I don’t like how he’s looking at me as if I’m a unique specimen in his lab. “I understand that quite a few of your patients have gone missing. Care to comment?” I ask. 

“I won’t rest till they’re back home safely. I protect my own,” he says. 

I don’t sense any lies, but I know better than anyone how easily the truth can be masked. I’m not going to get a straight answer from him. 

“Tell me, Mr. Kent,” he says. “Do you ever wonder if you’re truly human? I imagine it’s a struggle for you being so different and not from around here.” 

“No,” I answer, fighting to keep my voice level. “I was born in a barn. It doesn’t get more human than that.”  I used to be proud of being born in a barn. Now, I wonder if it’s just another lie the parents forced me to swallow.  

I turn on my heels and don’t look back.  I keep an eye on Dr. Whitney’s reflection in the storefront windows. He tends to Maisie, who is loving the attention.  His reflection ripples and I see the robust silhouette of a white-faced robot with a scarlet helmet head. Instincts tell me he’s the one behind the disappearances. One way to find out. I leave Main Street in the dust. 

Chapter Text

I had almost forgotten how exhilarating it was to run out in the open with no one to hear me but the wind. I don’t slow down till I’m face to face with the Luthor Clinic. Fortunately, at that second a visitor is exiting the building. I fling an arm out, halting the door before it locks me out. I scan behind me making sure the guard didn’t see me appear and slide into the building. 

I dash up to the seventh floor and barge into Dr. Whitney’s office. It is as orderly and clean as a mortuary. I find it odd there are no family photos on his desk. He had three grandkids running around in Smallville. There is nothing on his desk except a company-issued computer and a set of Newton’s cradle; but in place of the stainless steel balls are a set of five green, glowing rings. I tense, remembering Kenny’s ring, but I don’t sense the poison that I’ve come to associate with the green meteor rocks. There is a metallic scent to them that reminds me of dried blood. 

 I open the drawer and rifle through his files. Nothing out of the ordinary, a few medical files on patients, and slips of prescriptions, everything you’ll expect to find in a doctor’s office. I don’t know what I am looking for, but my instincts tell me Dr. Whitney is at the heart of the disappearances in Smallville or at least responsible for Lana’s blackouts. It can’t be a coincidence that the five people missing were patients of his. Then again, he’s one of the only doctors in Smallville, so it could be nothing. 

Bri Routh isn’t the only one missing. At least five people that I know of have fallen off the face of the Earth, and the police are working overtime to find them. I slide my glasses off and peek into Mr. Garcia’s old room, which is still vacant.  Arnold Garcia would make it six missing people. I shake my head, hoping to God I am wrong and Dr. Shelley is telling the truth. He was moved to another facility. But then why can’t I find any release papers?   

 Other than the suspicious circumstances they disappeared under, the only connection all five victims have is Dr. Whitney. Nick Jameson, a waiter at the Talon, dropped a tray over a customer and then walked out without a word, never to be seen again. Joy Beckham, an eight-year-old, was at a sleepover - when her mom came to pick her up, and she wasn’t there. Ian Randall, a classmate of mine, was studying late at the library when he stole the librarian’s car and was never seen again. I knew every single one of them. It was hard not to when Smallville is barely three hundred people. There was something funny going on here. 

I turn my attention to the computer once nothing useful turns up. I swear when the passcode blocks me. No biggie. There should only be maybe a thousand different combinations. If I hope to find any answers I have to get into that computer. I search the desk for a slip of paper with the password, but I’m not that lucky. I decided to wing it and punch in his birthday, which is a dead end. I try a variety of different passcodes with the same result as before. It’s hopeless. I can feel it in my bones, if I could only find the right password, everything else would fall into place. 

I scan the room for any clues. There is nothing on the wall except for a framed photograph of outer space. No pictures of his family, and yet the doctor feels the need to showcase the galaxy, why? I recall a similar photograph in the lobby that has a ship soaring through space, a diamond-shaped crest on the hull of the ship. So he’s a Sci-Fi nut, that doesn’t exactly scream criminal mastermind. But there’s got to be a significance to this photo beyond being aesthetically pleasing to the eye. I frown as I notice a green star at the center of the galaxy, but on closer inspection, it’s not a star at all, but a distant planet, shining like a beacon of hope through the cosmos. It reminds me of the green rings on the Neutron’s Cradle on his desk. I bend down and examine one of the rings hanging from the bar. 

The rings are glaringly bright. I can’t quite pinpoint it, but I feel like I’ve seen them before, in an article or comic book. To the naked eye, the inside of the ring is as smooth as glass, but I see the whisper of an engraving on the inside. 

Blackest Night

It’s worth a shot. I type in the words and breathe a sigh of relief when the screen flicks on. Jackpot. The dashboard is just as orderly as his office with folders cataloged alphabetically. For the majority, they seem rather basic, till I come across the K section and find a folder labeled Krypton. It sounds like the name of an obscure ghost town. I click it open and whistle apprehensively when a wall of documents pops open each labeled Subject#. 

I click open Subject1 and my breath hitches. There’s a picture of Bri Routh wearing nothing but a hospital gown as she stares meekly at the camera. Maybe we were both experimented on as kids? It won’t be the craziest thing to happen.  

The more I read, the more dread I feel. In the wrong hands, people with powers could prove dangerous. Did Dr. Whitney experiment on them? 

 Each page has a detailed profile of classmates of mine, with varying abilities listed under their photograph. There’s a video of Bri Routh describing in graphic detail a patient with a rare tumor. In the next clip, Billy Winters is shown putting out a barn fire with ice.

 A scarlet X is marked across the subjects’ photos that have disappeared.

Subject 1: Brenda Routh (Bri)/ Deceased. 

No. That can’t be right. I saw Bri a few days ago. I lean against the chair and suck in a fortifying breath. It doesn’t make any sense. Bri looked up to Dr. Whitney, she viewed him as her savior. Why would he kill her? If that is even true. Only two of the five victims are listed in his file. And they might still be alive. As long as they haven’t found her body, there’s hope. 

 I click open Subject 13 and my heart rate increases. It’s a video from the other day in the General Store. I watch mortified as I trip over the car toy and catch the shelf with my bare hands. Someone hacked into the cameras in the store. There are more videos and clips of me, ranging from at school to the library. The last one is an old video of me heaving the school bus out of the lake. Unbelievable. Beneath the video, there’s an article in a vintage font that reminds me of a typewriter. 

Subject 13: Clark Joseph Kent 

Birthday (Allegedly): 03/15/93  

Subject 13 shares no physical traits with his alleged biological parents. However, he has adopted his parents’ altruistic traits, almost to a fault. Subject 13 constantly puts others' needs before his own.  

At precisely Wednesday.  4:55 PM, Subject 13 saved Agent 33.1. Subject 13 ran 95 mph and stopped an 18-wheeler with his bare hands. Agent 33.1  has no recollection of the events that transpired. Programmed to watch the Kent household. If findings prove fruitful Subject 13 could prove to be the last Kryptonian. 

Beneath the article is another picture I recognize all too well – the same picture Maisie Kidder showed me in Journalism class on her iPhone. Unless someone was at the same location as Maisie and took the same out-of-focus picture of me saving Lana, Maisie gave the photo she took to Dr. Whitney. Or maybe he somehow hacked into her phone? She won’t betray my trust like this. 

I tense, my heart jumping to my throat as the door creaks open. 

I hold my breath and flatten myself against the wall. The only way out is through that exit unless I want to jump out of the window. The door handle twists and Goldilocks stumbles through the door, looking very pleased with herself. I scowl. What the hell was she thinking? Maisie has a death wish. I stroll forward and shut the door behind her.

 “You shouldn’t be here,” I bite out, not bothering to hide the note of irritation in my voice.    

“Neither should you!” Maisie protests. It’s different for me. “How did you get here before me anyway?” Maisie smirks. “I saw your Ma’s car outside the store. Don’t tell me you ran?” she mocks. “That’s over five blocks. Care to comment Lord Hermes?” 

Unbelievable.“My life is not a story for you to exploit! You had no right to follow me!” I snap. “How did you even know where I was going?” 

“We’re journalists, Clark,” Maisie says seriously. “Everyone's life story is there for us to exploit. Otherwise, you won’t be here,” she wrinkles her nose in distaste. “Why are you snooping around the old doc’s office anyway?” 

“Some of us actually have good instincts,” I say crisply. I don’t have time to babysit her. Dr. Whitney could be back any second and I’m nowhere closer to figuring out what he has planned. Sure, he has shady files detailing metahumans, but I still feel like I’m missing the whole picture. What is the significance of the phrase ‘Blackest Night?’ Why is he so obsessed with space photography? How is this connected to the disappearances in Smallville? 

  I wander back to the computer, pointedly ignoring Maisie, open a new browser, and log into my email. I was planning to speed-read all the files, but with Maisie present, it puts a wrench in my plans. I email the files to myself instead, but it’s gonna take a while for it all to load. We’re trapped here till this damn monitor decides to speed up. Sometimes I wish that technology was as fast as me.  

Maisie’s face reddens. “I do have good instincts!” she protests. “My instincts are telling me you’re lying to me.” 

“I never lie,” I offer my most innocent smile. I just withhold specific facts from the people close to me. There’s a difference. Trust me, it’s for her own good. She’d thank me later. 

“Bullshit, Clark!” Maisie snaps. “You lied about LadyTruth!” 

“I think you’re confusing lies with secrets.” I glare at her. “No one was supposed to know about LadyTruth.” 

“But you should have told me!” she hisses, a note of betrayal in her voice. “I had to hear about it second hand.” 

“Let’s get one thing straight,” I say. “Just because we’re friends does not mean you have a front-row seat to all the details in my life.”  

“Then we might as well be strangers.” 

Finally, she’s getting it! I grit my teeth and don’t dignify that with a response. She should listen to Pete and stay far away from me. Those close to me always get the brunt end of the stick.  

“You’re pissed,” Maisie observes. Way to go, Captain Obvious. “You won’t be so pissed if I wasn’t onto something. Why can’t you just admit you’re the guardian? You could be famous Clark! Imagine the first superhero in the world!” 

 “I thought Dean was the guardian,” I grumble. “Make up your mind, woman.” 

“Dean is clueless,” Maisie says. “Took five minutes talking with him to realize he’s a dud. You’re the real deal.” 

“If you weren’t so hell-bent on chasing a fairytale, you would realize that our friends are missing.” 

I  log out of my email and erase any evidence of tampering with the computer.

“You mean Bri?” she asks. “I thought she ran away.” 

“You know Bri,” I scold. “She’s not the sort to skip town.” 

“No, I suppose not,” Maisie relents. “But there’s a first time for everything. Most people are not as fast as a speeding bullet,” she smirks, pleased with her joke. 

“Get your head out of a comic book and back in the real world.”  I grit my teeth. “This is serious —she’s not the only one . . .” 

I open my mouth to say more and close it sharply as I hear someone humming an upbeat tune down the hallway. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing Clark,” Maisie slides her fists into her pockets. “Bri is probably off chasing some lead, much like someone else I know. Speaking of which, how about an –?” 

“Shh,” I close the distance between us and slam my hand over her mouth, stifling her next words. Maisie’s eyes widen, but she stays silent. The humming grows louder, till finally, I can make out the jolly melody of ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town.’ A shadow falls over the door. 

“Someone is coming,”  I shove Maisie under the desk, which in retrospect probably isn’t the best hiding spot, but we’re pressed for time.  

“Clark –what about you?” 

“I’d think of something,” I reassure her and dash for cover inside the closet. 

The newcomer's voice is quiet and nasally like she's getting over a cold. All I can make out through the crack in the closet is the whisper of a white coat and sparkly red boots, leaving a trail of glitter in her wake. I pull my glasses off with shaking hands and strain to see beyond the closed door. The surface morphs and writhes. Scarlet Shelley's hawk-like profile swims into focus.

Dr. Shelley shuffles to the desk and sets a mug of steaming coffee down. She logs in to the computer, humming along to Frank Sinatra's Christmas album. She peruses the computer for a moment. I squint and spot the reflection of the screen on the window behind the desk. She's scrolling through Whitney’s files. She whips her phone out and starts taking pictures of the files. What's her angle? Dr. Whitney keeping tabs on the metahumans is creepy but fits. He's always creeped me out. Is Scarlet Shelley a cop undercover? She could be looking for the same evidence as me. Her phone rings.

Her face pales as she listens to the frustrated screams on the other end. "Adam, honey, you shouldn't be out of bed," she says gently. "I know it's hard for you. Hang in there a few more days —no you're not a monster, baby. I can fix you," her voice is clouded with desperation. Tears stain her cheeks.

"Darling no!" Dr. Shelley screams, fear laced in each syllable. "Adam," she hiccups. "You're better than this," she mutters. "You have so much to live for . . ."

"I know you're in pain, baby," she says empathetically. "I promise you, I'll make you better – I am so close to finding a cure," she reassures. "Things would be like they were before, two crazy adventurers exploring the galaxy. No alien virus separating us."

I flinch, positive I misheard her. Aliens are the figment of Von Däniken's imagination. His theories about aliens were rejected by all scientists and scholars. There is no concrete evidence to suggest extraterrestrials are real. But, if aliens were real Fotakis’ words would make more sense. It can’t be true. There’s no spaceship. Therefore, I never ‘arrived’ on earth. She's gotta be talking about something else. 

"Don't talk like that," she whimpers. "You've accomplished so much, baby. If it weren't for you the D.E.O. would have never made contact with life on other planets."

Either she's crazy or I’m screwed. It would explain why my heart looked so inhuman. But there was nothing before Smallville. And I look so human. I study my hands– twenty-seven bones like a regular human. 

Maisie gasps. Scarlet Shelley whips her head in the direction of the desk. She wanders to Maisie's hiding spot and pokes her head under the table. I don't have time to come up with a better plan. I zip to the desk, deftly move Shelley's arm toward the mug, and loosen her grip on her phone. I retreat to the closet. The mug crashes to the floor, splattering room-temperature coffee all over Dr. Shelley. She screeches and drops her phone.

"Shit," she plucks her phone from the puddle of coffee. "Adam!" she cries. I feel a twinge of guilt. "No, No, baby. Please tell me you're still there." Her phone is cracked and unresponsive. "Damn it!" she stomps out of the office.

Maisie crawls out of her hiding spot and glares at the closet. "I don't know how, but I know it's your fault my new sweater is ruined." She dabs at a coffee stain with a tissue.

I close the closet gently and join her by the desk. "It looks better that way," I say, scanning the computer. The screen is frozen on a picture of Claire Selton.

"What are you doing?" Maisie shrieks. "We've got to get out of here."

"Just a moment," I say, fingers flying across the keyboard. I can at least put a wrench in whatever plans Whitney has. I delete Dr. Whitney's files, videos, articles and all.

"She might come back! And we're trespassing! We could face up to a year in jail if we're caught. It'll go on your record! We'll be banned from all colleges!"

"If you're so worried, you can leave." I have just a few more files.

"Clark, please!" she begs. "I don't want to leave you."

"Done," I announce.

"That was so scary," Maisie says once we're in the safety of her car. She laughs nervously. "Oh, my God. I almost went to prison," she says stunned. "Prison. Me? I'm a good girl, I am!" She squeezes the steering wheel, blinking rapidly. "Good girls don't go to prison."

"You're panicking," I state.

"How are you not panicking?" She glares at me. "There are aliens among us! You heard her!"

"She's delusional," I say. "There's no such thing as aliens."

"Lionel Luthor will not trust the well-being of his wife with a certifiable person," she says. "What do we do? What if the alien virus is already here?" she clutches her throat. "What if I'm infected already?" Her eyes widen. "Oh. My. God," she looks at me like she's figuring out what to write on my tombstone. "You and Dean are infected. That's why you can run super fast and he's like Goku." I wish superspeed was the only power I had to worry about.

She is not in the right mind space to be driving. I mutely get out of the passenger's seat and open her door. She hardly notices when I guide her to the passenger's side."I don't want you to die," she laments as I buckle her.

"I'm not dying, Maze," I say.

"That's exactly something a deadman will say!" Maisie points out. “I overheard you and Bri talking. She thinks you have a tumor. Is that true?” 

“No.” 

I slam the door and wince when a crack zigzags across the window. I pull out of the parking lot and drive into the afternoon traffic. 

"You're awfully calm for someone who just found out aliens are real!"

"They're not real," I repeat. All the signs are pointing to me being one of those little green men. I refuse to believe it. I’m human. It’s all I’ve ever known. 

"It explains all the strange things that have happened in our town," Maisie continues, oblivious to my turmoil. "There was that strange flower that made people go crazy freshmen year," she says. "And then that wacko took us hostage at LuthorCorp and ranted on about some alien rock." I'm all too familiar with that rock. "What do we do? We can't just do nothing. We've got to stop the aliens. What if they’re already here?"

"Come on," I shake my head. "Don't you think you're overreacting a bit?" I shake my head. "You can't take her seriously."

"She's a doctor," Maisie explains. "That counts for something."

"I don't trust doctors," I say. They're likely to dissect me and sell my body parts on the black market. Or is that another lie my parents told me to scare me?

"That's it!" Maisie claps her hands. "We'll ask Dr. Whitney for help. He'll know what to do."

"And what makes you think he's not secretly an alien?" I ask. "Or me?" I dare say.

"That's funny," Maisie laughs. "Clark Kent the Extraterrestrial."

It does sound ridiculous when said out loud. Smallville has always been my home. There was nothing before Ma and Pa Kent. Every memory I have is in Smallville. Martha Kent was there when I bit into an apple and lost my first tooth. She was there when I locked myself in a storage room at school, bawling my eyes out because those around me had transformed into visions of horror. Jonathan Kent was there with an easy smile and words of comfort when I fell off my bike and scraped my knee. He was there when Field Day turned sour and I found myself alone and scared, two towns over. He wrapped me in his strong arms and explained that my speed was like walking. 'In time it would be as effortless as breathing.' On the way home, we stopped at a bookstore and he bought me my first comic book.

Those are not the actions of people who are not my parents.

I've seen the birth certificate. It can't be a forgery. My parents don't have the resources for something that big. Mom abhors any sort of lying. She grounded me for a month when I lied about my whereabouts. 

But then there’s the photo with the Feds on the Wall of Weird. An agent was so confused he shot a farmer. My parents raised me to believe the justice system would protect the innocent and hold the guilty accountable. Where’s the justice in shooting an innocent man? They must have had their reasons. 

“What are we going to do?” 

“You’re going to stop panicking,” I tell her. “You have nothing to worry about,” I tell her. “Aliens are the creation of Lucian of Samosata.” 

“Who?” Maisie frowns. 

“He’s a satirist,” I say, ears turning pink. It dawns on me how odd it is for a teenager to know this. “Wrote one of the first books about aliens and space travel.” 

“You need to get out more,” Maisie looks at me worriedly. The mini-history lesson doesn’t pacify her. “Seriously, Clark, what else would cause all these strange things to happen in Smallville? Aliens make the most logical sense.”  

“Been staking out cornfields?” I tease her. “See any little green men?” 

She scowls, shooting me a glare. “Then what’s your theory?” 

Fragments of meteorites are infecting the people in town. That’s the source of all the strange things happening in Smallville. There’s just one problem. Most meteorites come from the asteroid belt in space. And where do aliens come from? 

“Somebody in town is playing an elaborate prank on all of us.” 

“Who, Jill?” 

“She does have a flare for the dramatic,” I admit. 

“That’s a great theory,” Maisie says. “Except Dr. Shelley isn’t from Smallville . . . and she still believes in aliens.” 

“You don’t know that for sure,” I say. “Alien could also mean traveler, immigrant. Her husband is suffering from a foreign virus.” 

“Oh, I didn’t think of it that way,” Maisie slouches and sighs dejectedly. 

“Don’t tell me, you’re disappointed?” 

“It would have been kind of cool to be abducted by aliens.” 

“I can still abduct you if you want,” I grin, parking the car in Maisie’s driveway. She lives on the outskirts of downtown in a small house, within walking distance from the Smallville Gazette. 

“Now you’re making me feel stupid,” she sadly looks down at her folded hands in her lap. “I was so sure.” 

“There’s no evidence to support there being aliens in Smallville,” I echo her words. She flinches, sheepishly biting the inside of her cheek. She looks sidelong at me with a giddy expression I know too well.  “You found proof.” 

“I found proof,” she echoes, grinning like a madwoman. She eagerly pulls out her red BlackBerry. She shows me an old surveillance photo of a flatbed truck on Highway 56. It's hauling something under a tarp, too small to be a car and too big to be farm equipment. 

“And I’m impressed because?” 

“Look at the car tailing it,” she scrolls to another photo. A Chevrolet Impala with blackened windows cruises behind the truck.  The license plate reads: U.S. DEO 24601.“That’s a government plate,” she explains. “Begs the question what or whom are they hauling away?” 

“That proves nothing,” I say. “It could be a crashed satellite or weapons.” 

“That’s what I thought at first too,” Maisie says. “But then I saw this,” she flicks to a snapshot of an article about Cyrus Krupp. The same interview I stumbled across. “What if he really saw a spaceship the night of the meteor shower?” Maisie wonders. “What if this is the beginning of an alien invasion?” 

The photo inside my pocket digs into my side. The guilt from stealing weighs me down. Bri welcomed me amongst her gang of freaks and I robbed them blind. It wasn’t theirs to keep. It was a moment of my past, that held the answers to all my questions. Could I trust Maisie? She clearly knew her way around a computer. Maybe she’d have more luck than me. I didn’t have to tell her the whole truth. The chance of her recognizing me was slim to none. 

“I might have a lead,” I say.  I show her the photo, holding my breath. 

She squints to see it. “Is that your Dad? When was this photo taken?” She looks at the date on the back and gasps. “You think those are the agents in the unmarked car.” 

“Possibly,” I say. “Any good with facial recognition?” 

“I know a guy who knows a guy,” Maisie says. “Shouldn’t be a problem.” 

Chapter Text

Morning light streams through cracks in the clouds, diffusing my bedroom with sleepy rays of the sun. I can’t believe it’s already morning. I massage my weary eyes. I spent the night reading through Dr. Whitney’s files. It’s sick how he refers to kids as agents. Agents of what, chaos? The amount of detail in his reports borders on pedophile. He has videos and photos of teenagers in their homes or bathrooms where there shouldn’t be a camera. 

Either he planted bugs in their homes, or something else is happening here. There’s a video of me chopping firewood barehanded in the barn. But there are no hidden cameras in the barn. I checked. Another shows footage of Bri at a slumber party changing into PJs while girl-talking.   How did Whitney get this footage? There won’t be security cameras in a teenage girl’s bedroom. It’s almost like he’s looking through somebody’s eyes.  

Fuzzball nuzzles under my chin, her soft body a fluffy scarf sprawled over my shoulders.  I reach up and scratch Fuzzball behind the ears, mumbling words of comfort to her. She purrs softly, leaning into my touch, and gradually opens her big azure eyes to meet my gaze.  She lets out a huge purr, decides she’s had her fill of me, and scampers down my chest. 

She has no consideration for the thousand-dollar device on my lap and pounces on top of the MacBook’s keyboard. The force of her descent sends the laptop flying across the bed. I catch it before it tumbles to the floor. I shake my head and resituate the computer on my lap. 

 I continue to peruse Dr. Whitney’s files. The number of metahumans attending Smallville High is unbelievable. Alicia Baker, presumed speedster. Billy Winter, a form of cryokinesis. Kevin Bale, immune to all forms of pain. The list goes on for a hundred pages or so. Curiously, only students with similar powers to mine are listed. At least two metahumans are missing from the files.  

The words ‘Alleged Biological Parents’ stare back at me, mocking my entire existence.  

The door creaks open and Mama pops her head in, jaw drawn taut with worry. I quickly shut the computer and conceal it under the quilt. “Have you been up all night?” 

“I’ve got a lead on a story,” I say. 

“That’s good,” she retrieves a dirty shirt off the floor and folds it. “I’m glad you’re writing again.” 

She shows concern like a normal mother, but I feel like an imposter in my home. I can’t help noticing the drastic differences between us. Her hair is as straight as mine is curly. The blue eyes people swear I inherited from Jonathan Kent are darker than mine, like the bud of a cornflower. I have unnatural bright, blue-green eyes that don’t look quite human. 

I tell that vicious voice in my head to shut up. I am overthinking everything. I was born a freak. Nothing more. I’m just another metahuman in this crazy town. My parents are Martha and Jonathan Kent. I’m a metahuman, not an alien. What I overheard was just the ramblings of a crazy fanatic. 

“What story are you working on, honey?” Mama asks. 

“The disappearances in Smallville,” I say, telling her what I know so far. “I don’t think Dr. Whitney is who he says he is.”  

I hide the drawing of the robot I made last night. I’m not sure what to make of what I saw. Beneath Dr. Whitney’s Einstein exterior is a Transformer-like robot wearing a crimson helmet reminiscent of Darth Vader. I’m lucky he didn’t see me spying on his house last night. He’s possibly using alien technology to spy on kids at Smallville High. It’s weird that he only has details on kids my age.  

“I thought your father told you to stay away from Dr. Whitney.” 

“Yeah, well, that was before I knew he was the one abducting my friends.” I show her the files I stole. “Five of his patients have disappeared. Bri would make it six,” I tell her. Two of the victim's bodies were found in Metropolis with no record of how they got there.” 

“This sounds like a job for the police, Clark,” Mama says. “You’re just a boy. It could be dangerous.” 

“Police can’t do what I can.”

 I start getting ready for school. I contemplate showing Ma the file on Clark Kent. It would only freak her out and make her even more of a helicopter mom. Chances are it’s just a bunch of baloney. Dr. Whitney can’t be trusted. 

“It’s not your responsibility,” Mama says gently. “You need to graduate high school before you make Detective.” 

“I can’t just sit back and do nothing,” I say. “My friends are missing . . . possibly dead.” 

I could have saved them if I had been there. 

Mama busies herself smoothing out invisible wrinkles on my shirt. She stands on her tiptoes and kisses my forehead. I’ve shot up the last few years and am taller than both my parents. Add that to the long list of traits that make me different from my alleged birth parents. 

“You’re so much like your father, ” she sighs. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”   

“I always am.”

It’s still early, so Jill hasn’t left for school yet. She sits in the driver’s seat,  revving the engine unnecessarily. She frowns as I plop into the passenger’s seat but refrains from saying anything. Mom runs out of the house in nothing but a bathrobe and fluffy socks, screaming hysterically as she holds up my winter coat. 

“Look,” Jill starts, watching her aunt wobble through the snow with a small degree of amusement. “I’d be the first to admit Mama K takes the phrase ‘Helicopter Mom’ to a whole new level,” she smirks. “But her worry comes from a place of love,” Jill says.

“Just drive,” I grunt, sounding more like a command. 

“Aye, aye, Captain Kirk,” Jill salutes, wrinkling her nose at my Star Trek T-shirt. She pulls out of the driveway, narrowly missing running into the infamous Kent mailbox. Mom peeps over the picket fence, lips pursed worriedly, hugging her arms around herself. My eyes stay glued on her till she becomes a speck in the distance, and a wave of irrational fear hits me. Fear of the truth. 

“Something you want to say to me?” Jill asks after a moment. 

“Uh,” I frown, trying to read the situation. She looks at me expectantly, jaw tight with annoyance. “Thanks for the lift?” 

She scowls and takes a sharp left turn onto a dirt road. “What day is it, Clark?” 

“Friday?” I say. “Am I missing something?” 

Jill sulks. “Just the most important day of a person’s life.”  

‘You got accepted into S.C.A.D.?” 

“Ugh,” she groans. “You’re hopeless.” 

Miller’s Field soars past us, the windmill casting an eerie shadow over the crops. Lonnie Miller’s house is a red blob in the distance. My stomach twists into knots at the sight of Miller’s Field. Setting foot on Miller’s Field is forbidden. Yet another dumb rule my parents have, right up there with ‘Stay away from Dr. Whitney.’ The good little soldier I am, I obeyed their orders, no questions asked. I trusted my parents had a good reason for keeping me out of the neighbor’s pasture. Now, I can’t help wondering if the answers I’ve been searching for are hidden in their crops.

“What if I’m adopted?” I voice my fear out loud for the first time. 

“Who cares?”  Jill laughs. “I’d still cream you at Monopoly.” 

“I’m serious.” I pull my gaze away from the window and face my older cousin. My alleged cousin. “What if we’re not related?” 

“Okay,” Jill blows the double syllable out with one heavy breath. “For argument's sake, let's say you are adopted,” she says dubiously, a crease appearing on her brow. “It shouldn’t matter,” she says, waving her hand passionately. “As Uncle Bobby said, ‘Family don’t end in blood.’”  Jill reaches forward and rests a hand on my shaking palm. It’s the most affection she’s shown me since her parents’ death. “Even if you are adopted, Speed Boy, you’re still my favorite cousin.” 

I frown. Last time I checked, there is no Bobby on the Kent or Clark side of the family tree. Aunt Abigail was an only child. Mom’s brother Emil never married.  Am I missing something?

 “Jill, you don’t have an uncle named Bobby.” I hate to burst her bubble. 

“Yes I do,” Jill persists. “Bobby is everyone’s surrogate uncle.” A warm smile softens her features. “He’s taken such good care of my boys,” she says with a tenderness I’ve never heard her use in all my sixteen years. 

“What boys?” 

Jill’s smile crumbles. “Uncultured swine.” 

I am 95% certain we’re not talking about family anymore. Typical. I’m trying to have a serious conversation, and she’s going on about the dysfunctional Malfoy family or some other such nonsense. It is comforting to know Jill thinks the idea of me being adopted is laughable. 

Flashing lights draw my attention back to the window. My blood freezes over. A police car parks outside Bri Routh’s house. That is never a good sign in a small town. There are only two reasons a policeman would be at someone’s house in Smallville: a break-in or homicide. I was hoping Dr. Whitney’s report was wrong.  I squint at the car and recognize the apricot on the license plate. That’s a Metropolis license plate. But what would the MPD be doing in Kansas? The other victims also washed up in Metropolis, but they didn’t make house calls before. Some new evidence must have been unearthed. 

Fifteen minutes later, Jill pulls into the Smallville High parking lot, face ashen. She doesn’t have to say anything, I know we’re both thinking of Bri. She was on her way to being the class Valedictorian. She can’t be the reason the MPD has traveled 2000 miles to Nowheresville.   

“Now remember.” Jill jumps out of the driver’s seat and hefts her backpack on her shoulder. “If you see Kenny, duck and cover.” 

“I am not a coward,” I grit my teeth, slamming the car door behind me. “I am not gonna let him push me around.”   

“Bullheadness runs in the family,” she rolls her eyes. “Seriously, Clark. Be smart. No telling what any more exposure would do to you.” 

“I’m fine, Mommy dearest.” I shoulder my backpack. 

“Just be careful,” Jill warns. “I don’t want to bury another family member,” she says in a deflated whisper. 

Oh God, I’m so stupid. I should have known the police car would be a trigger. The last time the police visited us was to deliver the news of Uncle Harry and Aunt Abigail’s death.  I pull her in for a hug, careful not to squeeze her too tight. Jill is such a fierce person, I forget she has emotions like everyone else. She doesn’t push me away and buries her pink head against my shoulder, sniffling quietly. But no tears mar her rosy features. Of course not, Jill Kent doesn’t cry. She’s too angry at the world to cry. She hasn’t shed a single tear since her parents’ funeral.    

“Jill, you should know,” I say. “Your parents would be proud of you.” 

Jill scoffs and pushes off me. “Who are you kidding?” she elbows me playfully in the side, and I grimace, stumbling back. I frown. I actually felt that. “They’d be horrified.” 

“Horrified isn’t exactly the word I’d use,” I say.

 “I don’t like that look,” Jill frowns. “You’ve got your ‘I gotta stupid idea’ look on your face,” she wrinkles her nose in distaste. 

“I do not have a ‘stupid idea’ face!” I protest. “And my ideas are never stupid!” 

Jill squeezes my arms with both hands. “Deliberately poisoning yourself with that rock is not a good idea. It’s suicide.” 

I don’t understand. “How could you possibly . . .” 

“You’re my family, Clark,” Jill says simply as if that’s explanation enough. “I can read you better than newspaper comic strips,” she says. “Your powers are not something to throw away! They’re a gift!” she shakes me fiercely. “Goddamnit Speed Boy,” Jill smacks my chest, which stings a smidge. “If I had your powers I would have . . .” she falters, the implication of her words settling in. 

“You would have what?” I push her away from me. “Save your parents?” I spit out. I was there, front and center. I remember the car rolling over, the crunching of metal and glass drowning out the sound of my heartbeat. My aunt and uncle didn’t have time to react. One second, they were laughing at something Jill had done, and then suddenly their remains decorated the dashboard. I managed to save Jill, but I wasn’t fast enough. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Jill hurriedly retracts her earlier statement. “I only meant I won’t . . . come on Clark, don’t be like that,” she calls after my retreating figure and hurries to catch up to me, but I lose her easily in the busy halls of Smallville High. 

The tension in the halls is so strong it could cut steel. In the naked light, students mill about like zombies waking up from a nightmare. Classmates talk without speaking. Classmates hear without listening, each gaze echoing the tragic truth. One of ours is lost. The news hasn’t been released yet, but collectively, they all know the inevitable truth: Bri Routh is dead.  

Silence spreads through the grounds like a cancer.  Grief does not discriminate between ages. It comes for all of us in different shapes and forms. The teachers are not immune. They might be here physically, putting on a brave face, but their minds and hearts are on Cavill Lane with the Routh family.

Even Mr. Moore is not spared. He doesn’t rebuke me when I enter class late. His shoulders sag in defeat as he scrawls across the whiteboard. Maisie lets out a stuttering gasp when she sees me, her sharp gaze boring into me. She searches my face, brow furrowed curiously. I break eye contact, turn my attention to the computer, and log in. 

Today’s focus is crafting eye-catching headlines that sell papers, even when the article would make Rip Van Winkle fall asleep for another twenty years. I can create headlines with my eyes closed and hands tied behind my back. I finished the day’s assignment in under three minutes. It gives me ample time to maul over the stark differences between the Kents and me. All signs pointing to me being a – well, it’s laughable really. 

No. 

My parents. 

Birth parents.

 It won’t be the end of the world if I’m adopted. Plenty of people are adopted. Lana Lang is adopted. But at least she has something of her birth mother to hold onto. Being adopted opens up a whole new can of worms. Where are my birth parents? Why did they abandon me? Where was I born? Why do the Kents feel the need to hide the fact I’m adopted? The answer is easy. They’re afraid of the alien learning the truth.  

I can’t stomach thinking about this for one more second and log in to WordBattle. I open the chat window and am surprised to find LadyTruth already there. Metropolis is an hour ahead of Kansas. 

LadyTruth: GUESS WHAT 

Skywalker16: You got kicked out of school, setting a world record? 

LadyTruth: LOL 

LadyTruth: Not yet 

LadyTruth: I’m shooting strait & narrow now. GOT A JOB !!! 😀

Skywalker16: That’s awesome! Hope it keeps you out of trouble. 

LadyTruth: 😣You sound like the General. 

I freeze and stare dumbly at her response. There are lots of generals in the world. She might not be talking about the nightmare that scared Mom into silence. 

Maisie scans my screen and rolls her eyes at the sight of the chat box. ‘What would Lana say?’ she mouths to me before returning to reading the article Mr. Moore assigned. 

LadyTruth: Sry that's an insult to U. Ur nothing like my Dad. 

Oh. I visibly relax. That makes a lot more sense. The way she talks about her dad makes him sound like a drill sergeant. General is just a nickname for her father. 

LadyTruth: The General hates my new job. 

Skywalker16: You still haven’t told me your new gig, alien girl 😉

LadyTruth: You’re looking at the newest intern @ the Daily Planet 

I lean back in the chair and exhale sharply. I reread her message, sure my eyes are playing tricks on me. But no, of course, she’s working at the iconic Daily Planet. Truly, I’m happy for her. I only wish I were there with her. I could make a real difference in Metropolis. 

Skywalker16: That’s great 

LadyTruth: And I already have my first lead on a homicide!!!  

Skywalker16: Death is not something to be happy about 

I am excited that one of us gets to live a normal life and fulfill our dreams. I’m not sure being a reporter is even in the cards for me. Not if what I suspect is true. How could I even legally work at a newspaper? 

LadyTruth: Ik I’m not. Someone’s gotta catch this serial killer. 

Skywalker16: That sounds like a job for the police, not an intern.  

I wince. Mom gave me the same speech. 

LadyTruth: I am 95% a dirty cop is involved. 

LadyTruth: The victims are not exactly . . . normal. They’re covering that up. 

I squint at the screen. She can’t be implying what I think she’s implying. There are not that many metahumans outside of Smallville. And besides, Dr. Whitney’s files only mentioned metahumans living in Smallville not 2000 miles away in The Big Apricot. We can’t possibly be investigating the same story. 

Skywalker16: Not normal how? 

LadyTruth: U won't believe me if I told u  

Skywalker16: Try me 

Her end goes dead for a couple of minutes. Mr. Moore slinks around the classroom, checking our progress. I minimize the screen before he can see the chat. He reviews my finished work, a vein pulsing against his left cheek. Satisfied, he sets the packet down and surveys me crudely. “How’s the Luthor interview coming along, son?” he asks patronizingly, scowling. 

“There are more important stories to tell,” I complain. Hell, I’ve sent the Whitney story to Mr. Moore. He knows full well that I’m no slacker.  “Give Luthor to Castelli and her fan club.” 

“I resent that comment!” Stella hisses through her nose. “I am not Lex’s fan girl!” 

Mr. Moore ignores her, having eyes only for me. “Remain after class, Mr. Kent,” he says cooly. “We need to have a serious discussion about appropriate topics for a school paper. This is not the Daily Star,” he grinds out before continuing his trek around the room. 

I wait till he’s out of my line of sight before reopening WordBattle and wince when I see the stream of messages from LadyTruth. 

LadyTruth: It's crazy but I swear all viccteems so far were super 

LadyTruth: Not in a Super Mario geek super . . . real super, you know what I mean? 

LadyTruth: Silent treatment, that’s cool, but science doesn’t lie 

LadyTruth: I took a sample of a victim's blood to S.T.A.R Labs. Dr. Hamilton explained 2 me that some people who are enfacted by meteaor rocks can develop superpowers. Something abt waking up dormant metagene. 

LadyTruth: Dr. Emil Hamilton is the best scientist in Metropolis. He won't lie. 

LadyTruth: Fine! Ghost me! See if I care. I know I’m onto something! 

I wasn’t expecting our worlds to collide so irrevocably. I could easily call Uncle Emil and get the name of the Daily Planet Intern who brought him a vial of blood to study. But I’m not sure I’m ready to meet her in real life, not when my life is so complicated. She’s safer away from me. I scrounge up the courage to respond with each word I type, feeling the distance between us growing steadily smaller. 

Skywalker16: Sorry, I’m in class. 

Skywalker16: I believe you. wish I didn’t, but I do. 

Instantly, she types back. 

LadyTruth: Then Ur the only one. 

LadyTruth: My boss thinks I’m crazy, but I know I’m right. Someone is hunting meteor freaks. 

Two weeks ago I would have laughed in her face, but there is too much evidence suggesting she’s right on the money. If she’s correct, no one in Dr. Whitney’s files is safe. I am more certain than ever that Dr. Whitney is the one behind Bri’s death.  

Skywalker16: You’re not crazy 

LadyTruth: Unless I find a meta I’m screwed. No evidence. 

She should come to Smallville. There is no shortage of metahumans running around.  

LadyTruth: You’re from Kansas.  

Skywalker16: Yea. Why? 

LadyTruth: Ever heard of a hick town called Smallville? 

My heart quickens. My fingers tremble as they hover over the keyboard. Smallville is a blip on the world map. There’s no reason my hometown should be on her radar. Unless . . . unless she’s somehow found a way to track me. But how? I haven’t told her anything beyond ‘Small town.’ I decide to play it cool. 

Skywalker16: It’s a small town in Kansas somewhere. Just Googled it. 

Skywalker16: What does that have to do with your lead?

LadyTruth : Nabbed a report off a Detective. The latest victim in Metropolis is some girl from Smallville. 

Briana Routh. Holy shit. We are investigating the same story. What do I say? Should I tell her the truth? 

“Kent,” Mr. Moore bites out. “Your online girlfriend is not going to get you into Metropolis University.” 

My ears turn pink. “I don’t have a girlfriend.” 

“That’s not what they all think,” Maisie chuckles, surveying the curious glances of my classmates.

Chapter Text

I toss the Biology textbook into my backpack, retrieve my lunch, and slam the locker shut. Mr. Moore is nuttier than a squirrel in a wolf’s den. ‘Drop the Whitney story,’ he says. ‘A good reporter can find an angle in any story.’ There is no angle here. Lex Luthor was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Bri’s killer is walking free while I’m stuck writing an expose on someone who hasn’t worked a single day in his life. 

 ‘Stick to the shallow end and leave justice to the police.’ Moore said. If I didn’t know any better, I would think the old Brit was worried about me. I grab the recorder from my backpack and shove it into my hoodie pocket. By the time the police realize what Dr. Whitney is doing, it will be too late. He would have killed again. ‘It’s not your job to make the news but to report it.’ 

That’s what I’m trying to do! It’s not like Dr. Whitney will go after me. I fly so low under the radar that he’d need a super satellite to spot me. LadyTruth is the lucky one. She gets to investigate ‘real news.’ I would trade all my powers for a chance to have a byline at the Daily Planet. My feet buckle and I lean against the cold wall. I’m being selfish. What good would ink and paper do against a murdering psychopath? 

I could have saved Bri. 

I could have saved them all.  

I needed evidence like yesterday. Maybe Whitney is not human. The idea is so ridiculous that I laugh out loud, garnering a few strange looks from students passing by in the hallway. The robot I saw had to be a figment of my imagination. It’s much easier to blame the paranormal than to swallow the alternative. A human being is killing kids. He’s a doctor. He’s supposed to save lives, not rob people of the most precious gift. 

The bell rings, and a wave of students flood the cramped hallway, their voices a shock of gunshots exploding in my head. I brace myself against the wall, letting them stream past me. To them, I am as insignificant as a barnacle on a rock. 

I find Lana by her locker. I start to head toward her and falter. My stomach plummets. Lana’s musician fingers comb through Dean’s hair as she kisses him. Lana’s eyes are shut, an expression of tranquility softening her features.   

  One day some lucky dope is gonna catch her attention, and you’ll be stuck in the friend zone. 

 Pete’s words come back to me unbidden. I banish any thought of my former friend from my mind. Pete stopped being my friend the second he called me an ‘alien.’ 

Lana steps back and brushes her fingertips over Dean’s parted mouth, a hunger swirling in her bright eyes. I clench my jaw and swallow a lump in my throat. The sudden aching in my chest has nothing to do with Lana. Absolutely nothing. I hope Dean doesn’t accidentally hurt her. He must have better control of his powers than me.  

As if she senses my presence, Lana slowly faces me. Her smile deflates, and the light dims in her eyes. When she looks at me, there is real fear in her gaze. The same fear that haunts my nightmares. My name is on the tip of her tongue, but I can’t hear her over the roar of the hallway. She surges forward, urgency laced through each step, and stumbles back, eyes widening. 

A fist soars toward my face. I duck. Flesh connects with flesh. I turn in time to see Kenny slam a scrawny guy against the locker. Textbooks clutter to the hard floor. The kid’s ball cap is knocked off his bald head.

 A small group gathers around the fallen student, but no one moves to help. They watch with a certain detachment as Kenny pummels the kid. A couple of students share expressions of righteous triumph and high-five each other. Lana rolls her eyes and looks at Dean expectantly, but he remains rooted to the spot, staring fearfully at the blood dripping from the kid’s split lip.    

“Daddy isn’t here to save you, Luthor!” Kenny growls, punching the guy in the stomach. He collapses to his knees, clutching his bent nose. I wince in sympathy. “I had to sell my mother’s ring because of you!” Kenny grabs the guy's shirt, heaving him up and slamming him against the locker again. He slaps him across the face. 

“An improvement.” Lex Luthor glares at Kenny, not breaking eye contact. “The ring was quite the monstrosity.”

Kenny growls and throws a fist at Lex. Lex ducks, and Kenny hits the locker behind him instead, a scream ripping out of his throat. Lex straightens, wiping the blood off his chin with the back of his sleeve. I’m surprised he’s still standing. Something tells me this isn’t his first time dealing with bullies. 

 “Imma gonna kill you, Luthor,” Kenny spits out his name. “There’s a special space reserved in hell for you.”  

“And your kind belongs in the Rain Forest,” Lex seethes, rubbing his sore jaw. “Every time you open your damn mouth you sound like an ignorant orangutan.” I snicker. He’s not wrong.  

Kenny's eyes narrow into slits as he mulls over Lex’s words. Before Kenny grasps the true meaning behind his words, I intervene. “Beating the crap out of Lionel Luthor’s son is not going to change the fact your Dad is unemployed.”

 There’s been so much going on. Lionel Luthor closing the Smallville Plant stayed in the back of my mind till now. I should have anticipated Kenny lashing out at Lex.  

“Get out of my way, Clarkzilla,” Kenny snarls in my face, his breath reeking like rotten eggs. 

“Lex is not his father.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I understand why you’re upset but . . .” 

“You don’t know shit,” Kenny shoves me against the locker. I shudder as the metal cracks under my weight. I ball my fists at my side and will my body to slacken before I do any more permanent damage. 

“You’ll be singing a different tune if the Luthors bought your farm. The Luthors know only how to destroy!” 

“Then you have something in common.” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. 

Kenny balls his fist and careens it into my chest. I gasp.  There is a sickening crunching noise as the bones in his left hand shudder and crack. My heart stops. It’s the same noise I heard when Pete broke his back. 

Kenny stifles a scream, clutching his broken hand tenderly. “What the hell, Kent!” Kenny’s eyes burn with tears.

“I’m sorry,” I choke on the words, shaking my head to clear my vision. “I didn’t mean–”      

“I am going to tear you limb from limb!” 

“Enough,” Lana boldly steps between Kenny and me, hands flying to her hips. “News travels fast in Smallville.” she smiles sweetly, but her words carry an invisible threat. “With the click of a button, Daddy dearest will know what an embarrassment you have been today,” she hisses. “And we both know your father isn’t going to stand for this.” 

Kenny begrudgingly steps back. “This isn’t over, Kent,” he spits out,  his glare promising future torture. 

“At least I’m not the one with a small brain!” Lana screams after Kenny’s retreating figure. 

The crowd disperses till only a handful of students remain. Lex gapes dumbfounded at me, twitching and untwitching the ballcap in his grip. Lana dashes to my side. She ignores her boyfriend’s stare and jumps into my arms, hugging me tightly. I catch Dean’s gaze over her shoulder.  

“Are you alright?” she blinks up at me, her grip tightening a smidge. 

“I’m fine,” I carefully extricate myself from Lana and head towards Lex. I’m vaguely aware of Dean steering Lana down the hallway, her pained gaze glued to the nape of my neck. Lex’s left eye is swollen shut, blood coating the lower half of his face. 

“I’m sorry,” I say, wincing at the damage. “Kenny . . . well, he’s had a rough life.” I hand Lex a Kleenex, and he presses it against his nose. The tissue is instantly soaked in scarlet. “Losing the Plant was quite a blow to his father. Brad Selton isn’t the easiest guy to live with.”   

“You amaze me, Kent,” Lex marvels, studying me. “That baboon has done nothing but terrorize you, yet you defend him. Why?” 

“I don’t know,” I shrug. “I guess. I’m hoping someday he’d mature and we can be friends.” 

Lex scoffs. “You would be friends with your high school bully?” 

“Crazier things have happened.”

 Kenny doesn’t have a supportive family like the Kents. I like to think that things would have been different if Kenny’s mother hadn’t been killed in the meteor shower.  

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right?” Lex smirks and then winces.  

“Right,” I affirm. “Come on,” I say, I fold an arm around his shoulder. “I’d walk you to the nurse’s office.”  

I drop Lex off with the nurse and join the rest of the school in the cafeteria. As usual, the cafeteria is a swarm of chaos. There are the Emo kids plugged into a world only they can see, their punk music loud enough to be heard over the Jocks’ burping competition. The Cheer Squad mingle with the jocks, their laughter contagious. The Fashionistas sit by the entrance, watching out for any fashion rejects needing their expert advice; they are not afraid to tell you the pants you chose to wear look like mama jeans. The dorks and geeks mesh together at the farthest table by the window, debating about who is more powerful, Power Girl or Warrior Angel. A few bookworms glare at their classmates’ idiocy and return to the thick book in their lap. 

And then there are the aliens - out-of-towners no one knows, so they have formed their clique separate from the Smallville High hierarchy. Then there’s the outcast, population: one. I steer away from the dorks and sit at an abandoned table by the trashcan. I open my lunch and dig in. Mama had whooped up a chicken salad sandwich and wrapped a slice of gooey chocolate cake in tin foil. At the bottom is a handwritten sticky note with a cute doodle of a teddy bear. In another life, Mama dreamed of being an artist. 

Lana slides into the seat across from me. “Are we okay?” 

 I don’t know how to respond and wordlessly continue eating. I am painfully aware of the dorks and geeks watching us as keenly as a marathon of Dragon Ball Z. 

 “You seemed kind of tense when you saw Dean and I kissing,” she continues. “I know it’s going to take time getting used to us,” she says. “There’s room for both of you in my life,” she cups my hand. “I’m always going to be there for you.” 

“Are you happy?” I ask. She blushes and nods. “Good. So long as you’re happy, I can live with this change.”    

“You’re not upset?” Lana’s mouth parts in surprise.  

“Why should I be upset?” I keep my tone light. “We’re friends. I want you to be happy, Lana,” I force myself to smile. “Dean’s a regular Prince Charming.” 

Lana grits her teeth. “If you say ‘Happy’ one more time, I am going to throw up,” Lana gags. “You sound like the male lead of a Hallmark movie!” 

I lean back in my chair and grit my teeth. “What would you prefer I say?” 

“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “Something honest,” she decides. “I know you well enough to know you’re upset about me dating Dean.”  

In a perfect world, Lana would have fallen in love with the guy next door. I could have taken her out on a date worthy of royalty —Smallville royalty. In a perfect world,  ordinary Clark Kent would have mustered the courage to ask Lana out before someone else did. We would have been high school sweethearts, able to grow old together. Clark Kent never existed. He’s a lie, an idyllic fantasy that can never be.  I  trace the inside of her palm, feeling each bone . . . bones I would shatter if I applied too much pressure. Dean is the better man. He can give Lana the happy-ever-after she deserves. 

  “Bri is dead, and there is likely a killer on the loose,” I say, avoiding meeting her eyes. “Of course, I’m not happy.”  

Lana winces, the color draining from her face. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” she says. “Things are changing so fast. It’s okay to be upset about that.”   She’s no longer the little girl who used to sleep over when she had nightmares. “It’s important to have everything out in the open.”   

“What could be more important than finding Bri’s killer?” I untangle our fingers. 

“Nothing, I suppose,” Lana sighs, burying her head in her palms. Gingerly she straightens, sadness rolling off her in waves. “It’s not your job to hunt down a killer.” And just like that, we’re back to normal. No lies or irksome feelings. Just us. The girl next door and her loyal freak. 

“I’m making it my job,” I say with finality. “No one gets away with murder, especially not in my town.” 

“Just promise me you’ll be careful.” Lana pushes the chair back and stands. She sounds like Mom. 

Lana toys with her mother's locket, her face coloring with disappointment.  Her eyes drift to the lower half of my face. She looks at me in such a way I wonder if she’s having second thoughts about Dean. “I never meant to hurt you, Clark.” 

She didn’t. I’m invincible. It’s how it’s supposed to be. Guys like me don’t get the girl. When I don’t respond she heads back to the jocks’ table, where Dean is waiting for her. I dig my notebook out of the backpack and jot down what I know of Dr. Whitney. Graham Garret was found scorched beyond recognition in his shower. Bri ran away, her body then appearing in Metropolis. Could there be a connection between Grahm’s murder and Bri's death? Assuming LadyTruth and I are investigating the same story, Bri was murdered just like Grahm. If I could get my hands on the autopsy report, I might be able to make a connection.    

Someone slams a Warwing comic on the table and sits opposite me. I look up, half-expecting Pete Ross, and a knife of disappointment plunges into my gut. Lex Luthor unpacks his gourmet lunch. It’s difficult to wrap my head around Mrs. Luthor packing Lex's lunch and sending him on his merry way. She probably has a servant do that for her. 

“What are you doing?” I frown at him. 

“Eating with my friend.” Lex unscrews a glass container, revealing a juicy steak and mashed potatoes inside. A bandage covers his nose. “Do you have a problem with that?” 

“I don’t,” I whisper, setting my sandwich down and leaning forward. “But they might,” I indicate to the sea of students watching us. 

Lex’s actions have drawn the attention of the whole school. Even the dorks have stopped their debate to gawk at the freak and the millionaire. Through the crowd of hundreds, I find Pete’s murderous glare. He holds a snapped plastic fork in one hand, his dark eyes stormy. Lana sits beside him, equally perplexed at this new development, but avoids making eye contact with me. Dean is the only one in the cafeteria who doesn’t seem fazed. 

“You’re the only one who has shown me any kindness in this cesspool of hormones and backstabbers,” Lex explains. “The friend in my adversity I shall always cherish most.” 

I smirk, “Ulysses S. Grant.” 

Lex offers me a genuine smile. “I knew I liked you for a reason, farm boy.” He digs into the steak.     

We eat our perspective meals in awkward silence. I can tell Lex isn’t used to having friends and doesn’t know what to make of me. He finishes off the steak and flips open the Warwing comic. I study the pages carefully. It’s not an issue I’m familiar with. Penelope, Warwing’s girlfriend, stands in the rain talking on her cell phone, her white dress skin-tight on her figure. In the next panel, a black-gloved hand holds up a gun. 

I roll my eyes. It’s the same old story as always. Vince Welling’s foster sister and love has landed herself in yet another precarious situation and Warwing will be there to save the day as usual. If my girlfriend was that reckless, I might need to find myself a shrink to cope with all that stress. But Warwing is an alien. He doesn’t feel emotions like humans. What if that’s true for me? I shake my head, banishing that possibility from my mind. Maisie was right. Clark Kent the extraterrestrial sounds ridiculous. It’s laughable. 

“I can’t believe you still read comic books,” I scoff, bitterness leaking into my voice.    

“Are you kidding?” Lex looks at me. “A strange visitor from another planet helps the weak? He’s my idol.” Lex beams. “Plus he’s bald like me!” he says excitedly.     

I’d hate to burst his bubble. Lichtenstein created Warwing as nothing more than a love interest for Power Girl, the one human that could stand toe to toe with Warwing. But things didn’t exactly work out. Readers preferred him with the feisty fashion designer, who designed his eye-sore of a suit; Power Girl was all but forgotten to the idles of time, much like her inspiration. The Angel of Vengeance remains nothing more than a hoax in the minds of Gothamites.   

   “My mother bought me the entire collection.”

   My parents were not that generous. Anything Warwing-related was forbidden in the Kent household, which meant I went behind my parents’ back and read it anyway. It wasn’t hard. Practically all the children in Smallville had a Warwing graphic novel tumbling out of their backpacks. To this day, I don’t see what my parents were so worried about. 

Okay, it might have raised a few eyebrows when a twelve-year-old Vince Welling, AKA Warwing, cut his wings off so he could pass himself off as human. I would have done the same thing in his shoes. I can relate to Vince Welling now more than I ever could when I was a boy. But, unfortunately, no weapon on Earth can strip me of my abnormalities. I would never be like other kids, no matter how hard I try to be. 

“I’ve outgrown heroes,” I grumble, forking the chocolate cake Ma sent. Once my life started to turn into a Warwing comic, the fantasy lost its appeal. I woke up and realized Vince Welling didn’t have it easy. I won’t wish my life on my worst enemy. 

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Lex whistles. “Plot twists galore, heartstopping betrayal after betrayal . . . a hero’s fall from grace.” 

“It’s just not my cup of tea anymore,” I shrug.

“Not your cup of tea?” Lex raises his voice. “Warwing is everyone’s type, Kent.” Lex persists. “You either want to be him or kill him.” 

I frown at him. “You want him dead?” I can’t believe he’s roped me into discussing comic book characters. This is giving me a case of deja vu. Once upon a time, this was Pete and me. 

Lex pales. “Let’s just say, Vince Welling had one terrible day,” he says cryptically. “I don’t want to spoil the rest for you.” Lex eyes me hopefully. 

“That makes two of us then,” I laugh ruefully and swallow a chunk of Ma’s cake. I face Lex head-on. “Do you ever feel like your parents are hiding this big secret, and if they just tell the truth, everything would be better?”

“Yeah, all the time,” Lex’s smile falters. “In my experience, it usually means Daddy Dearest is hiding a body.” I wait for him to laugh, and a chill falls over me when he doesn't. Jill would have a field day if she heard Lex talk like that. I laugh uneasily. 

“Your Dad is nothing like my dad,” Lex quickly says. “If your goody-two-shoe parents are hiding something from you, they’re probably doing it to protect you.” 

He’s probably right, but I can’t get Whitney’s words out of my head. They might be doing more harm than good by keeping me in the dark. 

“Sorry about that.” I apologize. “You didn’t need to hear about my family problems.” The fact is I have no one to talk to, other than Lana, but I don’t think I have her anymore. 

“It’s alright,” Lex says. “It’s nice to know a farmer’s son has family drama, too.” 

“Oh yeah,” I chuckle. “My Ma is a regular homewrecker,” I joke. 

There’s a beat of silence. Lex carefully fixes his tie and smiles. “Look, I’m not used to people standing up for me.” 

“Don’t mention it,” I say. “You would have done the same.”  I take another sip of water. “I hope that experience hasn’t ruined Smallville for you,” I say. “There are a lot of good people here. Kenny is just one guy.” 

“You mean bully.” 

I shrug. “He wasn’t always like that. We used to be friends in elementary school.” 

“What happened?” 

“It’s not my place to say.”

Chapter Text

"Ma, I'm home!" I call into the quiet house, tossing my backpack by the door and kicking off my muddy sneakers. The house is filled with the scents of Ma's cooking: fresh bread out of the oven, sweet strawberry jam boiling on the stove, and the unmistakable smell of mouthwatering hamburgers. God, I love my mother's cooking. It's almost enough to erase all my doubts.

"Can you set an extra plate for dinner?" I hang Lex's jacket up on the rack in the entryway. Lex slinks behind me, quiet and uncertain. He stops at the end of the hallway and studies one of the family photographs on the wall. Mama and Dad sit crosslegged in the cornfield, kissing passionately. One-year-old me is squeezed between them on Mama's lap, blissfully unaware of the blatant show of PDA. The entire hallway is filled with embarrassing baby photos. There even is a corny snapshot of me playing inside the bathtub. I was born in Smallville, to suggest anything else is lunacy. 

"Your parents really love you," he marvels.

My throat tightens at the resentment in his voice. "They can be a bit . . ." I search for the right word, following my nose to the kitchen. "Well, you know, a bit embarrassing."

In the last eight hours, Mama has miraculously transformed the kitchen. Balloons are tied on the back of each chair, splashing the usually drab kitchen with a wash of color. A massive cake with Jill’s face on it is the centerpiece on the table, with a dash of confetti and paper flowers decorating the surrounding surface. Above the entrance, a handpainted ‘Happy Birthday’ banner hangs. The counter is laden with an assortment of goodies: double chocolate brownies, impossible burgers and queso and chips, coleslaw salad, and a basket of fried bread and jam.  Jill sits at the table with her friends, scarfing down ice cream cake.

Oh. Shit. I forgot it was Jill's birthday. I trip over the leg of a chair and tumble forward, collapsing on my face.

"Ooo - that's gotta hurt."

I grimace and scramble to my feet, feigning discomfort. I lock eyes with Mom by the stove. She waves at me, her wide smile infectious, but I can't stop thinking about Dr. Whitney's file. She never was my mother, or is she? My great-uncle in Metropolis has black hair like me. Grandpa looks like a weathered Pierce Brosnan. Mama gets her red hair from her mother. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility for her to have a son with black hair.

Dad sits, hunched over at the counter, nursing a beer. He wears the same faded button-down shirt he wore yesterday. He offers me a weak smile and quickly looks away. If the argument I overheard is any indication, Ma probably made him sleep in the loft. I wish they'd just tell me what's going on. It can't be that bad.

A crowd of familiar faces is crammed into the small kitchen. I recognize the Castelli twins huddled around the radio, singing along to the Jonas Brothers. Maisie bombards Dean with questions about his powers. Claire makes small talk with Dad. I count at least fifteen heads. There are way too many people.

Would it be rude if I told them to leave? I don't feel like socializing. It's wrong to celebrate when Bri Routh is dead. I remind myself I'm the only one who knows the truth about her disappearance. To everyone else, it's still only a rumor.

"You forgot my birthday, Speed Boy," Jill skips toward me and punches me on the shoulder. I roll with the punch, slackening my bones. "Some cuz, you turned out to be."

"He didn't forget," Lex defends me, drawing everybody's attention. "We're late because we were picking up your present," Lex says eagerly. He holds up some car keys. "The Lexus SC-430 is the latest model."

Jill takes the keys and chucks them in the trash. "My friendship can't be bought."

"A birthday is a momentous occasion," Lex says calmly. "You deserve all the happiness . . ." I bury my head in my face and try to make myself invisible. I'm the worst cousin ever.

"I'll tell you what will make me happy, Baby Snake," Jill jeers. "I want my parents alive and your lying, murdering, two-faced father six feet underground."

"Jill," I warn. "He means well."

"No," Jill glares at me with hate. "He doesn't deserve your loyalty. He's a Luthor!"

This misplaced hate is getting old. She has no proof Lionel Luthor sabotaged her parents' car. I was there when it happened. There was nothing abnormal about the accident other than the fact that Jill and I survived.

"He's not his father," I sound like a broken record. "It's unfair to cast him as the villain when you don't even know him." 

I garner strange looks from our friends. Pete looks at me as if I've chopped off his arm. Distrust and uncertainty pool in Lana's blue eyes. Dean is the only one who doesn't seem disturbed by the snake in the farmhouse. It's unsurprising since they live together.

"I don't need to know him," Jill spits out. "He's a Luthor. All Luthor blood is poison."

Lex tenses, his face darkening. I fear he'll storm off or lash out. Instead, he straightens and meets Jill's eyes. "I'm sorry about your parents," he says sincerely. "I won't be surprised if you're right about my father. But I'm not him."

"An apology doesn't bring back my parents!" Jill hisses. "You can't just flash your money and expect me to roll over and let you pet my belly."

"I didn't mean to—"

"Luthors only think about themselves!"

"Lex isn't like that!"

The room is silent, all eyes glued on us as if watching a car crash in slow motion. Pete's glare burns into my face. "You damn idiot!" Pete thunders. "You brought a monster into your home!"

"Snakes are not invited to my birthday," Jill scowls. "You can leave the way you came."

"That's enough, young lady," Dad approaches, his expression turbulent. "Lex is a guest in our home. You will treat him with respect."

"Respect has to be earned!" Jill protests. "He's just as bad as his father! Trying to buy his way into our lives!"

"He was just trying to help me," I say.

"A Luthor's help comes with a cost. You know that!"

"You're not even giving him a chance!"

"I'm sorry. I've caused a rift in your family," Lex says carefully. "I'll be going. Happy birthday." Lex nods to Jill and pushes through the crowd.

I catch up to Lex by the Porsche. Flecks of snow have gathered on top of the windshield wiper. "You don't have to leave. She's way out of line."

"It's okay, Clark," Lex says tightly. "I'm used to it." The bitterness in his voice surprises me.

"I can still show you my Warrior Angel books," I offer.

"Another time," he twirls the car keys in his hand. "The Birthday Queen requires your presence."

"Her Highness is going to have to get used to disappointment."

All Lex is guilty of is trying to make friends. It's not easy being the new kid. And on top of that, he's blamed for things his father did that were out of his control. "You're not your father. Come back inside. They'd come around once you let them know the real you."

"How do you know the real me isn't as much of a snake as my father?" Lex asks.

I meet his steely, gray eyes. "I sense you have a good heart. You won't have helped me otherwise."

"Do yourself a favor, Clark." he opens the door and climbs in. "Stay away from me. Luthors don't have the luxury of friends." He revs the engine and peels away, kicking up a cloud of snow and dirt.

"Clark." Lana joins me outside. "Jill's about to open presents." She keeps her tone lighthearted, but I don't miss the judgmental look she shoots the retreating Porsche.

"Have fun without me," I snarl, trudging through the snowy pathway and toward the loft. I don't belong in this family. That becomes strikingly clear the longer I spend with them. I'm not one of them. Lana has to run to keep up with my long strides.

"Slow down, Clarkzilla," Lana grabs my arm. I freeze. The gentle snowfall tickles, and I feel Lana shiver. "You barely know Lex. Surely not enough to get this upset," she observes. "You're upset about something else." I sigh heavily. She knows me too well. "What are you really angry about?"

I face her. Lana sports a tight scarlet sweater with a design of rhinestones sewn into the itchy fabric. At a glance, her sweater resembles a red sky erupting in green fire. I don't know why it fills me with a sense of dread and an aching longing.

"Talk to me. No matter who I date, we're still friends, Clark." Her hand slips inside mine. "Let me help you."

"No one can help me," I say. "You'll think I'm crazy anyhow." Jill certainly thinks I am.

"You know, I already think you're crazy," Lana smirks, nudging me playfully with her shoulder.

"Do you resent your Dad for never being around?" I blurt out. "Your biological father," I clarify.

Lana stiffens. "He's a deadbeat, Clark," Lana says cooly. "I stopped thinking about him a long time ago; you know that."

"Right." Lana has nothing of her father except for an old faded, military headshot she found in Staci Lang's diary. He used to send her gifts, but eventually, he forgot all about his daughter. "But would you welcome him if he came back?"

"Probably not. He lost the privilege of being in my life when he left Ma," Lana says with no reservations. "Where is all this coming from?"

I sigh and clench and unclench my fist. "What if my real parents are out there somewhere?"

"Yeah, they are," Lana says seriously. "I believe it's called the Kents' kitchen."

"I'm serious, Lana." I lock eyes with her, desperately searching for answers inside her pretty blue eyes. "What if those people in there are not my birth parents?"

"You're serious?" Lana gasps. "What? That doesn't make any sense. You've always been in Smallville. What makes you think you're adopted?"

"I might have broken into Dr. Whitney's computer," I say. "He has an article about me. Personal things I never told anyone. He seems to think the Kents are not my real parents. I believe the exact words he used were 'alleged biological parents.'" It felt good to get that off my chest. It was eating at me from the inside.

"And you believed him?" Lana shakes her head. "Clark, take it from someone who knows the Doc; he's not right in the head." She smiles pityingly. "You can't trust him."

"There are too many coincidences to ignore," I explain. "I'm nothing like the Kents. We're so different."

"I sure hope so," Lana smirks. "If everyone were carbon copies of their parents it would be a boring world."

"I know," I sigh. "But that's not what I mean," I struggle to put how I feel into words. It's not only physical differences. There is no one on Earth like me. Trust me, I've searched. But how can I explain that to her without sounding loony?

"Then how did you mean it?" Lana asks.

"Nothing," I say dismissively. "I'm overthinking things as usual," I decide, which is true enough. The Doc's rambling could be just that . . . nonsense.

"Even if you turn out to be right about the Kents." Lana loops an arm through mine, smiling fondly up at me. "Just remember your parents love you, and you're lucky to have them."

I never doubted their love for a second. But if my instincts are correct, that means my birth parents are still out there somewhere. They could be the only ones who can answer my questions.

Lana and I head back to the main house. We walk side by side, her arm brushing feather-light against mine. The air crackles with the electricity of unspoken words. In the span of a few minutes, she's seamlessly slipped back into the cozy role of the girl next door, the best friend. But I'm not sure that's enough anymore. She catches Dean's eye, squeezes my hand one last time, and rushes into his arms.

I slowly slink over to the counter and start to fix a plate of food. I have a clear view of Ma's angry profile at this angle.

"But what if he hates us for it?" Mama says in a gurgled whisper, bracing her hands on the edge of the sink. "What if he hates himself even more than he already does?" She gasps. "What if he hates us?" I could never hate my parents.

"That's a risk I'm willing to take," Dad rubs soothing circles into her back. "I can't keep lying."

"Those lies keep him safe," Mama says. "And we promised my Father we won't . . ."

"Keep me safe from what?" I intervene. The raucous party is drowned out by the pulse of blood pounding in my ears. Suddenly, the plate of food I hold feels like smoldering coals weighing me down.

Mama jumps, splashing soapy water all over the countertop. She sucks in a whithering breath and turns toward me, face ashen. In the blink of an eye, she wipes the grim expression off her face and offers me a genuine smile.

"It's nothing for you to worry about, my little star sweeper." Mama strolls toward me and tenderly brushes a stray curl off my forehead. "You're too young to have worries. Go have fun." She dismisses me. "Dad and I can handle the dishes."

Every time I leave the house, I worry. Today might be the day I shake someone's hand too hard and dislocate a bone or two. Each time I use my powers brings me closer to transforming into a nightmarish monster. One day I might wake up and all my friends have abandoned me.

I step back, head reeling. "How can you stand there and act like nothing is wrong?" I gape at her. "I heard you the other day. You’re hiding something from me. Something to do with the FED who shot Dad."

Mama sucks in a strangled breath, her eyes skitting about the room as if afraid Darth Sidious is lurking in the shadows. "How do you know about that?” 

“How long did you expect to keep that  secret?” I challenge. “It’s a small town.” 

“He’s a reporter, Marty,” Dad chortles. “Digging up dirt is what he does.” 

“So who is he?” I ask. “Why did he shoot you? Were they after me?” I fire away, not caring who hears. 

“He's a bad, delusional man. That's all you need to know," Mom grumbles. "You are not to investigate this any further. You try to find this man, and you put yourself and this family in danger."

"At least he's not a liar." I clench my fists and glare at my parents.

"Watch your tone!"

"Or what?" I challenge. "You'll lock me up in a cell? Good luck finding a prison that can hold me."

"Clark Joseph Kent," Mama hisses, eyes widening drastically. "Careful what you say. There are people present!"

"Son," Dad starts tentatively, scratching the back of his head. "Sometimes people are afraid of things they don't understand." He smiles feebly. "Were this man to learn of your . . ." he chooses his next words carefully. "Peculiarities, well, he won't rest till he figures out what makes you tick or turns you into a weapon."

"Does he know about me?" I whisper, scanning the many faces in the kitchen. Fortunately, no one is looking my way.

Mama and Dad share grim expressions that speak volumes. Dad's Adam's apple bounces in his throat, his face growing green.

"Not yet," Dad says forlornly. "I want to keep it that way. You can never tell anyone about your powers."

Well, that ship has sailed. Pete knows about me, and Maisie is close to figuring me out.

"That's enough, Johanthan!" Mama whacks him against the chest. "You are scaring him." Her eyes flit around the room. Satisfied no one is eavesdropping Mama closes the distance between us and envelops me in a tight hug. "This is no time for such talk, son. Go be with your friends."

"I'm not dumb," I snap. "You're throwing this fucking party so you can hide the truth a little longer!" I scream.

"It's your cousin's birthday," Dad says. "Your mom does not have an ulterior motive."

"She's the Queen of lies," I say darkly. "Nothing out of your mouth can be trusted."

I don't wait to hear their responses. I take my plate and slink into the den. Mama has cleared off the armchair by the fireplace that usually holds a pile of Dad's self-help books. Jill sits there, holding court. Gifts of every shape and size cover the available floor space. The party has congregated around the birthday girl, a roaring fire crackling in the nearby hearth. Pete sits closest to the fire in his wheelchair, the warm light shining on his drawn, taut features. Jill squeals as she unearths tickets for a Pearl Jam concert. She thanks Claire with a heartfelt kiss that elicits squeals from their friends.

It's a tender sight that would warm the Abominable Snowman's cold heart. I'm a ghost looking in on a life that could never be mine. True. Ma went all out for my birthdays in the early days. After I blew up the piñata, celebrations became a family affair only. My birthday was just another lie. Was I even born naturally? Maybe I was grown in a lab like Astro Boy.

I've lost my appetite. My parents' scared faces soar through my mind. When they spoke of the FED, the fear in their eyes was real, but he sounded like a B-list supervillain. Even so, what would he want with a farm boy? And why would they keep that from me? I.Ding that the man in the photo is the key. 

People don't notice when I sneak out the back door, taking the computer with me. They do say the third time is the charm. I climb the steps to the loft and log in. Fuzzball jumps onto the couch beside me and looks at me with disapproval. This is insane. "Don't look at me like that."

I bring up the Metropolis Special Crime Unit home page. "It's a one-time thing." Fuzzball slams her puffy tail on my knee. "Okay. Two-time thing. Maybe three," I relent. I maneuver the site till I reach the old report on Smallville, Kansas. I try to dig deeper and once again am blocked by firewalls same as before. I don't have approved access.

I'm breaking a gazillion different laws. But my parents didn't give me much of a choice. They're not going to tell me the truth. I'll never hack again once I know what the hell is going on. Nobody would have to know. "That's it, think positive." I talk to myself as I furiously punch in passcodes. Smallville is just a blip in the big world. What's the likelihood that an agent would notice one hacker?

There's a whining screech from below. I freeze, fingers hovering over the keyboard. It sounds like wheels scraping on wood. A blast of cold wind blows through the barn.

"Clark, you in here?" Pete calls from downstairs. I close the computer and hold my breath. "You're not going to make a cripple climb the stairs?" he jokes. "The snow was brutal enough."

No it wasn't. I spot Maisie hovering outside the barn, bundled up against the cold. She helped Pete to the loft. It's impressive she's refrained from barging in uninvited.

"The alien is busy," I glare down at Pete over the railing. The tires on the wheelchair shine with frost and mud. "What do you want?"

"Look man, I'm not here to fight." Pete holds his hands up in surrender. "You have every right to be mad. I shouldn't have called you an alien." his voice wobbles when he says that. "I hope you know, despite everything, you're my amigo," he says.

There is so much I could say. He's offering me an olive branch, a chance to be friends again. But I know in my heart Pete is better off without me. "I don't want to know you or what you do," I say harshly. "I don't want you near my house."

"Cut the bullcrap, Clark," Pete says crudely. "I'm not dumb," he balls his fist on the armrest. "I can hear you using Al Pacino's voice." I slam my mouth shut. "Stop pushing your friends away." I notice he didn't refer to himself.

"So we're friends now?" I raise my voice. "That's funny," I say. "Forget you ever knew Clark Kent. You'll be better off in the long run. He's nothing but trouble," I mimic Pete's voice.

Pete clasps his hands in his lap. "You weren't supposed to hear that."

"I'm not the one who pushed my friends away."

"Lex is not your friend," Pete argues.

"And you are?" I challenge. "I can live with people calling me Clarkzilla and freak, not you," I say. "You were supposed to be my friend. I trusted you with the truth."

"Fact is, you don't know the truth!" Pete screams. "You don't know what you are."

"Get . . ."

The barn door flies open and Maisie crashes through, out of breath, holding her BlackBerry like a weapon. She leans on her knees to catch her breath, huffing and puffing.

"Both of you get out!"

Maisie holds up her index finger, breathing heavily. "You," she sighs. "Cops looking . . . for yugh," she wheezes.

"Shit," I pale. "They work fast."

"Huh?" Maise says.

"What did you do?" Pete says at the same time.

I feel pretty stupid. "It was only one time."

"What did you do?" Pete repeats.

"I didn't think they'd catch on that fast!"

"Clark!"

So I tell them. I leave out the family connection and fib a little about the FEDs being a suspect in a murder case. I admit to trying to hack the SCU's archives.

"You dumbass!" Maisie screams. "Hacking 101. Never hack at home," she thunders. "Please tell me you at least masked your IP address!"

"My what?" I join them downstairs.

"Incompetent amateur," Maisie shakes her head. "When did this happen?"

"A few minutes ago," I shudder. "But I didn't get through the firewalls."

"Good, good," Maisie says. "They're not here for that, then," she wheels Pete toward the exit. Maisie covers her lower face with a scarf, her white knuckles turning blue against the hand bars of the wheelchair.

"Allow me," I offer to take over steering. Maisie gladly steps aside and shoves her frozen hands in her toasty pockets.

"What about you, Ross?" Maisie asks, falling into step beside me. The house is a hazy glow in the distance. "Any illegal activity I should be worried about?"

He looks at me. "No."

"Oh my God," she bites her nails and looks sidelong at me. "They're here about the break in."

"Nobody saw us," I reassure her.

"That's what they want you to think!" Maisie hyperventilatetes. "Dr. Whitney probably has cameras in his office. We broke in. We're going to prison."

"Hold up," Pete waves his hand exaggeratedly. "You broke into a doctor's office?"

"No, Clark did. I followed him."

"It's like I don't know you anymore," Pete shakes his head. "Lex's influence, I'm guessing."

"Nah, Clark thinks Dr. Whitney is behind the murders," Maisie says.

"What murders?"

"MAZE!"

"Was I not supposed to say that?"

"Bingo."

Chapter Text

"Let's cut to the chase, shall we?" Dan Turpin folds his hands behind his back and paces in the den, wearing a path in the quilted rug. The two mugs of coffee Ma had prepared for the cops sit untouched on the console table. I'm squeezed on the sofa between my alleged parents, their faces as white as a ghost. Detective Bowman perches on the sofa's armrest. 

Turpin sets down a photograph on the table of a familiar bushy-haired girl. "Do you recognize this girl?" I relax slightly. They're not here about the hack.

"Yes, sir," I nod. "That's Bri. She's in my journalism class."

"Was," Bowman says crisply. "Last night, her body was found in Hob's Bay, brutally mutilated." Mama stifles a gasp. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that Mr. Kent?" he asks casually.

Bowman sets down another photograph on top of Bri's school photo. It's a snapshot from a street camera showing me staring up at the Daily Planet as I hold an ice cream cone. It's not an easy day to forget. I wore a pair of big, gaudy sunglasses in the middle of a foggy day because I was worried about hurting Uncle Emil. But he wasn't afraid of me. Uncle Emil bought me some ice cream to calm me down, and we ended up by The Daily Planet, pondering the future. The time stamp reads 11:55 Am; 12/19/2005.

Bowman holds up another picture; this one shows me in Smallville, walking down Main Street with Lana and Pete."

These photos were taken fifteen minutes apart from each other," Bowman says stonily. "Last time I checked there is no transport fast enough to get you from Metropolis to Smallville in under thirty minutes." Bowman glares at me. "That would make it two teenagers with no paper trail. One of them is dead. Who's to say you didn't dump her body in Metropolis?"

My ears turn red as his meaning sinks in. "I won't . . . I don't understand." I look pleadingly at Mama and then back to Bowman. "Bri was my friend— I won't–"

"I would not have such accusations thrown in my house!" Dad shoots to his feet. "That isn't Clark," He picks up the snapshot from Metropolis and crumples it up. "He was helping me milk the cow."

"A likely story," Bowman sneers. "Mr. Kent, you do realize lying to an officer is a federal offense?"

"And you do realize fabricating evidence will result in ten years in prison and your badge confiscated," Mama says cooly, eyes sparking with malice. "I was a lawyer before I became a farmer's wife. Two can play this game," she sits up straighter. "Surveillance from three years ago will never hold up in court. Unless you have concrete evidence tying my son to Bri, I suggest you leave."

"How do you explain your son being in two places at once?" Bowman persisted.

"Enough!" Turpin slams his fist down on the table. "I told you, rookie," each syllable is carefully annunciated, a thinly layered threat beneath each word. "Leave the talking to me."

"But Dan . . ."

"Don't but Dan me!" he thunders. "You are way out of line. Now get out of my sight before I change my mind and fire you!"

"You don't have the authority to do that."

"Watch me," Turpin warns.

Bowman scowls and straightens, face stony. He narrows his dark eyes at me. "I'd be watching you, little Kent." He says and heads down the rickety wooden steps.

"I apologize on behalf of my colleague," Turpin says as soon as Bowman is gone. "They'd let anyone into the force nowadays," he sighs. "Even a crackpot like him."

"He's wrong," I say. "I am no killer."

"I believe you." Dan takes the seat opposite me. Mama exhales sharply, grabbing my hand. "But I do have some questions for you."

"Anything," I say. "I want to help."

"Where were you the evening of December ninth, at 5:45 p.m.?"

"He was at the General Store with mel," Mama intervenes.

"Is that so?" Turpin raises an inquisitive brow. Dad and I lock eyes and he subtly shakes his head, face red with worry. That was the night before I went back to school. One look at Ma's dilated pupils tells me Dad hadn't told her about my visit to the Doc's office.

I shake my head. "I was taking a friend to the hospital. There was an accident and she won't wake up. I was scared for her life." I clarify, wincing as I catch Ma's distraught expression.

He jots something down on his notepad. "Was this friend Bri Routh?"

"No, but when I arrived, Bri was already there. Dr. Whitney was leading a support group."

"A support group for what?" Detective Turpin asks. I chew my bottom lip, unsure of how to proceed. "Well?" he prompts.

"You won't believe me," I say tentatively.

"Try me, son," Detective Turpin says. "I've seen a lot of bizarre things in my line of work."

"They seemed to think they suffered from some infection that caused them to have superpowers."

"Did you witness any of these superpowers in action?" I nod but don't dare tell him more. "Was Bri Routh one of the patients to display any abilities?" I shake my head.

Mama breathes through her nose, eyeing me angrily. "How could you not tell us about this?" she looks toward her husband, who is slouched over, avoiding his wife's gaze. Mama takes one look at Dad and reads him like a book. "You knew about this, didn't you?" she says, aghast. Dad looks down at his feet, sufficiently chastised. "We're supposed to be a team, Jonathan!"

"I didn't tell you because I knew how you'd react," he winces.

"You know that man is trouble!" she screams. "Clark could have been hurt." I snort in disbelief. 

"Don't think we are not done discussing this Clark Joseph Kent," Mama whirls on me. I bite my tongue. She's overreacting yet again. There isn't much that can hurt me. "You are grounded."

"For what?" Dad rolls his eyes. "Clark made the right call. Would you have preferred he left Lana in the street to die?"

"He could have called us. He knew perfectly well how we feel about Whitney."

"He doesn't have a phone," Dad reminds her. Mama's face colors with fury. She looks like she wants to say more, but doesn't dare to in the presence of Detective Turpin.

"But it's Dr. Whitney!"

"Tell me more about this Whitney fellow," Turpin jumps right in. "Why do you think he poses a threat to your son?" Mama and Dad share a look filled with trepidation.

"Yeah, Ma," I smirk. "What's so bad about the good doc?"

Mama slumps against the cushions. The one question seems to have zapped Ma's energy. She looks ten years older, the worry wrinkles on her forehead more pronounced.

"It's more of a hunch like the bad feeling you get when someone is stalking you," Dad starts, seeing as Mama will not be much help. "He wasn't the same after the meteor shower," Dad informs. "He became closed off and short-tempered. This was the same man that patched me up after a car race went wrong, no questions asked." Dad sadly looks into the distance. "And then shortly after Clark's fourth birthday, he started calling the house asking strange questions about our son."

"What sort of questions?" Detective Turpin asks.

Dad's gaze flits subconsciously toward me, naked fear in his eyes."I'd rather not say."

Translation: He doesn't want to tell me the truth.

Detective Turpin tilts his head toward me. "Did Dr. Whitney and Bri have any disagreements?"

"No, but . . ." I start to explain my theory and falter. Detective Turpin probably won't believe me. Though he didn't seem surprised when I mentioned kids with superpowers.

"But what?"

"Bri and Mr. Garcia are both Dr. Whitney's patients," I say instead, hoping my instincts are wrong. Isn't that enough to arrest the doc?"

"How do you know about Arnold Garcia?" Detective Turpin raises his voice and narrows his eyes at me. My stomach plummets.

"I'm a reporter," I say. "It's my job to notice these things. Also, it's a small town, people tend to notice when locals go missing." I lean forward and brace my arms on my knees. "Please tell me I'm wrong."

"I am not at liberty to speak about Arnold Garcia."

"No, you're holding back because you don't want to scare us with the S.C.U," I say. 

"I did my research," I say, all too familiar with the Special Crimes Unit in the MPD. I've read every single public report I could find. A group of college girls disappeared in a ball of violet light. A string of murders occurred with no means for the murderer to enter. A town on the outskirts of the city, Metropolis, turns into a ghost town seemingly overnight. I don't read the reports to satisfy my curiosity, I read them because it gives me hope. One day, I might read a report about a being like me.

"The S.C.U. is only brought in on cases that can't be explained by natural means," I explain." Bri and Mr. Garcia are metahumans, but I'm willing to bet they're not your first encounter with extraordinary people. You're here because you don't know how their bodies ended up fourteen thousand miles from Smallville. "

"You won't come to Kansas unless you've had other cases similar to Bri's," I state. "I know of at least seven people missing in Smallville. Have you found anyone else from Smallville besides Bri in Metropolis?"

"I didn't realize I was being interrogated," Detective Turpin laughs. "You've got spirit, kid, I respect that." he nods approvingly.

"Well, have you?" I ask. "They were my friends," I say. Especially, Arnold Garcia; He was more of a grandpa to me than Joseph Clark. "Please," I beg. "I can help!"

"I love your enthusiasm," he commends. "You remind me a bit of myself at that age," he confesses, chewing contemplatively on the burnt end of a cigarette. "The best thing you can do is keep your head down and allow me to do my job. I have a few more questions for you, Clark."

"Does Bri have any friends in Metropolis?"

"There's my uncle Emil, but she's never met him."

"Is there anyone you can think of that would want to harm her?"

"Not that I know of," I shrug. "She kept to herself mostly."

I tell the detective about Kenny Selton and how poorly he treats everyone. He furiously jots down notes as I speak. While he's distracted, I slide my glasses off and scan the contents of his briefcase. There are six manila folders concealed on the bottom, under a pile of junk. I dig deeper and find Bri's autopsy. I stifle a scream. Where her arms should have been are two bloody stumps. She wears a shimmering gold evening gown, stained down the front with blood. Her feet are bare and tied around her bruised toe is a tag with the words: 'I'm sorry' typed on it.

Arnold Garcia is even worse off than Bri. A photograph of an old man wearing his Sunday best is clipped over the autopsy report. Where his once kind brown eyes were located are crimson holes as if someone had carved his eyeballs out with a sharp spoon. His skull had been carved open, brain fluid leaking onto the cold pavement. Once again a tag is tied around the toe, what's left of him.

My stomach swirls violently and bile rises up my throat. "No," I stumble to my feet in a daze, snapping my eyes shut as the familiar sting burns the back of my eyelids. I don't want to believe it, but they're gone. I failed them. "I should have been there," my voice comes out hoarse and distant. "I could have stopped him."

"Stop who Clark?" Detective Turpin asks. "Did Kenny and Bri argue?"

"Clark," Mama rests a hand on my shoulder. "You had no way of knowing what would happen."

I lock eyes with Ma and search her face for any possible reason for the atrocity I saw. "He slaughtered them." The impact of those words echoes in my head like a death knell, drowning out all noise. "Somebody's got to stop him."

"Clark, that's not your job."

I hear nothing over the roar of my heart. If I were only there, I'm sure I could have prevented their deaths. I might as well have been the one to carve them up like a pumpkin. I won't allow him to hurt anyone else, damn the consequences. Ma is always saying 'Those with great power have a responsibility to leave the earth better than it was before.' I stumble to my feet and start to head downstairs.

Detective Turpin jumps up and cuts me off at the staircase. "We're not finished here," he grabs my arm with a vice-like grip that could easily hold your average civilian.

"I'm sorry, detective, I can't help you." I rip my arm out of his grip and scurry out of the loft. Bowman calls after me, but his complaints land on deaf ears. I slam the door behind me.

The second I open the door, Lana jumps at me. "What did the cops want? Inquiring minds want to know." In the distance, a row of cars are parked outside the main house. My friends' faces are pressed against the car windows, watching Lana and me as eagerly as the latest Grey's Anatomy episode.

"Not now, Lana," I sidestep her. "I don't have time for this."

"Well, make time." Lana has to jog to keep up with my long strides. "Are you running from the law?"

I grit my teeth. My neck prickles, and I feel Maisie's watchful gaze. This is probably the most excitement they've had since the town's time capsule was found in middle school. It is sickening. Two deaths, possibly more, and they're treating it like run-of-the-mill gossip.

"Maybe," I say cryptically. I don't give Lana a chance to answer. Within the span of a heartbeat, I am gone, leaving Lana blinking confusedly at the empty plain.

The arctic air fills me with righteous purpose. Dr. Whitney will never hurt another soul, not under my watch. The town blurs past in a swirl of grays and autumn red. I scarcely notice the cars slugging along in midafternoon traffic. The taste of blood is in the air. I bypass the security camera in front of the Luthor Clinic and rip the door off its hinges, anger pushing me forward. Stan screams and ducks for cover, but doesn't see me fly right past him.

I zip through the stark halls of the hospital, an untamed hurricane blowing through. Papers soar into the air as I pass, curtains whipping out behind me. and don't stop till I'm in his office. I ball my fist and blindly slam through the door. I pull back my arm, ready to wipe that slimy grin off Whitney's face. He doesn't deserve to live.

"Clark is that you?" That single small voice breaks through the haze of anger, and I sag.

My heart stills, and the world snaps back into clear focus. The pages of the notebook on the desk flutter back into place. I unclench my fist and let my hand fall to my side. What was I thinking? I swallow the knot in my throat, eyes burning with unshed tears. I almost became the monster I feared I was all along. Killing that monster won't have brought Bri or Mr. Garcia back. My hands tremble uncontrollably.

Mrs. Fotakis stands in the middle of Dr. Whitney's office, blinking confusedly as she feels around the unfamiliar room with her cane. "I look for Arnold and got lost," she explains feebly. She clutches a battered book in her free hand. 

"It's okay," I reassure her, stepping forward and looping an arm through hers. "I'm here, Mrs. Fotakis. Let's get you back to bed, Entaxei?" I use one of the few Greek phrases I know, 'Okay.'

"Something's wrong," she observes, tapping my bicep knowingly with her fingers. "To akouo sti foni' sou," she slips into her native tongue. I'm 95% certain she said something along the lines of, 'I hear it in your scream.'

"Ohi kala eimai," I reassure her, guiding her out of Whitney's office. The hallway is empty except for a spider weaving a web from one of the vintage chandeliers.

"You've been practicing," she smiles. "Mou epheres pita?"

"No pie today, I'm sorry." I carefully pry the book out of her wry hands. "Jane Eyre, a bit dark for you, don't you think?"

"You bring bad news, eh?" she answers my question with one of her own. Her hand falls limp to its side as if the book had imbued her with an energy she didn't possess, and now that it's gone she has lost the will to keep on going. She slumps against me and looks up at me with her unsettling white eyes. "You have news of Arnold Garcia."

I swallow hard. "I'm afraid so."

"No!" she squawks the word out like a dying bird. The cane she held so tightly to before, topples to the ground. My arm around her frail frame is the only thing holding her up. I wish I came with better news. She believed in me and I failed her.

"I'm sorry," I ignore every instinct telling me to hold back and hug her towards me. She feels as frail as an autumn leaf being sucked into the abyss of space.

Finally, she comes up for air and gasps. Two streaks of tears glistened on her cheeks. She wipes her face with a handkerchief and steadies her breathing."He lived a good life. Aionia I' mnimi," she chants. I recognize only one word, 'mnimi,' 'memory.'

"I don't care if he lived like King Minos," I bite out. "Death by murder is no way to go."

Mrs. Fotakis stiffens, the color draining from her already pasty-white face. "Murder," she tosses the word out like a dusty rag thrown out of the house. "Arnold was murdered," she states simply, but she can't hide the surprise in her voice.

"I'm sorry," I keep my tone gentle. "I thought you knew."

The corner of her mouth quirks up into a sad smile. "I see glimpses of the future, not everything.”

"I'm sorry," I grimace, "I should have listened to you." I'm not the hero she thought I was. To my horror my eyes grow hot, a river of lava rippling down my face. I choke on a small but audible sob and look away, shutting my eyes. But through the smoldering tears, I see Arnold Garcia's crimson, blank eye sockets, staring at me accusingly.

Mrs. Fotakis gently wipes my face with the handkerchief. "It's not your fault, moro mou," she wraps her arm around me. "Oh Satenas to kanei."

The office starts to shake like a 5.0 earthquake. and it takes all my will to keep us both upright. Cracks zigzag up the wall ferociously. Bricks rain down on us, and I cradle Mrs. Fotakis beneath me, taking the brunt of the impact. There's one last tremor and a burly man smashes through the wall covered head to toe in black. I don't need a degree in criminal justice to know he's bad news.

"Something wrong with the door?" I wince at my words, remembering the state I left it in. I have no room to talk.

"Out of the way, Kent," he grunts, his voice garbled and muffled. There is something familiar about the way he said 'Kent.'

"Only one has to die today."

"You'll have to go through me first," I say with a confidence I don't feel. I will not allow another of my friends to be murdered, not if I can help it. A man who can run through walls without a single scratch is no joke. But he's never met me. I step in front of Mrs. Fotakis.

"Clark, who is it?" Mrs. Fotakis squeezes the hem of my shirt tightly.

"No one important," I say. "I'm just going to take out the trash."

"Your funeral, kid." he aims a punch towards my head, and I sidestep out of his way. He roars in outrage as his fist crashes down on the desk, snapping it in half.

Mrs. Fotakis screams and raises her cane to defend herself. Her knees start to buckle. I dash forward, the room slowing to a standstill, and catch her before she falls. Before she has a chance to blink I grab her and scurry her away to safety. I don't dare run too fast, for fear I might give her a heart attack. I find an empty hospital room and secure her in a wheelchair. I am back in the office in time to block Whitney's next blow.

I grab his fist and toss him across the room. Whitney collapses against the framed photograph on the wall; cracks zigzag across the glass, a lightning shard dividing the 'S' on the ship in half. Glass clutters to the floor.

Whitney leaps to his feet, blood oozing from a slash in his lip. He doesn't seem to notice he's injured. He lets out a cry of desperation and barrels forward, latching onto my chest. His grip on me tightens as he tries to squeeze the last breath out of me. I humor him with a grunt of discomfort. Before he has time to process what's happening, I elbow him in the face, and he keels over.

"Give it up Doc!" I snap. "You're no match for me!" I pull him to his feet. "Had enough, old man?" I easily hoist him up.

A shard of glass impales my left eye "Gah-agh!" I drop him, my vision blackening. The room spins out of control and I see red. My legs collapse from underneath me. An excruciating pain drowns out all my senses. Heat flares up in my eyes. I try to clench my eyes shut but the agony is too much. One. Two. Three. Four. Five . . . I pry the shard out of my eye. Hot, blood flows down my face, but at least the pain is gone.

I stumble to my feet and promptly fall back down. I landed unceremoniously on my rear end and hit my head against the windowsill. Sunlight floods towards me, the warmth seeping into my aching eye. I sigh. I could sit here soaking up vitamin D all day. It's almost as relaxing as a warm jacuzzi.

Mrs. Fotaki's screams pierce the air. I dash toward her, ignoring the burning sting in my eye. I storm into the next room, where I left her.

"Nothing personal Grandma," Whitney grumbles, squeezing the life out of her. "It's just business."

"No!" I jump to my feet and claw at his fist. "Let her go!"

He doesn't budge an inch, his grip on Mrs. Fotakis only tightening. Her lips turn blue, and the light slowly dims in her eyes. I try to pull his fingers back and fail miserably. It's like fighting an iron statue. This must be what Jill feels like when she arm wrestles with me.

There's only one thing to do when your opponent outmatches you.

Do the unexpected.

I feel like I am outside of myself, a spectral phantom, doomed to watch the world crumble around him. No thought penetrates my mind. All that matters is saving Cassandra Fotakis.

I watch myself headbutt the masked assassin. There's a sickening crunch as his nose connects with the tip of my head, which might as well be the sharp edge of a boulder. A splattering of blood crashes across my vision.

The masked figure screams, but I don't stop.

I watch myself drag the intruder's hands away from her purple throat and not a moment too soon. She crumbles to the floor, sputtering but still alive.

I watch myself get pummeled, fists cluttering against my face.

But I feel no pain.

Only irritation. He won't stop till his target is dead.

I watch myself block his next blow with expert ease as if it's something I've done a thousand times in my sleep.

I punch him in the face, the sheer force knocking his mask off. He crashes into the bed and topples back unconscious.

My blood turns cold. Dean Reeve's mangled body stares back at me.

Chapter Text

The adrenaline flees my veins and I crash back down to Earth. Brutally. 

My throat closes and it grows hard to breathe. The metallic tint of blood assaults my nostrils. All I see is Dean’s blood staining the sheets. My legs ache to run, but fear roots me in place. A fist of iron squeezes around my heart, and black spots dance in my vision. A river of red slithers down Dean’s broken nose, the blood mingling in with the spattering of purple bruises on his face. Bruises I caused. 

My doing. 

All my fault. 

I should have held back. 

A life was in danger. 

There is always a life in danger. 

 That’s no excuse.

 I thought he was Dr. Whitney.

 It’s a trick of the light. 

  My eyes sting. Dean Reeve would never attack a helpless old woman. So, therefore, it can’t be him bleeding on the stark-white sheets. Stark-white sheets that are steadily starting to resemble the pallor of his face. My hands shake uncontrollably, and I shove them into my pocket. It doesn’t make any sense. Whitney was the villain in this scenario. It’s not Dean.  It’s a thug wearing his face. 

I clench and unclench my fist,  fingers shaking fiercely.  Whitney or not, I hurt him. And I have no idea how to fix him. I  remember reading somewhere about using ice on a broken nose. But what if his nose is not the only thing broken? What, then?    

I should call the police. That’s Smallville’s Golden Boy laying there. I rest my finger on his throat and check for a pulse. One heartbeat. A moment more. And another thud. His heartbeat is there but faint. 

“HELP!” Mrs. Fotakis screams. “Enas dolofonos einai sto domatio mou!!” She falls into an uneasy string of Greek. I recognize the word dolofonos. Assassin. 

“You’re safe now. . .” I explain, a tremor in my voice.  

The door flies open, and Dr. Shelley dashes through. She pauses at the entrance, her eyes widening as she takes in the carnage. There’s a Clark-sized hole in the wall behind Mrs. Fotakis. Through the hole, Dr. Whitney’s office is in shambles. Dr. Shelley’s gaze lingers on Dean. She claps a hand over her mouth.  

 “Deano,” she pushes past me and falls at Dean’s side. “My poor, beautiful boy,” she strokes a lock of thick black hair behind his ear. “What happened?” 

Mrs. Fotakis visibly stiffens. “Clark, who is with you?” 

“It wasn’t my . . .” I rake my fingers through my hair. “He came out of  . . . kill . . . then I didn’t mean to!” My knees grow weak,  and I collapse onto the bed next to her. “I’m sorry,” I croak out. “It happened so fast. You can fix him, though, can’t you?”    

“Shh,” she reaches over and cups my face with both hands. “It wasn’t your fault. Dean wasn’t himself." With the back of her thumb, she brushes away a traitorous tear from my face and, with her free hand, gives my arm a reassuring squeeze. “I’m here now. Everything is going to be okay,” she promises. 

“I killed him.” 

“No, I can fix him,” she promises. I look dubiously at Dean. 

“I didn’t mean to,” I grumble.

“I know, sweetie,” she pats me gently on the shoulder.  

My racing heart slows to a crawl. My eyelids grow heavy with defeat. A blazing sun shines on me, turning all my worries and fears into a melted puddle at my feet. I fight against the urge to bury my head into a pillow and escape into the seductive world of dreams. A woman with flowing raven locks dances across a crimson sky, her arms spread out as if to embrace me.  

“Clark?” A frantic voice draws me back from the depths of my mind. “Clark, what’s happening? Are you still there?”       

I drag my eyes open with some difficulty. “I’m still . . . ah . . . here,” I manage to say through a humongous yawn. I don’t remember ever being this tired. My entire body aches which is a new sensation for me.  

“Who’s there with yuh?” 

Dr. Shelley offers me a kind smile and slips her sweaty palm over Dean’s forehead. I frown. What good is taking his pulse going to do? Dean needs an emergency room pronto.  There is a hissing noise, like a rope snapping, and suddenly the gash on Dean’s face starts to close up. Invisible fingers sew his face back together. There’s a distinct crack as his nose snaps back into place, and Dean screams in agony. 

The seconds tick by, and the bruises on Dean’s face grow steadily smaller. It’s a miracle. No. It’s a pretty dream. Dean remains still as a corpse in a morgue. No breath escapes his blue lips.  

Mrs. Fotakis crosses herself, “Eisai ei’nai,” her eyes widen in horror as she looks in Dr. Shelley’s direction. She speaks too fast for me to understand her. “CLARK AKOUSE ME!!”

In an instant, the color drains from her face, her eyes roll back into her head and she collapses. I dash forward and catch her before she hits the floor. Gently I place her in the spare wheelchair that miraculously survived Hurricane Clark. I don’t know what came over her. I didn’t think Mrs. Fotaki was prone to fainting spells. The stress of the attack must have been too much for her. I wrap my jacket around her frail frame and face Dr. Shelley.  

Dr. Shelley’s lower lips quiver as if she’s about to cry. “I tend to have that effect on people,” she mutters sadly. “People hate . . . that which they don’t understand,” she stutters. “The slightest amorality and you’re labeled a freak.” 

“Mrs. Fotakis isn’t like that,” I say. My eyes stay fixed on Dean, searching for a glimmer of hope. Some color has returned to his cheeks and a small white scab curves over his bottom lip. 

Oh my God.   

Scarlet Shelley is like me. Blood pounds in my ears. She’s not safe here. It’s only a matter of time before Dr.Whitney realizes one of his colleagues is a metahuman. She doesn’t stand a chance.  

“The poor woman is scared of me.” 

“No,” I say. “You’re incredible. If I had your gift, I wouldn’t let a single soul die on my watch.” 

A timid smile graces her bird-like features. She pushes up her round spectacles and looks at me doubtfully. “You have a good heart, kid,” she says admirably. “Never lose that, no matter what happens.” 

Dean sputters awake, gasping as if he’s out of breath. “Ugh, my head,” he massages his sore jaw. “What are you made of Kent?” 

I hear his voice, but I don’t trust my senses. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to... But you were killing Mrs. Fotakis. I had to stop you!” The explanation sounds weak, like something a delusional villain would say after committing heinous acts of atrocity. 

“Kill?” he makes a face. “But I would never . . .” he falters. “I was driving home from the party, and then there was a girl. . . ” His eyes lock on Dr. Shelley an expression of bewilderment settling over his features. “You . . .” he struggles to form that one syllable, the light slowly dimming in his eyes. “You ran out . . .” he slips into unconsciousness before he can finish that thought. 

His face turns ghostly white. 

“I’ve killed him.” 

Dr. Shelley stands up and squeezes my arm. “He’s not badly hurt.” 

“Not badly hurt?” I raise my voice. “I broke his neck!!” 

“There is no need to panic, son,” Dr. Shelley says as if she’s cornering a wild animal. Everything will be alright. See, Dean is fine,” she tries to reassure me, but Dean isn’t moving. Clark, take a deep breath . . .  

“I’m sorry,” I turn on my heels and run. 

I can’t escape the vision of my friend slamming into me. The football soars steadily through the air. My hands grow clammy with sweat. The football made a touchdown, and the crowd went wild. A crack like lightning drowned out the excited chants. The flashing lights of an ambulance shone through the misty rain. It wasn’t long before the crowd’s adoration turned into screams of horror. 

The world is bathed in red and fire. 

A steel casket seals me in total darkness. 

Visions of horror scrape against my mind. I forget how to breathe, my throat closing up. I try to escape the darkness, but everywhere I turn a cold, cosmic void greets me. Firm arms wrap around my chest as tight as a python’s hold on its prey. A cocoon of fire devours me, sucking the air out of my lungs. 

 I find my way onto the busy street. Sirens blare, and a blur of confused faces gawk at the flashing police car. Someone in the crowd calls my name, but I’m miles away, trapped in the icy vortex of space. My hands start to shake, and I feel an Arctic breeze blow right through me. A wall of faces rises to greet me. Voices blur together, each calling to me. I recognize Detective Turpin’s thunderous voice rising above the mob that has gathered in front of Luthor Clinic. I turn and run. I shouldn’t be around civilization right now. I flinch, my eyes growing exceedingly hot.   

I don’t remember moving. The next thing I know, I’m inside an old hut. I recognize the scents first: leftover pizza and a layer of sweat and dirt. The kind of scent that only develops after years of boys playing at being heroes. 

I lift my head from where I had it buried in my lap. The Metropolis Sharks logo is proudly on the wall by the window; Pete bought that sticker during our first and last time in Metropolis. It had taken both our powers combined to convince the parents to let us go to a Metropolis Sharks game. 

Now the memory is poison down my throat. The goofy picture Coach Ackles took of the three of us last summer still hangs proudly on the bulletin board above a box of Nerf guns and other knick-knacks. I’m stuck between Pete and Dean, my face frozen in fear as Pete wears my horn-rimmed glasses upside down, sticking his tongue out at the camera. Dean Reeve stands to the side, all macho and well-groomed, frowning at the two of us as if we’re rogue toddlers in a ball pit. The photo does nothing but serve as a reminder of the monster I’ve become.

Inhale. Exhale. Breathe. 

Count to ten. 

I slide down the wall and bury my head in my arms. I close my eyes, but it doesn’t help. Dean’s broken body flashes behind my closed eyelids. My heartbeat speeds up. Eventually, I will have to man up and face the music. I destroyed a public building. I ruined another life. The fight with Dean feels like a lifetime ago.  It was all in my head, a nightmare that I’d wake up from any second. My eye aches where he jabbed a shard of glass into the socket, proof that I didn’t imagine it.  

I killed a man. 

I’m a murderer. 

I don’t deserve to be alive. 

   A streak of blood from Dean’s broken nose slashes down the front of my hoodie. The longer I stare at the stain the more it resembles a gaping wound from an animal scratch. I rip the stained hoodie off, relieved when there isn’t a single sight of feral claws growing out of my nails.

 I roll up the bloody shirt and toss it aside—a piece of paper flutters to the ground. The scientist’s magnetic smile stares at me. It seems like another lifetime I printed out Rayla Rofara’s brochure for the Meta Zone –a pipe dream that will most likely never happen. But what if the vaccine worked? 

I could have avoided tonight’s manslaughter completely. I could shake someone’s hand without worrying about crushing their fingers. I would be as normal as the next guy, able to live the life I was meant to have all along. Not a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. I was ready to kill Dr. Whitney for what he did. He deserves to burn in Hell for all eternity. But if I kill I’m no better than him. I know now that I have within me the capability to kill. The world doesn’t stand a chance against me. No man should have this much power. 

The brochure screams, " Your freedom is one phone call away ." Next to those words is a phone number. 

I stare out the open window, and look beyond the cornfield, through a fortress of trees. My gaze lands on Luthor Clinic. Dr. Whitney’s office is already barricaded. Bowman examines the crime scene, while his partner interrogates the patients in the hall. There is no sign of Dean. A small crowd had gathered outside the hospital in the last few minutes. I pick out Lana’s red hair in the mob. She heatedly argues with a cop, blocking the entrance to the hospital.  

Before I change my mind, I quickly dial the Meta Zone’s number. 

“Thank you for calling the Meta Zone Clinic, where your dream of being normal is in your grasp,” the receptionist answers in a dead, detached voice. “Do you wish to make an appointment?” 

“Uh . . .” I glance at the picture of Dean and Pete. This is the last time I ruin somebody’s life. “How does this exactly work? Is it for real?” 

“Dr. Rofara, the leading scientist at the Metropolis Center for Paranormal Studies, created a vaccine that will nullify the meta gene.” 

“What’s in the vaccine?” my reporter's brain kicks into overdrive. “Have people had negative reactions? How high is your success rate?” 

“All your questions can be answered on our website,” she answers in a brusque tone. All I see on the site is a basic bio on Raya Rofara and a few glowing reviews from ex-metahumans. “Now, I don’t have all day. Either make an appointment or hang up!”  

“Right, sorry,” I say. “When’s your next available appointment?” I don’t hold my breath. They’d likely be booked for the Holidays. 

“We have an opening for nine-thirty in the morning next Saturday, December 18th,” she informs. So soon? I will miss Christmas. It’ll give me a week to collect the money. I won’t be there to put out cookies for Santa. I glance at the picture of my friends, carefree and happy. I’m doing this for them.  

“I’ll take it,” I say. That gives me a week to collect the money and pack. I will break Ma’s heart, but it’s for the best. 

“Name please?” 

“Clark Kent,” I answer. 

“Very good Mr. Kent,” she says. “I have you down for Saturday the eighteenth,” she confirms. “Please bring a photo ID and any medical records regarding your —”         

The hatch in the floor creaks open, and a stream of moonlight explodes into the treehouse. I hang up and chuck the family iPhone into my pocket. There is a click, and a flashlight shines into my face. I rip the Meta Zone brochure and chuck it under the beanie bag. 

There’s an audible gasp, and the intruder lowers the flashlight a degree and I pick out the outline of shiny boots. “Clark!” The zombie crouches beside me.

I gape at him. It can’t be. It’s a trick. A phantom that has come back from the dead to haunt me. He’d haunt my dreams and waking hours till I die. 

“It’s Dean, Clark,” Dean keeps his voice steady and stays rooted in place as if he’s terrified to move. “Are you okay?” I should be asking that question. 

 I meet his gaze and am stunned by the open concern on his face. “You’re . . . hurt.”   

The hem of Dean’s polo shirt is singed as if he had a wrestling match with the stovetop and lost. Weary bags cling under his dark, deep-set eyes, and his usual Elvis Presley haircut resembles a shattered eggshell. Sweat flows down his pasty face in streams, and there is a tear around his collar where I strangled him. 

But he’s breathing. His heart thumps up and down inside his ribcage as erratically as my own but he’s so full of life. Where there should be a crack through his windpipe, the bone is as smooth as parchment paper. 

“No, Clark,” Dean says. “I’m okay. You’re okay,” he pats my back.

“Are you sure?” I ask, feeling as if I’m in a dream.  

Dean chuckles, and the noise fills me with hope. He carefully turns on the lamp by the entrance and crouches to eye level.“Scout’s honor,” he salutes me. “You know I’d never go against my word C.K.” 

“You shouldn’t be here,” I pull my knees towards my chest. A smear of red stains my palm. I clench my bloodied fist, a poor attempt to hide my shaking hand. “It’s not safe. I could hurt you again.”

Dean’s Adam apple bobs up and down as he swallows hard. He watches me silently for a long time before speaking. “I trust you, C.K. with my life.” 

“But I . . . hurt you?” I choke out. 

“You saved me,” Dean says. “If you didn’t step in when you did . . .” he visibly shudders.  He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. I would have killed Cassandra Fotakis . 

“I don’t understand.” 

“I don’t know how, but Dr. Shelley healed me,” Dean flexes his muscles to prove his point. “I feel like a new man,” he says. I narrow my eyes at him.

“I threw you through a wall,” I replay the afternoon’s events in my head.  

Dean lets out a booming laugh. “That sounds epic.” 

“I snapped your neck,” I grunt out, my mind unable to process Dean crouched next to me. Dean winces at the coldness in my voice.

“Less epic,” Dean chuckles uneasily. 

 “I’m sorry, Dean,” I brace my head against the wall and stretch out my legs. I wait for Dean to keel over, blood splurging out of his broken nose. But all he does is stare at me with pity. “If I knew it was you . . .” 

“You would have found a way to break me out of that trance without giving me a migraine,” Dean interrupts me. “Cause that’s what Clark Kent does.” 

“I’m sorry,” I repeat. 

“It’s not your fault,” Dean says gently. “I wasn’t in control of my body. I’m glad you were there.” 

“You’d be singing a different tune if Dr. Shelley wasn’t there.” 

Dean slumps against the wall. “I don’t know,” he says distractedly, looking out the open window. Blood-red clouds roll through a dark sky, the moonlight shining through the cracks. He lets out a heavy sigh. “It would be cool to see my folks again - Small silver lining, at least that’s what Ma liked to say.” He never once loses his carefree smile, but there’s a sadness in him I never noticed before.   

Dean has been a fixture in my life for so long, that I sometimes forget he’s an orphan and not originally from Kansas. Dean would be another nameless kid lost in the system if Ted Knight hadn’t adopted him. 

“My Dad says that too,” I recall. When I look into his black eyes there’s an endless abyss staring back with no spark of light. 

“He would have liked Mom,” Dean speculates. “She was a regular firecracker,” he recites that little tidbit as if it’s a fact he memorized from a book.  

I can’t begin to imagine life without my parents. Back when he was the new kid on the block, each week Dean had a different tall tale to explain his parents’ death. One week he even told us that a bear ate them. I suppose it was easier to make up stories than face the truth. The bottom line is that they’re gone while he’s still here. The ‘how’ doesn’t matter. 

“It happened a long time ago,” he states flatly. “They died heroes,” he grumbles a hint of bitterness leaking out. He hasn’t spoken about his parents since fourth grade. 

“I wish I could have helped them,” I say. 

“You can’t save everyone, Clark,” Dean grimaces, a shadow obscuring his features. “My parents learned that the hard way. Don’t make the same mistake as them.” 

“Saving a life is never a mistake,” I say. 

“I’m living proof it is,” Dean says grimly. “They chose a city full of strangers over their only child. What’s heroic about that?” His anger is too raw to be fake. 

It feels like Dean is telling the truth. It makes me wonder if his parents were cops or part of the military and died in the line of duty. It’s not my place to pry, but I know how he feels. If Dean is anything like me, he blames himself for his parents' deaths. It kills him he has power and failed to save them.         

 I follow Dean’s gaze to the heavens above. A sea of stars wink at us through the scarlet clouds, past the dozing moon. I imagine Aunt Abigail is up there with Dean’s parents singing off-key to an Elvis song. I wonder what Uncle Harry would say if he knew his only nephew was causing so much mayhem in the town he loved. Would they approve of their nephew’s plan?  

“I didn’t mean to unload all that on you,” Dean sighs. “You’re easy to talk to.” 

“You mean, easy to talk to when you’re not crippling your friends,” I bite out. 

Dean winces in sympathy. A shadow falls over his face. “You’ve got to stop being so hard on yourself,” Dean says. “You’re only human. Mistakes–” 

“I can’t afford to make mistakes.” 

He’s silent for a long while. “Do you remember the sixth-grade field trip?” It's hard to forget that. “The driver had a heart attack and drove off the bridge.” He says. “I sat there frozen with fear, doing nothing while my friends drowned.” 

“You were just a kid,” I say. 

“So were you,” Dean remarks. I tense. No one was supposed to see me. “You saved a bus full of kids,” Dean smiles, his smile tinted with gratitude and remorse. “You can’t let one mistake stop you from being a hero.” 

“You don’t understand,” I comb my fingers through my hair. I’m not just abnormally strong. There’s more at stake.  

 “You’re afraid to hurt someone – if anyone understands, it’s me,” Dean claps me on the back. “But Clark, don’t you see? By doing nothing you hurt more people,” he says. “You could be a coward like me and let your friends drown or be like Warrior Angel.” 

Chapter Text

The smell of an assortment of delicacies hangs over our small corner of the world like a blanket. My eyes sting as I catch a whiff of Ma’s apple pie. I try not to think about how this is the last time I’ll taste her cooking. Booths line down Main Street, a cluster of people screaming to be heard over the live music. I know every face that flies past —they’ve been a part of my life as far back as I can remember. Leaving them will be the same as stabbing them in the back. It’s only temporary; once I’m cured, I’ll return.   

I reach for the backpack under the table, relieved to find the family iPhone still inside. Ma thinks I’m spending the night at Pete’s after the festival. She is all too happy to believe we’re mending fences.

 I keep my head down and avoid eye contact with any passerby. Even so, I feel their eyes on me, judging silently. Another newsworthy incident Clark Kent is at the center of.  The official story they’re going with is that a robber broke into Luthor Clinic and was stopped by a visitor. The property damage remains a mystery. None of the locals are fooled. 

People openly gawk at me. When something strange happens in Smallville, it’s always my fault. I don’t need powers to tell me what they’re thinking. Widow Maud has no qualms about hiding her feelings. She glowers at me from the neighboring booth, occasionally mumbling a crude rebuke under her breath as she tends to customers.  Handmade scarves hang from the grid screen; embroidered at the bottom of each scarf are the initials of someone who died during the meteor shower. Maisie proudly wears one of her grandmother’s creations as she helps customers at the booth. I stiffen at the sight of her Dad’s name on the scarf.   

 I suppose that’s the point of today, to honor and remember those whose lives were tragically cut short. It baffles me we celebrate at all. Tragedy is not something to take lightly. Over 600 people died during the meteor shower. Lana and so many others were orphaned. Yet every year, like clockwork, Smallville makes a big to-do about their deaths, so much so strangers from neighboring towns come to join the festivities. It makes no sense. You don’t see Bruce Wayne dancing on his parents’ graves on the anniversary of their deaths. Smallville folk are bizarre. 

 A few kids zip past, kicking up a flurry of muddy snow. Mom calls after the kids to slow down as if they were one of her own. That’s small-town life for you, everyone is family. I study Mom’s airy expression. To look at her, you would never know that the cops were at her house a week ago. You would never know her son almost killed someone. My throat tightens and I scan the street till I find Dean by the cocoa stand with Ted Knight and the Luthors. Dean hunches over, face red from the cold. Lex claps Dean’s shoulder and points to a booth selling handmade journals.     

  A snowball whacks me squarely in the face. My palm grows sweaty, and I grab the table's edge for support. Daisy, Pete’s kid sister, jumps up and down. “Come on, Clark!” she squeals. I need a partner!” She throws another snowball at my face, a burst of cold enveloping me. “Pleazzzzze!” she pouts.

“I’m busy,” I brush flecks of snow off my face. “Maybe another time.”  I let go of the table and slowly start to relax again.

“But you’re at snowball fights as Buddy the Elf!” 

“I said not now!” my voice comes out harsher than I meant. 

Daisy steps back, face crestfallen. “I miss the old Clark. You’re no fun anymore!” she storms off in a huff. 

Daisy doesn’t understand. One mistake, and this Hallmark painting would crumble like the Twin Towers. I shouldn’t be here. I’ve got a few hours to kill before the bus leaves for Metropolis. I keep my head down and stay behind the booth, cutting pie slices. Through the corner of my eye, I study Ma and notice our stark differences. Clark Kent is a lie. There’s no way selfless Martha and Jonathan Kent sired me. Forget the powers. We’re as different as bats and birds. 

Yet, when Ma smiles at me in that earnest, emphatic way that lets me know everything will be okay, I feel guilty for having such traitorous thoughts. That’s the face of the woman who raised me, some obsessive doctor with a fetish with metahumans doesn’t change that. I can’t wrap my mind around Ma lying to me. Yet, the reporter in me, knows something doesn’t add up.    

Widow Maud makes a tut-tut noise in the back of her throat,  and says, “Don’t give me those sad puppy dog eyes Clark. A little socialization would be good for you, son.” 

I set my jaw in annoyance and bite my tongue. Of all the people to share a booth with it had to be her. I try to disappear in my seat and that only enrages her more. 

“Only last month I read in The Daily Star about a boy who set fire to his parent’s room,” she recites. This old story again. I’m sick of hearing her talk about it.

 “He had no friends either. It’s the loners you’ve got to worry about,” Widow Maude shoots me a pointed look.  

“Clark has friends, Memaw.” Maisie jumps to my defense, but she might as well be a fly on the wall, for all the attention she gets. 

Mom purses her lips. “Each child is different,” she says, keeping her voice neutral. “Clark isn’t going to burn us in our sleep.” 

I notice how Ma didn’t say, ‘Burn the house down.’ I’m as guilty as Jack the Ripper. I lost track of how many times Dad had to mend the barn because I lost control in the early days. 

“Different is another way of saying mutant,” she deadpans. “It’s no wonder the cops interrogated Clark.” 

“MEMAW!” Maisie screams. “Bite your tongue,” she mimics her grandma’s scolding tone. “You are embarrassing yourself.” Maisie puts her feet up on the table, smirking. “Clark isn’t one of those mutants from the 1940s.”  I gape at her, sure I misheard her. Just a few days ago, she was convinced I was the town’s hero. 

“No, he’s worse,” Widow Maud says furiously. “He pretends to be one of us. I’m astounded you let him come today, Martha,” she hisses. “Bri is gone because of him. The cops are just waiting for him to slip up.” 

 I’m grateful for the long red tabletop to hide my shaking limbs. Widow Maud views the cops' crashing Jill’s birthday as enough testimony.  My throat closes up. Widow Maud is right. I hurt those close to me. But she’s barking up the wrong tree if she believes I had a hand in Bri’s death.    

“I didn’t kill Bri if that is what you’re implying,” I say, not that my voice matters a lick. “I promise whoever did kill her will be sorry,” I say. “For your sake, I hope it wasn’t you.”   

“Are you threatening me, boy?” 

“That depends. Are you a psychopathic child killer?” I glare at her, giving her a taste of her own medicine. Widow Maud lets out a soft whimper, taking a few steps back. I’m not proud of scaring the old loon, but she was asking for it.  

Widow Maude looks horror-struck at Mama as if she fully expects her to stop what she’s doing and give me a well-deserved spanking. Mama glowers at Widow Maud with quiet furry. “You judgmental, small-minded. . .”  

“He totally is threatening you,” Maisie says with a straight face, cutting Ma off. “You have been a wicked, vile woman, and the lord of mutants will smite you with his fiery gaze.” She lasts about ten seconds and then breaks down laughing. 

I don’t find her gest amusing. She doesn’t realize the truth in her words. Heat vision is no joke. It’s scary to think that if I wanted to, I could burn a hole through Widow Maud’s skull. My eyes sting with tears. Dean was a centimeter away from being as dead as Obi-Wan-Kenobi.  

“I was only joking, Clark,” Maisie starts to apologize. “She was being stupid. No one thinks you’re some meta lord.” 

I can’t bring myself to muster up a response. One look at me and she’d know the sting of her words. Maisie calls after me, but I’m long gone, being pulled by the wave of the crowd. Maisie’s acute gaze penetrates my back. She follows me as I disappear into the crowd. 

I find a quiet spot on the sidewalk away from everyone and slump down.  All the stress from the past months pours out. The rumors are true even if they’re wrong about me killing Bri. I could have saved them all. By doing nothing, I killed Bri.   

A melancholy melody draws my attention to the makeshift stage set up at the end of the street. Lana stands erect on the stage, bright as an archangel. Her loyal subjects fawn beneath at her feet. Under the gentle stage light, her crimson hair glistens like a fallen star. She clasps the mic as if it’s her lifeline. Her voice is as warm as a summer day.   

“They say, ‘she’s in a better place 

But how can that be so, when I’m still here

All I want is to feel her embrace

Everything is so much more unclear

There’s a fog on my mind I can’t shake 

Without her here, I swear I’ll break 

They’re shards of my soul missing 

I long for the long nights together singing 

Tears stream down her face as she sings the last verse. She swallows a lump in her throat before continuing to sing. She’s too young to have such sadness weighing her down. 

             My hand twitches at my side. I long to brush Lana’s tears aside and reassure her she’s not alone. Her Ma might be gone, but she still has me. I will always be there for her. If I were a few years older when the meteor hit I could have made a difference. Staci Lang might be alive to make another B-listed movie. I’m positive she would have approved of her next-door neighbor’s son.   

Lana's knuckles turn white against the mic and she hums along to the guitarist, tapping her foot softly in tune with the music. She pauses and looks up, her eyes searching the crowd till they land on me, and her moist lips part in a tentative smile. My traitorous heart skips a beat. She’s a vision in white. Her crimson hair bound up around her head like the petals of a carnation in full bloom in the spring, tendrils framing her slender throat. She waves at me and I lift my hand in greeting. 

“Future superstar!”  Dean screams behind me. “You rock, babe!” 

I drop my hand, feeling dumb. Lana was never looking at me. Blood pumps in my ears, and my chest tightens. Dean and I lock eyes, and I quickly avert my gaze. Lilian Luthor hangs on her father’s arm. Mr. Knight drapes his coat over her shoulders, watching sadly as Lionel Luthor argues with Lex. Dean looks conflicted between Lex and me as if contemplating joining me. He decides I’m not worth the trouble and disappears into the crowd. 

A weight plops down beside me, itchy tulle scratching my bare arms. I meet my cousin’s tense gaze. Wordlessly, Jill gives me a side hug. She knows no words will erase the mountain of guilt burying me. She rests her head against my shoulder. We sit in blissful silence, Lana’s lyrical words slowly scrubbing away the darkness infecting my soul.  

“You would not believe the pedophile I was stuck behind to get these . . .” Claire falters when she sees me. “Oh,” she grumbles. “Hiya, baby Kent.” 

Jill shoots her a look of reproach. “I come bearing gifts,”  Claire sighs and dutifully hands over the hot chocolate. 

“It’s no Mama K, but you look like you could use some subsistence.” Jill ruffles my dark locks playfully and hands me the steaming styrofoam cup. “Just remember, Clark,” she smirks, pushing a strand of pink hair behind her bejeweled ear. “Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times if one only remembers to turn on the light,” Jill smirks. Claire rolls her eyes and mumbles something about obsessive fangirls. 

No doubt Jill has been waiting to use that line all day. She even came all decked out in a gaudy outfit that would make Professor Trelawney proud. She wears a green tutu with an explosion of fire zigzagging through the emerald tulle. A black blouse with the words ‘Fuck Aliens’ in pink bold letters front and center, is tucked into her tutu. 

The irony is not lost on me. She is supposed to be a meteor from the meteor shower that caused so much mayhem and uprooted entire families. The sight of her outfit sickens me. Jill has no respect for the dead. Nope. She’s convinced the source of all evil in Smallville is an alien apocalypse and the Luthors. Aliens did not infiltrate Earth during the meteor shower. Aliens are not real. 

“Really?” I smile, despite everything. Trust my cousin to lift my spirits without uttering a single word of comfort. She looks down at her shirt and smirks.

“I made you an identical shirt,” she grins. “But somebody won’t get out of bed in time,” she elbows me. 

“She even added a crimson cape on yours with an ‘S’ for Smallville,” Claire explains. “It surprisingly didn’t look too dorky.”  

 “Hard pass,” I say. “Have you never seen The Incredibles?” I scowl. I swallow hard and do my best imitation of Edna. “No capes.” 

Jill grimaces. “I hate when you do that voice thingy. It’s so unnatural.” 

I laugh. “This is a Hobo suit, darling,” I finger the hem of Jill’s tutu, scrunching up my face in disgust. “You can’t be seen in this. I won’t allow it.” 

“Wicked!” Claire’s eyes light up excitedly. “You sounded just like her!”   

“Come on!” Jill drags me up by the collar. “The lantern festival is about to start and we have zilch lanterns.” 

“I don’t feel like celebrating.” I step back. “You guys go ahead.” 

“No,” Jill says, not leaving any room for argument. “I left my wallet at home. You’re buying Speedboy.” 

I glare at Claire in her matching tutu. “Hey, don’t look at me. It was your cousin’s brilliant idea to make matching outfits with no pockets.” 

I follow the girls around Main Street, hopping from booth to booth, serving as their manservant. By the fifth stop, my arms are weighed down by bags full of Smallville hand-made gifts and food. She stopped to buy three lanterns, and now I look like a decorated elephant ready for the next circus show. 

“This is slave labor,” I complain, as Jill hangs a bag of brownies onto the empty slot on my clenched fist. 

  “Come on, Clark,” Jill smirks. “What’s the point of having a super cuz when you can’t have. . .” she falters as her eyes land on a distant figure. 

“Asshat alert.” Quietly and discretely, Jill relieves me of some of the baggage and slides in front of me. I look over her shoulder and recoil when I spot the sour-faced black man heading our way.   

“I was hoping to run into you,” Officer Bowman halts next to me. The bright ice cream cone he holds is at stark odds with his stormy expression. “Connor Kent, was it?” 

“Clark, actually, sir,” I say. Jill narrows her eyes at the cop. “Are you enjoying the festival, officer?” 

“Clark Kent,” he echoes, licking the scoop of pistachio ice cream. He takes a small bite and eyes me shrewdly.“I’d be sure to remember the name.” He wipes excess ice cream off his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Word on the street is that you visited Cassandra Fotakis.” 

“It’s not a big secret,” I say. “I deliver pie to her every week.” 

“Do your visits always end with destroyed public property?” He stares at me, unblinking. Jill stiffens, her face reddening furiously. Claire grabs Jill’s shoulder, holding her back from doing something stupid.  

Bowman shows me a crime photo. It’s a picture of the aftermath of the fight. Whitney’s desk is snapped clean in half, the handrailing bent beyond recognition where Dean threw me against the wall. “You won’t happen to have anything to do with that?” he asks. 

I meet his gaze head-on. “Surely you’re not suggesting I bent steel with my bare hands,” I quirk up one eyebrow dubiously.  I laugh good-naturedly. “Cause that would be ten different kinds of crazy.” 

My words don’t dissuade him in the slightest. “I’ve read up on this little hamlet of yours,” he persists. “A school bus full of students was saved from their watery graves by an unnamed strongman in ‘04.” He looks over the rim of his sunglasses pointedly at me. 

“I remember seeing that on the news.” I cross my arms over my chest. “So glad I wasn’t there. I don’t know how to swim.” 

“What do you mean you weren’t there?” His bushy gray eyebrows skyrocket. “Didn’t you attend Smallville Hill Elementary?” 

“We were visiting our uncle in Metropolis,” Jill lies smoothly. “Clark got food poisoning,” she shudders. “And could barely move.” She’s incorrigible. 

A lie and one truth. He doesn’t need to know it takes me only five minutes to travel between Metropolis and Smallville at full speed. 

“I’m not finished,” he persists. “Local girl survives being sucked into a tornado,” he grins triumphantly. “Both times, Clark Kent was the first one at the crime scene. Either you are the luckiest cub reporter on the planet, or you’re the story. Care to comment Mr. Kent, if that is your real name?” A very good point. If my hunch about my parents is right, my name could be another lie. 

Jill laughs. “First you accuse my cuz of bending steel, now you imply he can fly?!” She rolls her eyes. “Hate to break it to you, Clarky here is terrified of heights. He would never in a million years jump head first into a moving twister” 

Claire chuckles. “For real, sir.” She wraps an arm around Jill and bats her eyes. “When he was five, Jill tied Mister Jor-ra to the chimney,” I groan. Not this story again. “He threw up trying to climb up to get his precious teddy bear.”

I glare at Claire. That is not what happened, and she knows it. I jumped onto the roof and fell through the ceiling. It’s not my fault it wasn’t built for supersonic leaps. I never threw up.  

“And then there was the time he tripped on the ladder and fell into the pigsty,” Jill adds. “Poor baby cried himself to sleep.” I did not trip. She pushed me off to prove I was invulnerable. And I cried because I squashed a barn mouse. 

“I thought you were covering Bri Routh’s murder. Why the sudden interest in a farm boy?” Claire asks 

“Exploring all angles, miss,” he tips his head politely. “Mrs. Fotakis claims you saved her from the killer,” he looks at me, expression riddled with doubt. He’s already cast me as the villain in this story.  

“I thought it was a robbery,” Claire frowns.  

“Mrs. Fotakis's attacker didn’t kill Bri,” I say before I can stop myself. “He wasn’t . . .” I falter. He won’t believe Dean was brainwashed. Not to mention, the cops have no idea Dean attacked Mrs. Fotakis. Perks of their key witness being blind.    

“He wasn’t, what?” Bowman prompts. “He wasn’t, you?” 

“Clark stopped an assassin, you bigoted blighter!” Jill glowers at him. “He’s doing your job. You should be thanking Clar,k not treating him like a criminal!” 

“Watch yourself,” Bowman says, getting into Jill’s face. She doesn’t back down. “Assaulting an officer is a federal charge, young lady.” 

Jill spits in his face. “Being a total dingbat is a federal charge,” she mimics his sanctimonious tone.  

Jill is so furious gold flecks spark in her brown eyes. Bowman rolls his shoulders back and turns his venomous gaze on me. “I’ll be watching you.” 

“I hate cops,” Claire glares at Bowman’s retreating figure. “Bunch of self-righteous dicks.” 

“They’re not all bad,” I say, remembering Detective Turpin. We’d be having a different conversation if he were here. 

Claire whistles appreciatively, falling into step beside me. “I don’t know how you do it,” she shakes her head. 

“Do what?” 

“All this Clarkiness,” she spreads her arms wide, indicating all of me. “How can you be so goddamn optimistic all the time. It’s maddening.” 

Jill laughs heartily, squeezing between Claire and me, hooking an arm around us. “You haven’t seen him brooding in the loft,” she shoots me a look of mock reproach. “He can suck the light out of an entire galaxy.”  

We hike the rest of the way to Shuster Field in silence. Jill is kind enough to take the less crowded route around the back of the shops that leads to a worn dirt path. In minutes we reach a fork in the road, one end leading down a snowy slope. The crystalline frozen lake pokes through a spiderweb of branches. 

The buzz of noise is like a bucket of iced water over my head. Bundles of people have set up chairs and picnic blankets all around the bank of the lake, the glow from the lanterns lighting up their faces like phantom specters. It’s unsettling to see so many people clustered together. Cold droplets of sweat trickle down my spine. 

“Easy, tiger,” Jill rests a hand on my arm, and I tense, the bags I hold nearly sagging to the ground. “They’re not on the same continent as you.” 

I shoot her a funny look. Does she think saying dumb shit like that will lessen the stress? She elbows me in the side and drags me to a secluded spot under a massive sycamore tree nestled alongside the bank. Claire sets down the embroidered quilt, and I dig the snacks out of the bags. 

Mayor Selton strolls into the center of the bank, his black attire making him look like a specter disbanding justice. In one gloved hand, he holds a megaphone; in the other a lantern that glows like a fallen star in his grasp. “Evening, Smallville,” he atones, his brusque voice echoing above the clamor of noise. Gradually, people fall silent. “It is with a heavy heart we gather here tonight.” He tips his head in sympathy, his scarf blowing in the wind. “Sixteen years ago I lost the love of my life.” 

“Lying demon,” Claire seethes. “You drove her away!” 

“Nobody was left unscathed. The day fire rained down from the heavens, a part of us died with our loved ones.” 

“Except you never had a soul to start with,” Claire crosses her arms. 

 “It will be easy for us to whither away and become ghosts of our former selves. Run away from the pain.” He shakes his head. I grit my teeth. It’s the same promotional speech every year. “But no, each and every one of you is a survivor. It is up to you to keep their memory alive.” Clumsily, he lets go of the lantern, and it soars into the dark sky, a bright candle lighting the stormy path to Heaven.

 Gentle murmurs flow through the people gathered as, one by one, their lanterns wink to life and join the lone lantern in the sky. Warm light floods the area, shining bright on my fellow townspeople. There’s a whisper of gentle sobs as folk mourn their loved ones. 

“What a bunch of baloney.” Claire glares at her father. Here we go again, I roll my eyes at her. It’s the same old rant every year.  

 “Unbelievable — they realize today is nothing more than another chance for Mr. Almighty to brush his ego. I mean, what kind of person profits off of a tragedy —” 

 Jill grabs Claire’s arm midstream and twirls her around to face her. She smashes her lips onto Claire’s, putting an end to her rant. Claire’s eyes widen a fraction, and she looks worriedly sidelong at me. When I don’t protest, she wraps her lanky arms around my cousin’s neck. Tendrils of smoke curl off Claire’s red face, but Jill remains unscathed. 

The kiss lasts long enough for me to get uncomfortable and decide I’d rather brave the crowd than spend another second as a third wheel. The lovebirds don’t even notice when I slip away. 

I wander aimlessly, tiptoeing around blankets and people bundled against the elements. Any outsider would call us crazy. And I will have to agree. We’ve gotta be the only town that braves the unforgiving winter for a festival that brings more pain than joy.  People gawk at the lit sky, some too teary to see straight. Food lays discarded on the lawn chairs and blankets that are out of place on a snowy plain. The only ones who seem to be enjoying the festivities are Claire and Jill. I slow down as I reach the roaring bonfire. The people are closer together here and it grows increasingly difficult to step around their fragile legs. 

Lana nestles in an alcove near the roaring bonfire. A quilt drapes over her shaking shoulders, and she watches the flames flicker. The light paints her face in strokes of black and gold, reminding me of a Caravaggio painting.  She wipes a lone tear out of her face with the back of her hand. I’m surprised Dean isn’t there. Dr. Whitney stands over her, petting her head patronizingly. My blood boils.   

   “You should go to her,” a feminine dry voice cuts through my thoughts.

 “Jesus Christ!” I jump, narrowly missing stepping on someone’s boot. I was so enthralled in my thoughts I didn’t see Dr. Shelley approach. I almost don’t recognize her. Her face seems smaller without her round spectacles. She has exchanged her lab coat for an elegant black turtleneck and coral coat that buttons at the neck.  

“I’ve seen the way you look at Lana. You love her,” Dr. Shelley states. “You should be with her,” a tender smile melts her icy features. 

“It’s complicated.” 

“Do you love her?” 

“Of course,” I say distractedly, focusing on the man near Lana. His shadow distorts against the white snow. It flickers and morphs into a giant. My blood boils. He senses my gaze and turns to glare at me with unnatural dead eyes. Dr. Whitney rests a hand on Lana’s head possessively. 

“Then it’s not complicated.” Dr. Shelley smiles warmly. “Take it from someone who knows: Any second could be your last.” She rests a reassuring hand on my shoulder. My insides ice over, my brain turning as mushy as the insides of a gelatin dessert. I don’t dare take my eyes off Dr. Whitney.  

 The raw emotion in Dr. Shelley’s voice draws my attention. Dr. Shelley’s face is drawn taut with an aching sadness I couldn’t begin to describe. The heavy sadness comes with the burden of losing someone dear to you. 

“I’m sorry,” is all I can think to say. I can’t imagine what I would do if I ever lost Lana. It won’t be Smallville without her.   

She sighs. “Don’t make the same mistake I did,” she rubs soothing circles against my shoulder. Her touch fills me with renewed vigor. “I was a workaholic and took Adam for granted. If I weren’t working, we were arguing - little things, of course,” she sighs wistfully. “I would give anything to hear my spaceman’s voice again.”  

“Your husband was an alien?” I marvel, unable to disguise the shock and hope in my voice. 

“Not quite,”  Dr. Shelley chuckles. “He was a scientist for EPRAD - the best in his field.” 

“Oh,” I grumble.   

She cups her hand over her mouth and whispers. “Adam swore he had high tea with a Martian, but I’m not sure I believe him.” 

“I’m sure,” I say, extricating my arm from her. “I don’t mean to be rude . . .” 

“No, go to her,” she smiles. “One of us should find love.”

Chapter Text

Within the five minutes it takes me to tiptoe around people sprawled alongside the bank and reach Lana, Dr. Whitney vanishes as seamlessly as the whisper of smoke on the wind.  There isn’t so much as a footprint in the snow.

 I frown. Whitney is an old husk of a man. He couldn’t outrun me. A second ago, he was threatening Lana. A spark of anger burns through my veins at the memory of his leathery hand caressing her. I ball my fists at my side, my body aching to show Whitney exactly what I am made of. I recoil from the sudden dark turn my thoughts took.  

Lana pulls the quilt tighter around herself, burrowing deeper into the foldable chair. Her gaze is unfocused and weary, but otherwise, she’s unharmed. The light from the lanterns dances through her deep blue eyes. “Are you going to sit there gawking or join me?” she asks without turning around.  

I take the empty chair next to her and study her face. Her eyes are red and puffy from crying. Two streaks of mascara slide down her rosy cheeks like twin rivers of ink.

“Did he hurt you?” I ask. She doesn’t budge, her gaze fixed on a singular point in the night sky. “Lana, this is no time to hold back. If Dr. Whitney is harassing you . . .” 

A plaintive moan escapes her lips. She feverishly wipes at her face with the blanket's hem, smudging her makeup even more. I snap my mouth shut. I’m being insensitive and paranoid. Dr. Whitney was probably consoling her, and I jumped to the worst conclusion possible. There are too many red flags with him. I won’t be surprised if the police raided his home and found more bodies. Lana could have been his next target.  

“I keep wondering what she would have said if she survived,” she sniffs. “Problem is, I’m starting to have a hard time remembering her voice or even what she looked like.” 

I reach over and grab her clammy hand. Her flesh is smooth and damp like a dolphin’s hide, and I’m struck by how cold and small her hand feels in mine.“You were just a baby, you can’t expect to remember everything.” 

“I have to!” she insists. “I’m the only one left to remember her.” 

“That’s not true.” I rub soothing circles on the inside of her palm, surprised she hasn’t pulled away yet. Instead, she winds her fingers tight through mine as if afraid to let go. “There’s an entire town here that loved Staci Lang, and don’t forget her avid fans.” 

“Fans that don’t even write to her anymore.” She looks down at our interlocked hands, her eyes dilating slightly, but she doesn’t pull away. 

I smile despite everything. “You still answer your Ma’s fan mail?” I shake my head in wonderment. 

“Somebody has to.” 

“Don’t they realize it’s not her?” 

“I imagine so,” she shrugs. “But they need me. You have no idea what kind of problems people write to me about,” Lana says. “There are tons out there who are looking for the smallest glimmer of hope, and if I can give that to them, why shouldn’t I?”  

I didn’t think it was possible to love Lana Lang any more than I already did, but she never ceases to amaze me. “Lana,” I breathe out her name, a whisper in the wind. “You’re incredible.” 

“You would have done the same,” Lana points out, her grip tightening on my fingers, drawing all the warmth she can from me. I make a conscious effort to loosen my grip.  

I laugh. “My parents are not exactly famous.” 

“No,” she relents. “But I know you, Clark. If you lost your parents, you would do everything in your power to keep their memory alive.” She starts to trace the inside of my palm with one finger. I force my bones to relax. 

“Hopefully not any time soon,” I say, wincing as I realize what I said. I’m supposed to be consoling her, not rubbing in the fact I have parents and she doesn’t. Parents that are keeping secrets from.  

“It’s alright, Clark,” Lana reads my expression like an open book. “I’ll be okay.” 

A comfortable silence falls between us, where I can hear nothing but our heartbeats in tune with each other. The hectic town festivities melt away till nothing exists outside our small corner of the world. The lanterns twinkle around us like fireflies in the night sky. Lana’s eyes shine like starlight. I don’t remember moving. Suddenly, Lana and I are nose to nose. I can count each freckle sprinkled across her rosy cheeks. Her hot breath mingles with my own. Lana hooks her fingers around the base of my neck and gently pushes me down toward her.  

It would be too easy to lean in and . . .

I pull away. Dean has been a good friend. I don’t want to hurt him any more than I already have. “I’m glad you’re okay, Lana.” I straighten up and untangle Lana’s hand from around my collar. I slip my hands into the folds of my hoody. “I should head back. Ma will be wondering where I am.” The excuse sounds lame even to my ears. The whole town has gathered to brighten Smallville’s dark skies with a spark of hope. Mama is probably somewhere in the crowd, passing out blankets and fresh cocoa.   

“Please, Clark, don’t leave,” she gives me a single look, and I feel my will crumbling. “I don’t want to be alone right now.” 

“Dean should be here soon.” 

Her expression hardens at the mention of Dean, transforming into an unforgiving marble statue. “I don’t want to talk about Porky Pig.” 

Her dismissive attitude and childhood nickname for stuttering Dean tell me everything I need to know. I don’t understand girls. Last night she happily shared a milkshake with Dean, and now she won’t even speak his name. “Did he order for you?” I shake my head. “Or perhaps he has sausage-sized fingers?” I wiggle my fingers at her, laughing softly. 

“That was seventh grade, Clark!” Lana whacks me on the arm. “I’m more open-minded now,” she slumps back into the chair. 

“Dean is a good guy.” I can’t believe the words spilling out of my mouth. “Whatever it is, I’m sure you can work through it.” Doesn’t bode well for their relationship that ten seconds after they break up she throws herself at another guy. I’m nobody’s rebound guy. 

“He wants me to see a shrink!” Lana waves her hands passionately, narrowly hitting me in the face. “Can you believe that?” she shoves her boot down, kicking up some muddy snow. “I’m not the one who almost died and acted like it was ‘no big deal.’” Lana bites at the corner of her locket. 

“Everybody deals with trauma differently.”

“If a robber tried to kill me, you won’t find me scarfing down milkshakes like Joey Tribiani,” Lana says crisply. “I would be banging down the police’s door and demanding justice.”  

 “Wait . . . what?” I arch an eyebrow at her. That’s not at all what happened. 

“Yeah, didn’t you hear?” Lana rolls her eyes exaggeratedly. “Some lunatic tried killing Dean last night,” she says. “Don’t worry,” she quickly adds. “Dean sent him packing.” It begs the question, what story did Dean tell the cops? Whatever it was, Bowman sure as hell didn’t believe him. “Bottom line, I’m not the one who needs help. He does!” She slouches back in the chair and slams her arms over her chest. 

“Lana,” I start tentatively. “He’s only trying to look out for you,” I chew my bottom lip. She doesn’t know the full story. Dean is worried about her blackouts; losing hours and days of your life is not normal. Honestly, I would have advised Lana to see a shrink too, except I think there’s something more nefarious going on in Smallville than a case of Dissociative Identity Disorder.  

“Maybe you should talk things through . . .” 

“I am done talking,” she bites out. “I can’t be with someone who thinks I’m certifiable.” Slowly, she uncrosses her arms. “You don’t think I’m crazy, do you?” 

I smirk. “You’re entirely bonkers, but I’ll tell you a secret, all the best people are . . .” 

My belly flares as my internal organs are pulled apart. I double over and grab my stomach. It feels as if my insides were tossed into a Cuisinart and are slowly being shredded to pieces. I gasp, but no noise comes out. As fast as the pain is there, it vanishes, leaving a dull thud in my head. 

“Clark!” Lana swarms into focus, cupping my face with both hands. She looks at me with wide eyes. Her fingers are so small and fragile. They’re as thin and wiry as weeds. Weeds that are in my way. Weeds that would be too easy to crush underfoot. 

   I shake my head. Lana is the same as always. Her fingers are not crushable. My heart thuds in my chest, a trapped bird aching to escape, but the key to the cage has been thrown down a drain and lost forever. My legs drag me up against my will. Lana’s eyes widen. The shape of my name on the tip of her tongue. Hot blood courses through my veins. My legs start to move of their own accord, pulling me away from Lana. Away from what is familiar and comfortable. I dig my heels into the snow, cold seeping through my sneakers. I focus on Lana’s touch – the single warm spot on my body. But even that starts to frost over. I see Lana’s fist latched to my arm but it feels like a wall of ice separates us.       

“What’s gotten into you?” Lana blocks my path. “You’re scaring me, Clark.” 

I want to tell her to run . . . there’s something seriously wrong. My tongue refuses to cooperate. I try to open and close my fist, but nothing happens. I can’t breathe. Blood pumps through my veins, loud and forceful. 

 My arm lashes out, quick as a whip, hand closing around her slender throat. Her esophagus bends as easily as a pipe cleaner. Feebl, she claws at her throat, wheezing, but she might as well be scraping against steel for all the difference it makes. Her lips turn purple. I try to loosen my grip, but the more I struggle, the tighter my fingers close around her tender throat. 

“You’re in my way.” my mouth moves, voice coming out in an unfamiliar, strained echo. But it’s still my voice. I toss Lana aside. She flies through the air, the force of my throw picking up a whirlwind of snow. There’s a sickening crunch, like pebbles clattering underfoot and she tumbles to the ground, motionless. 

I helplessly stare down at Lana’s pale body, my insides revolting at the sight. The apology weighs heavily on my tongue. Her arm twists at an unnatural angle, a spattering of bruises blossoming on her back. My limbs ache to run to her side. A spasm of pain ricochets through my skull. Horror struck; I watch from a glass prison as my body puts on a burst of speed, abandoning Lana.

I zip in between rows of people, snuffing out lit lanterns and ripping picnic blankets off the ground. Food soars over my head. It feels like running through quicksand. A tree branch snaps in half against my chest. I grab the bark –a last-ditch attempt to overpower Whitney. He must have slipped something in the —-

I bite the inside of my cheek as a pressure builds inside my chest. I gasp, choking on oxygen. I reach for my chest, but the pain intensifies. My hand drops from the tree bark and my feet begin to move again.   

 I come to a stop at the edge of the bank.  “Oh, Hell na,” I grimace as my heart slams against my ribcage, fighting to break free. 

My friends are by the waterfront, shielded by weathered terrain. Pete sits in a wheelchair, his legs covered by a quilted blanket. Jill and Claire snuggle at his feet, eyes only for each other. Billy curls under a sleeping bag, the light from the lanterns above reflecting off his round spectacles. 

Separate from the rest of the group in the farthest corner of the alcove, Maisie sits crosslegged next to a depressed Dean. His back leans against a wall made of rocks and mud. Maisie rests a hand on his knee, whispering words of comfort in his ear. My eyes sting with the memory of Lana and the state I left her in. I tell myself it wasn’t my fault...I’m not in — 

Before I can finish that thought my heart starts to pound fiercely, growing uncomfortably heavy in my chest. A weight presses down on my ribcage. Sweat coats my shaking palms. An iron fist squeezes my heart, my vision dimming as I gasp for one last breath. This must be what a heart attack feels like. I don’t understand, I’m too young to have a heart attack. 

A single purpose propels me forward. The abominations are my salvation. My eyes zero in on Billy’s white head. In a second, I’m towering above him. I’m so close to freedom that I can taste it. The uncomfortable heaviness in my chest reminds me of what I gotta do. 

“Clark!” Billy climbs out of the sleeping bag, grinning excitedly. “I saved you a brownie.”  

“That’s not Clah–” Dean starts to say, but he is too slow. In the blink of an eye, I grab Billy by the collar. I’m too fast for Billy to process what has happened. He blinks at the spot where I was before and then back at me. Billy grabs my hand, frost slithering over my flesh. I hardly notice. 

‘Good, now bring him to me,’ a disembodied voice echoes inside my skull. It’s a nondescript voice, neither female nor male; it has a mechanic quality. ‘Deliver the metahuman and I’ll end your pain.’ I study the faces around me to see if they hear the voice too. 

“We can’t let him leave!” Dean hammers a fist into my jaw. The punch shocks me enough that I drop Billy. At the same time Billy falls to the ground, Dean releases a moan of agony, cradling his bruised hand. “Bill, run!” Dean screams. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jill glares at Dean and slams a fist against his back. “That’s my baby cousin you’re attacking, you silver-mouthed asshat!”  

Billy looks fearfully at me and scrambles. A small part of my brain that is still me registers the naked fear in Billy's eyes and falters. “It’s adorable you think he has a glimmer of a chance,” I smirk. There is nowhere on Earth he can hide from me.” I feel the truth of the words and shudder. 

Jill freezes her arm raised to slap Dean again, realization cooling her features. “Oh, Styx,” she swears. “You’re not Clark,” she gasps. She shoots Dean a sardonic smile. “Well, it was nice knowing you, asshat.”   

Dean doesn’t humor Jill with a response. He surges forward, grabs me by the collar, and pins me against a boulder. If I were anyone else, the impact on the sharp rock would have broke my back. 

“You’re stronger than me, Clark!” Dean’s gaze swims with desperation. “Fight it. You’re in control of your own body! Nobody else!”  

I sag against the cool rock, the frost melting through my shirt.  I hear Dean’s pleas, but they’re garbled and disjointed as if he’s trapped beneath boiling tar. The frozen lake blinks in the distance, a severe scar across the dead, barren land. Through the sea of dark masses huddled around Crater’s Lake, I find a distinct white head slinking through the crowd, leaving a trail of snowy footprints on the ground behind him. 

My salvation. 

Billy can run all the way to Metropolis, and I’ll still find him. It is my duty. I would not rest till he is behind bars. With one hand, I grab Dean’s fist and shatter the two bones in his thumb. A distinct cracking sound drowns out my roaring heart. Dean’s eyes water with pain and he releases me, crumbling to his knees. His expression mirrors the horror drumming in my skull. Fists pound against the glass coffin holding Clark Kent back. Cracks start to zigzag along the glass. 

I stumble back, clutching my head between my hands.  The sound of bones snapping echoes inside my skull. What have I done? I need to take him to a hospital. Lana . . . she needs my help too. I’m a monster. I shouldn’t even be here. 

My spine turns rigid and I bite down on my tongue to drown out the twang of pain ringing in my head. Ice-cold fingers crawl through my veins, sealing me back under a glass coffin, with no feeling remaining except for a cold, empty feeling.  

I zero in on Billy Winter. He has made it past Crater’s Lake into the neighboring woods. He thinks the thicket of trees will provide sanctuary. He is dead wrong. I turn to head in that direction and falter. A wheelchair blocks my path, a determined face glaring up at me, smoldering with anger and something akin to fear. He’s right to be afraid. Three girls flank him, two on his left side and one blonde chick on his right, nearest to me. My neck prickles. In another life, I think we might have been friends. But Clark Kent is dead. I feel him struggling against his icy prison, but there is a part of him that relishes being able to ‘let go.’  It is as thrilling as it is scary. 

“This isn’t you,” Pete says. “You will never willingly hurt your friends. SNAP OUT OF IT!” 

“I don’t have any friends,” I say. In one swift movement, I pick up the wheelchair. Pete’s eyes widen till all I can see is the white of his eyes. Anger boils in my blood. Pete turned his back on me when I needed him most. It would be so easy for this ‘alien’, as Pete eloquently pointed out, to throw him to the darkest side of the moon.  it feels good to feel something other than the emptiness inside of me. My knuckles turn white against the armrests. 

“No!” Maisie squeaks. 

At the same time, a ball of fire hits me squarely in the chest. Flames slither down my throat. I gasp, releasing the wheelchair. By some miracle, it lands relatively unscathed. Pete hurriedly rolls away, pushing the wheels forward as fast as he can. 

And not a moment too soon. Another ball of fire soars past where he sat moments before and swallows me whole. Maisie screams and covers her eyes with her hands. Unimaginable heat burns through my shirt, the fabric smoldering till nothing but ash remains. 

“Stop it!” Dean cries. “You’re killing Clark!” He jumps to his feet and barrels into Claire, knocking her aside. 

“You crazy!” Jill winces. “She’s trying to save you!” 

The flames dissipate, and Dean gapes at me in horror. What’s left of my shirt hangs in burnt tatters around my arms, but there isn’t a single burn on me. If anything, the flames have rejuvenated me, filling me with newfound strength. 

“That tickled,” I say. “My turn!” I glare at Claire, my eyes bursting with heat. 

Dean tries to hold Claire back, but she easily shimmies out of his grasp, a flame igniting in her upturned palm. The snow on my feet shifts to liquid, soaking through my sneakers. Two streams of fire pour out of my eyes, the world turning red. 

With a determination that can only be described as stupid and reckless, Claire rolls her hands together, feeding the flame in her fist till it's the size of a bowling ball. With one swift movement, graceful as a dancing dragon, she throws the flame at me, colliding with my heat vision. Flames erupt between us. Through the smoke, I find my cousin’s horrified face. She was too dumb to flee with the others. 

A scream tears out my throat as I put every ounce of power into that blast. A simple girl is not going to hold me back from my duty. An explosion of fire and sweat erupts, pushing both Claire and me back. Claire crashes against the wall of rocks, eyes glazed. I snap my eyes shut and will my racing heart to slow. When I open my eyes again, Jill is leaning over Claire’s broken body, too shocked to cry and too angry to speak. She cradles Claire in her arms. Smoke curls off Claire’s body in waves, the stench of burned flesh making it difficult to think. Tender red scabs encircle her eyes where I hit her, the flesh raw and tender like a slab of meat in the grocery store. 

The sight of my cousin’s distraught face shatters the glass coffin holding me down. “I’m sorry,” I gasp for air, the taste of smoke and flesh suffocating me.  

“Get out of my sight!” Jill thunders. “I hate you!”  

Chapter Text

My heart constricts in my chest. Seconds tick by and it grows harder r to breathe. I hug the backpack to my chest. There’s a sickening CRUNCH as something breaks inside. It feels like bones shattering. Dean’s bones are shattering. Claire’s burned face haunts me. Pete stares at me with naked fear as Maisie’s screams fill the air. 

 ‘I hate you,’ the venom in my cousin’s voice drips down my spine. Their lives will never be the same again because of me.  Even if this cure works I’m never returning to Smallville. I wouldn't be able to face my friends, knowing what I’ve done. I lean against the frosted bus window and watch the world crawl by at an achingly slow pace. I could have been in Metropolis for hours if I weren’t such a wuss.    

I imagine running over a hitchhiker, leaving nothing but a bloodied smear. A fresh wave of panic chokes me. I blink rapidly, but I can’t wipe Lana’s horror-struck face out of my mind, her eyes wild with fear. She looked at me as if I were the monster in Beowulf.    

Breathe. Count the stars. Turrets of smoke slither into the night sky, swallowing all the stars. The absence of the stars is an ache deep in my soul. It’s a reminder of how far I am from home. There are no lush cornfields outside my window. Widow Maud isn’t waiting for me around the corner to offer her sound, unsolicited, advice. Never again. Dad would be left to tend the field on his own. I’d miss out on our daily morning newspaper routine. I can kiss Mom’s buttermilk pancakes goodbye. I’d never see Lana Lang again . . .

No. Snap out of it! I refuse to go down that road. Smallville is history. Clark Kent is dead. I saw to that when I wrecked the festival. There can be no Clark Kent. I would only hurt those close to me. This is a new beginning, a chance to be normal. I finger the wad of cash in my pocket, glad it’s still there. One simple vaccine and I can be as normal as Scout and Jem. No powers. No more accidents. Just an average mild-mannered teen, making an honest living. 

Doing what exactly? There are major flaws in this plan. 

There are no tractors nearby that need fixing. I’m too young to be a bartender. Where am I going to live? I could crash at Uncle Emil’s. No. That’s out of the question. I’d be breaking one of my rules. No ties with people close to you, it’ll only end badly.  

But I can’t live on the streets forever. I’d need a job soon, but who in their right mind would hire a nobody from Nowheresville? I certainly wouldn’t hire me. I’m about as qualified as King Kong. 

Fortunately, it’s a big city. Insanity is about as common as a cold; That is if Metropolis is anything like Gotham. I hope not. Mom says nothing good ever comes out of Gotham. It is a city of backstabbing cheats and ghosts. Metropolis is too close to the City of Ghosts for my liking. 

“It’s not too late, you can turn back at the next stop,” Lisa Lasalle says from beside me. “I’m sure your family is more forgiving than mine,” she rests a hand on the indisputable bump. Her parents wanted her to have an abortion. “You’ve got that whole weight of the world vibe, like Edward Cullen,” she rambles. “I’m dangerous and have to keep my distance for your safety,” Amusement sparkles in her brown eyes. “You’re not a vampire, are you?” 

I glare at her, showing how ridiculous she sounds. “It was just a joke!” she brushes a strand of red hair behind her ear.  “Seriously. You remind me of my kid brother,” she continues. “Whatever you did can’t be as bad as this,” she slaps her round belly. “I’m going to hell, you know.” 

“No, you’re not,” I respond on autopilot. 

“And he speaks!” she gasps. “It’s good to know Cullen is concerned about my spiritual well-being.” Her tone is lighthearted, but her eyes fill with tears. Wordlessly I offer a tissue from my backpack. She mumbles a halfhearted thank you. 

“I’m sorry,” she blows her nose. “I’ve never been away from home this long.” 

“Neither have I,” I say. “But you’ve got to do what’s best for you.” She’s told me enough to know she’s escaping a toxic family. Hopefully, her uncle will be more understanding. “You made the right choice,” I say, trying to convince myself more than her.  

 Lisa clutches my arm. She’s trying to comfort me, but it’s anything but that. My muscles grow taut. I don’t realize I’m squeezing the life out of the armrest till it's too late. My heart thuds in my chest like a caged bird. There’s a grinding noise like metal being squashed in a trash compactor. When I look down the armrest is resorted to putty. I unclench my fist, but it’s no use the damage has already been done. I wince. 

Lisa’s hand flies away from me and rests protectively over her belly. She ogles the destroyed armrest. “I was only joking about you being a vampire,” she squeals. “Just my luck.” She crosses herself and inches farther away from me, rear hanging off the seat. “Please don’t drink my blood.” 

“Vampires are not real,” I say, realizing how suspicious the demolished armrest looks. 

“Then what are you?” 

I wish I knew. “I was born with a rare muscle condition,” I tell her the lie I’ve told myself since day one. 

 I’m saved from any more awkward questions when the bus lurches to a stop. I look out the misty window, my heart lurching in my chest. Smoke falls over rundown buildings like a blanket. The fog is so thick it’s even hard for me to see. In the distance, there’s a twinkle of light, that reminds me of fireflies in the evening. Pete and I used to hunt fireflies, the memory comes unbidden and leaves a sour taste in my mouth. A newspaper flaps in the wind and smacks into the window. I catch a snippet of the title before the breeze carries it away: Boy Found in Hob’s Bay. 

Well, I’m not in Kansas anymore.  

The driver’s overly chipper voice echoes over the speaker. “Long haul folks, but we’ve finally made it to ‘The Big Apricot’ itself!”There is a shuffling noise as the rest of the passengers start to stir in their seats, some blinking cobwebs out of their eyes. “Home of the Daily Planet, and Shuster Hall - check it out, it’s not too late to get tickets for the Newsies! Enjoy your stay in Metropolis!” The doors slide open in front.

Lisa is quite agile for a pregnant woman. She can’t get away from me fast enough. With trembling hands, she reaches for the luggage above and her hand folds around empty air. She’s missed her target by three inches. I shoulder my backpack and climb out after her. I tower above her a good thirteen inches. It’s no effort at all for me to grab her Vera Bradley suitcase off the top shelf. “Here you go, Lisa,” I place it down at her feet and escape down the aisle before I can see the look of disgust on her face.  

I pause by the driver’s seat. “Sorry for the mess,” I mumble, digging out some spare change from my pocket and placing it in the cupholder. It’s not enough for repairs but it’s better than nothing. Dinner is a treat I would just have to forego tonight.“Hope that covers at least some of the damage.”  

I’m out of the bus before my words sink in. 

Blistering, cold winds tug at my face. It’s the kind of cold that sucks all the warmth and joy out of you; I imagine this is what a dementor’s kiss feels like. I push the blue and red knit scarf over my nose. 

My stomach plummets; I remember the expression of pure joy on Jill’s face when she tied the scarf around my neck for the first time. It still smells like home, a mixture of baked goods and freshly mowed grass. My throat tightens and the dam I’ve held up risks bursting. And how do I repay Jill for her love? By killing her girlfriend, that’s how. 

I swallow down the tears and keep moving. It’s too late to go back now. I pass a faded sign that reads ‘Hob’s Bay.’ City folk are weird, I don’t see any body of water nearby, but that could mean nothing. A bay could be just around the corner for all I know. I push through the fog a flurry of snow dancing around my face. If I close my eyes I can imagine I’m back in Smallville playing with the family in the snow. But this is not Smallville. The windows are darkened, and wholeheartedly uninviting. I keep waiting for the street to brighten. It feels utterly wrong for it to be in December and have no Christmas decorations up. Downtown Smallville is Santa’s village till January 1st and then the whole town gets together to clean up and prepare for the new year. Something tells me the city folk don’t know the meaning of community.     

“This is not the hormones talking Uncle Dan!” Lisa’s shrill voice cuts through the darkness. It takes me a millisecond to spot her round frame inside a phone booth. 

Shit. I’m dead if she spots me. She glances my way and I quickly duck behind the nearest thing, a dumpster overflowing with filth and grime. Lady Fortune certainly has not smiled down on this fellow. Just my luck it smells like a feral animal kicked the bucket back here. On top of that, there is the unmistakable scent of animal piss. I crinkle my nose in disgust. I sure hope I’m not sitting in any surprise puddles. It wouldn’t be the first time though. Growing up on a dairy farm, you’re bound to stumble upon the occasional unwelcome present.  

“I know what I saw!” Lisa insists. “He was like Hercules!” she screams. “I don’t care if there’s a homicidal maniac on the loose. This exactly the sort of thing The SCU go after.”  

That’s my cue to leave. There is no doubt in my mind she is talking about a certain farm boy. I slip down a dark alleyway, which in hindsight probably was not the brightest idea. 

My neck prickles and it has nothing to do with the cold. I have the uncomfortable feeling someone is watching me from the shadows, and it certainly isn’t Santa Claus. I gaze up at the towering apartment complexes, which seem to touch the moon. I don’t like using my powers, but I won’t be able to rest till I know who is stalking me. It’s not an invasion of privacy, it’s a matter of safety. 

I push my glasses down the bridge of my nose. At first, I flinch away from the whirlwind of colors. Slowly the many shapes and colors merge to form objects. Through the boarded-up door, on the other side of the street, a meeting is in session. Suspicious hour for any meetings. 

I scan the nearby buildings as well and find nothing out of order. The strangest thing I see is a dog and cat curled by a stove to keep warm. The roofs seem empty. Simply put, my mind's playing tricks on me. There is no one watching me. I push my thick horn-rimmed glasses back on, sending out a silent thank you to Uncle Emil for making my life a smidge easier. 

I’m safe, there’s no reason to get all worked up about nothing. Focus. I need to find a place to stay for the night. My appointment with the Meta Clinic isn’t till tomorrow morning. The longer I walk, the more I think this was a mistake. I don’t even know if the cure will work. I could be at home drinking hot cocoa, not freezing my ass off in the middle of nowhere. 

By the time I reach a relatively open-looking place, my toes are completely frozen and I’ve lost all feeling in my hands. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.  I picked the wrong night to wear sneakers. Heck, I forgot my coat. I laugh bitterly. I didn’t forget my coat. It went up in smoke with the rest of my life. 

I reach an old fisherman’s hut, complete with cracked portal windows that belong on a boat. A warm, golden light leaks out of the window. My stomach rumbles in appreciation as I get wind of fried catfish and fries. A crooked fluorescent sign hangs over a makeshift door that looks more like the torn-off piece of a ship’s hull. Quite a few letters are missing from the sign, and it takes me a moment to make out the restaurant’s name: ‘Ace of Clubs.’ My heart skips a beat when I see the ‘Now Hiring’ poster pasted to the window by the door. 

I don’t need to be told twice. This place was made for me. I push through the door letting my nose do all the thinking. Big mistake. Ace of Clubs is all shadows and sharp angles, like an underground cavern. I half expect a bat to fly in my face and scare the bejesus out of me. The only light comes from a small stage in the back, where a scathingly dressed burnet, that would make Mom faint, twists around a pole. With deft fingers, she takes her top off and throws it to the roaring crowd. My ears grow pink. The obnoxious music drowns out the buzz of voices. Round tables fan out through the room like vultures swooping in for the kill. A red lamp sits in the middle of each table, looking more and more like eyes flashing in the darkness. My ears turn pink with embarrassment. Oh, shit. This is no restaurant. I’ve walked into a strip club. 

My palms grow clammy and I fight the urge to run. The men I pass would be right at home in a mob movie. Some are twice my size and wear permanent scowls on their ugly faces. A rowdy bunch gathers at one table to play a game of poker. I duck my head, growing increasingly uncomfortable by the second. I don’t need supervision to see the weapons bulging out of coats. I count at least ten concealed guns and seven knives. 

I swallow down my fears and keep moving. I’ve never seen so many weapons in one room. It’s only a matter of time before a gun is aimed at me and I become the newest resident at the Smallville Cemetery. I imagine the tombstone. Here lies Clark Kent, loving son, and oddball; cause of death: His stupidity. 

As far as deaths go, death by gunshot does not seem so bad. If I had a choice, I would rather be killed by a lightsaber. But those don’t exist. But how cool would an intergalactic battle with Darth Vader be? I’d win of course. No contest. 

  Okay. I’m cool. These losers can’t hurt me anyhow. They’ll be hurting themselves more than me. There’s something off about Ace of Clubs, like an ill wind blowing through. I can’t shake the bad feeling burrowing deep in my belly. The women wield their charm like a blade. One woman slaps a prying hand away, as she refills her drinks. There isn’t a single kind face in the sea of strangers.  One wrong move and I’ll have a lot more to worry about than my empty stomach. 

I’ve never been shot at before, I don’t want to test my luck any time soon. I doubt anyone in here will come to my rescue. At least if things go South, I can always call Uncle Emil; he’s only twenty minutes away. He’ll be here in a jiffy if I need him. But then there would be questions, and I’m not ready to answer them. No, best to keep a low profile and avoid socializing. Easy as pie; one of my many skills is being anti-social. 

A burly man with a harsh burn across his left cheek eyes me as if I’m a dirty rat that needs to be squashed. I force myself to keep walking. It was a mistake wearing my Smallville High sweatshirt. It was the only warm clothing I had that was clean or not in tatters. I readjust my glasses and avoid eye contact. I feel every gaze on me like a sharp needle plunging through my skin. Everyone else wears cheap leather and the stench of alcohol. So much for not breaking the easiest rule: Be invisible . In my defense, I don’t own any leather. In my high school attire, I’m a sheep in a lion’s den.    

  The man with the burnt face stands and heads my way. He carries himself like an ex-marine who has seen much violence and isn’t satisfied with his mundane life. I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose and will my feet to cooperate. An empty table is only a few feet away, but there might as well be a gaping chasm full of lava between us. My feet seem to have forgotten the meaning of RUN. 

Think positive. I am positive I can take him; he won’t know what hit him. I’m strong. Very gentlemanly of you C.K., That’s exactly the sort of thinking that got you in this mess to start off with. I can handle a beating no problemo, but he wouldn’t be able to. The last thing I need is another accident on my hands. I stumble towards an unoccupied table by the stage and rear back. I find myself staring at a grease-stained orange shirt. It reeks of old cigarettes and something that smells suspiciously like burnt flesh.  

“Choir practice is in Eastend. Beat it, kid,” he spits in my face, his breath reeking of old whiskey. I tower above him a good three inches, but he still manages to look down on me. I mutter a noncommittal response, not meeting his gaze. He chews on the end of a cigarette. I want to point out smoking is bad for his health but swallow my tongue. Now is not the time for a lecture on health.  He blows a cloud of smoke in my face, and bile rises in my throat. Be invisible. Avoid conflict at all costs.

 “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” He punctuates each word with a sharp jab to my chest. He’s trying to intimidate me, but I’ve seen roosters with meaner faces than Scarface here. 

“Well, the view isn’t exactly pretty,” I mentally kick myself. My mouth has a mind of its own, it would seem. “I’m sorry,” I wince. “That came out all wrong. I – I didn’t mean to say that out loud!” 

Fantastic. Congratulations. I just pissed off the bull for no reason. 

“Why, you little shit!” An inhumane growl escapes his throat and he draws his fist back. No problem. I deserve to get punched after so blatantly insulting him. I brace for impact.

 It never comes.“Easy Mick,” A big man wearing a navy, Greek fisherman’s hat, holds Jack back with one beefy fist. His plump face reminds me of one of the pumpkins during the Fall Festival, round and jovial, yet deadly if provoked. “I wouldn’t have any violence on my turf.”  

Mick pulls his arm out of the big man’s grasp. “It’s not your turf. It never will be! The Boss would never allow a washed-up wop like you to own anything in this town!” Mick glowers up at the man twice his size. 

If Mick’s words sting, he doesn’t show it. I wait for the big guy to come back with a retort. He crosses his arms over his ample chest and stares Mick down unblinking. The black overcoat he wears blends in with his surroundings seamlessly. Jack opens his mouth to say more and wisely shuts it, his eyes cast down. He decides I’m not worth the trouble, and slinks away, leaving me alone with a man that would put Hulk Hogan to shame. 

“Someday Ace of Clubs will be mine,” he says to Mick’s retreating figure, barely over a whisper. He sees something in this rundown shack I missed.  

“You’re not from around here, are you Ol’ Sport?” He says in a chipper voice, at such odds with his wrestler build. His gray eyes are surrounded by sun crinkles, which tells me he smiles a lot. “It ‘right son, I don’ bite. What do they call you?” 

This is it. The moment of truth. I can finally shed Clark Kent and start anew.

“Where are my manners?” I extend my hand out to him. His handshake is firm but kind. “Chris. . .” I falter thinking hard. It starts with the right letter at least, but that’s only half a name. People have surnames too. 

 “Welling,” I decide, in honor of my favorite comic book character. “Chris Welling,” I say more confidently, tasting out my new name. A part of me feels guilty for lying to such a nice man. I sense he’s one of the good ones. If I want to start over I need to break all ties with my old life. I jerk my hand back before I break any of his fingers.  

“Weak grip like that it’s no wonder you’re a target,” He shakes his head in disapproval. “You might want to work on that,” He advises, not unkindly. “And it wouldn’t hurt to straighten up a smidge,” he leans over and pushes my shoulders back. I didn’t realize I was slouching. “Much better Welling,” he smiles sincerely at me. I feel an unexplainable ache at the loss of my surname, Kent. I am more attached than I thought. It’s to be expected. I’ve been Clark Kent for sixteen years. Chris Welling would take some getting used to.  

“Don’t give them a reason to pick on you,” he says seriously, shaking an index finger at me. 

“Thank you, sir,” I say. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say. “And you are?” I prompt him. 

“Blimey,” he slaps his knee calf and lets out a good-natured chuckle. “ ’most forgot. Bibbowski, but my friends call me Bibbo,” he says with an easygoing smile, that reminds me painstakingly of Pete before the accident. It warms my heart and saddens me at the same time. 

“Join me at my table while you wait for your gal,” He says, his bushy black eyebrows crinkling suggestively. 

“I don’t have a . . .” I start and falter. He silences me with a meaningful squeeze on the arm, a silent warning. I see why. Mick stands a stone's throw away, and this time he has brought reinforcements in the form of two extra goons. I see the flash of a silver blade and silently thank my lucky stars. 

Boy, am I glad the big guy is on my side!  I might be strong but I’m not bulletproof. 

I let myself be steered deeper into the pub. Inquisitive eyes follow our retreating figures. Jack swears but does not attempt to follow.  

“What’s a nice boy like you doing in Suicide Slums?” He asks once we are situated at a quiet table below the stage.

 The brunette has left, and an elegantly dressed blonde stands in her place, singing a rendition of ‘Moon River.’ She has the voice of an opera singer.  I feel a pang of homesickness when she reaches the lyric: ‘My Huckleberry friend.’ Breakfast at Tiffany’s is Mom’s favorite movie. She used to catch me in her arms and call me her Huckleberry friend. She only stopped doing that after I snapped and told her she was the most embarrassing mom in the cosmos. 

 “You know Suicide Slums is no place for kids,” he continues when I don’t answer. “Are your parents near?” His bushy gray eyebrows knit together with worry. 

“I can handle myself,” I say. Bibbo seems much too kind-hearted to be mixed up with this lot. I doubt anyone else in this building cares what happens to me. I eye Bibbo’s plate of burgers and fries like a possessed dog. 

“Help yourself!” Bibbo says, dropping the subject of parents, and slipping the plate of food across the table towards me. 

“Are you sure?” I ask, my fingers itching to grab the burger. 

“You need more than ol’ Bibbo, eh?” He taps his round belly meaningfully. “Coulda do with losing a few pounds.” 

“Thank you, sir,” I scarf down the burger. It tastes almost as good as Ma’s cooking. Bibbo watches me eat carefully, frowning slightly. I don’t need to be a mind reader to know he recognizes the signs of a runaway. 

So I’m not surprised at all when his next question is. “Why do you run, sport?” 

My first instinct is to snap and tell the old fart to mind his own business, but he’s been so kind to me, I owe him at least half a truth. I wipe some ketchup off my chin with the back of my sleeve and face the music.“I . . .” I scrounge around my mind searching for the right thing to say. It is complicated , is the understatement of the year. “I haven’t wanted around,” I decide is the safest thing to say. Not particularly true, but close enough. 

“That ain't true for a second!” He says as if he can read my mind. “Nice, young lad like you probably has worried sick Mama at home.”   

I tense. He’s not wrong. Come morning Mom would wake up to check her email, and find the family’s iPhone missing from its usual spot in the drawer by the sink. Dad would already be out in the fields, not a care in the world. Mom would call The Rosses, and learn I never made it to Pete’s. Insert a mini heart attack once the truth settles in.  

“They’re better off without me,” I explain. 

Bibbo’s wide brow furrows in concern, but he lets the subject drop. “You want more food?” he asks, pointing at my empty plate. “Can fix you something up in a jiffy, Bibbo can cook anything” That’s when I notice the dirty white apron tied around his waist. I won’t say no to a cup of steaming hot cocoa, but I don’t want to be an imposition and shake my head. 

The lights on the stage dim dramatically, and the place is swallowed in darkness. A hush falls over the room, till all that can be heard is the curtain rustling. A ball of light hovers over the stage, no bigger than a firefly. What the hell? The firefly grows and grows till a miniature sun floats in midair. That’s not possible. I reach out towards the mini sun and flinch back when I feel real heat flowing off it in waves. The sun explodes, and I shut my eyes against the sudden beam. 

The light returns to normal and a pretty Italian girl in a one-suit tuxedo stands on stage. A blush creeps up my cheeks when I see her skin-tight fishnet leggings. I am not in Kansas anymore. A scarlet bowtie matches the shade of her ruby-red lips. She plucks her top hat off, a stream of black hair floats down her back. She handles the hat as reverently as a saint’s relic, placing it on the stool. She grins wickedly at the audience. She has the kind of smile that could transport you to other worlds.   

Bibbo laughs. “Get in line lad,” he says, his eyes crinkling as he smiles. “Half of Gotham and Metropolis want her.” I can see why, she’s an intoxicating beauty. 

“Metropolis how are you doing tonight?” She screams into the mic, the excitement in her voice magnetic. The few stragglers who remain roar with approval. Bibbo claps eagerly, his dark eyes trained on her. The atmosphere is so electric I find myself cheering along with everyone else. She raises white-gloved hands and waits for the audience to quiet. She could pass for one of my classmates. She couldn’t be older than seventeen. Yet, she is living the dream. Lana would be so jealous. I chide myself for thinking about her. 

“For you imbeciles who don’t know squat,” her voice drips with sarcasm. There are a few chuckles, more scowls than not. “Anna Taz at your service,” She takes a bow, her head tipping gracefully. 

When she looks up again, her eyes flash gold and then quickly shift back to their normal brown color in the blink of an eye. A butterfly alights on my nose. It flutters its iridescent wings once and flies off to rejoin its master. It settles on her head and turns back into a hairpin. No freaking way! She’s nothing like the usual magicians I’ve seen. No one else seemed to notice her not-so-little trick. Her smile is contagious. 

“Who here has ever witnessed magic?” She calls out to the crowd, sliding onto the stool, and hugging her hat to her chest. “And I’m not referring to pulling a rabbit out of a hat,” Casually she plucks a black cat out of the hat, laughing as she does. Her laughter is contagious and soon enough she has everyone jittering in their seats.

 “Mr. Four Eyes over there could have done that,” she winks at me and the smile is wiped clean off my face. I’m allergic to the spotlight. 

“No need to be shy,” Bibbo chides. “Straighten up laddie,” he reaches over the small table and nudges me meaningfully. “Handsome lad like you, no need to be ashamed.”  

“No,” Anna Taz says into the mike, her voice lowers. “I’m talking about the kind of magic that legends are built on.” The cat shimmers and seems to fold in on itself till it vanishes altogether. In its place, she holds a sword worthy of a knight. The audience is stunned into silence. My eyes must be playing tricks on me. I peek over the rim of my glasses and try to find the source of her trickery. There is no cat under the table or anywhere below the stage, not a single sight of machinery to help the ‘magic’ along. Is she the real deal? She’s too good to be true. Something has to go wrong. 

 “Anybody?” Anna Taz asks.

“I saw a man with the head of a pig once!” Someone in the audience screams. I twist around in my seat till I see the culprit. It’s the handsy waitress from earlier, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. 

Anna Taz makes a tut-tut sound in the back of her throat. “Hardly newsworthy,” she says. “I have one of those back homes too,” she shakes her head. “He’s rotting in Arkham Asylum,” she shivers exaggeratedly, which earns a few giggles. I frown. What nut is she talking about? “Who here is ready to see some real magic?” There are varying degrees of consent. 

 She lifts her hands and utters a few words, which sounds like gibberish. The ceiling begins to pulse like a living thing, till it mirrors the stormy sky outside. It’s so polluted that not a single star winks in the night sky. Rain swirls above, but not a single drop falls on us. It’s just an illusion. There is no way we are looking outside. There is no such thing as Hogwarts Great Hall. I eat my words as a bolt of lightning strikes down. Anna Taz raises one gloved hand towards the bolt, her face set in concentration, as she guides it around the room, apparently by sheer force of will. And then it’s gone in a second, the lingering scent of ozone the only evidence a lightning bolt had been indoors. The ceiling is back to its normal drab color, with no rain in sight.  The audience is shocked into silence.  

She leans back towards the mic, her face shining with perspiration. Her slick bangs are plastered to her forehead. It’s as if she has taken a deep dive into the ocean, and all her breath has been knocked out of her by a raging typhoon. But when she speaks her voice is as strong as steel. “That is just a taste of what is to come,” she says confidently, bowing. This time no one claps. The tension in the room is electrifying. I half expect a mob to form with torches and pitchforks, screaming, “Burn the witch!”

“For my next feat I need a volunteer,” she says sweetly. “Anybody?” No one budges. “Come on, don’t be shy!” I will myself to melt into the shadows, which proves difficult. Being 6’4 with gangly limbs I haven’t quite grown into yet, tends to make me stand out. I look like an overgrown bird. “You there with the fisherman’s hat!” She waves in our general direction. Bibbo raises one eyebrow questionably at me. 

“Don’t look at me. I get stage fright,” I say in a rush, my heart jumping in my chest at the mere thought of being in the spotlight. 

Bibbo has eyes only for the magician on stage. He gladly climbs up next to her, the stairs leading up the stage creaking under his massive weight. 

Anna Taz gives Bibbo a quick hug in greeting, which looks rather odd; next to Bibbo she’s a freshly hatched chick in the shadow of an overgrown elephant.“I’m Anna, what’s your name?” She asks Bibbo, offering him the mic. 

Bibbo laughs heartily. “You know my name, silly!” He pats her on the head sweetly, in a familial manner that makes me wonder if they’re related. 

Anna Taz’s face grows crimson, and she steps away from Bibbo. She keeps her features void of any emotion, trying to keep her cool next to the Big Guy. Bibbo catches my eye and gives me a jolly thumbs up. I awkwardly wave back, glad it’s him up there and not me. 

“Everybody has a favorite animal . . .” Anna Taz starts, her words floating right over my head.

 The girl who can tame lightning dances around Bibbo. On the surface, she appears normal, minus her questionable taste in fashion. 

A blood-curdling roar tears through my musings and I shoot to my feet. My chair flies into the wall behind me, resorting to a pile of kindling wood on the floor in a matter of seconds. I wince. A twelve-foot bear towers above Anna Taz where Bibbo stood moments before. Anna Taz bows gracefully to the dumbstruck crowd.

 If it weren’t for the fisherman’s hat the bear wears, I would have thought she snuck a bear past me somehow, which would have been quite an achievement. Bear Bibbo twists around and gets himself tangled up in the scarlet drapes. He looks down at his elongated snout and towards his wagging ball tail. He roars again, this time a bit more frantically, and stands up on his haunches. I would be worried if I wasn’t so impressed. Wait till Lana hears about this. And then I remember we’re not speaking, and my mood sours. It's best this way. She’s safer when I am not around. 

Anna Taz speaks a few words, and Bibbo transforms back to his normal smiley self, faster than you can say He Who Must Not Be Named. I clap vigorously, impressed with the girl.  Bibbo skips towards me a spring in his step, not a bit scarred by his near encounter with the magician. 

Others are not so moved by her performance. Mick springs to his feet, his loathsome scowl aimed toward Anna Taz. Women whisper frantically in a far-off corner, eyes skirting about like scared squirrels. Some of the men look like they wet themselves. People fear that which they don’t understand. Bibbo wouldn’t be so kind to me if he knew what I could do. If Anna Taz notices the discomfort her performance causes, she does a good job of hiding it. 

“I love you Metropolis!” she calls out, unnecessarily loud, I almost believe she means every word. “Well, that’s all I have for you tonight folks . . . but wait, don't go,” she says. A few who had stood to leave paused by the exit. “Have you lost a loved one you long to speak to?” That draws a few people’s attention. “Fear not, today is your lucky day!” Her voice holds a promise of future adventures. “Come find me, and your departed loved ones will not be so distant any longer,” she promises, disappearing in a cloud of violet smoke.

 The only evidence she stood there seconds before was the lingering scent of lilac.  That’s crazy. Turning Bibbo into a bear is one thing; it’s a simple illusion trick, I think. But speaking to the dead? That is not possible. But I live the impossible every day, so is it really so far-fetched? 

Chapter Text

“Is she for real?” I ask no one in particular, watching Anna Taz exit the stage. She blows a kiss over her shoulder in my direction and disappears behind the curtain. Bibbo claps me on the shoulder good-naturedly and I freeze. But when he lets go of me there are no bruise marks on his palm. A chubby, old man with no neck is the first to take Anna Taz up on her offer to speak to the dead. He pauses by our table, flips a pocket watch open, and gazes longingly at a vintage photo of a woman. I cough to cover my laughter. I thought they stopped making pocket watches in the late 1900s. He must be ancient. 

“As real as you and me,” he says, with a hint of pride.

“You say that as if you know her,” I toy mindlessly with the drawstring on my sweater.  

“Aye,” Bibbo says. I’ve known Zee since she was yay high. " He lowers his hand to his midcalf, his gaze swimming with fond memories. “Always be a little princess to me,” he falters as if he’s said something wrong. 

“Has she always been able to,”  I wave my hands exaggeratedly, “Abracadabra!” 

He bites his cheek and scratches his chin contemplatively. “‘s far as I know,” he mutters. “She’s a special girl.” 

The world is bigger than I thought. There could be more metahumans outside of Smallville lost like me. 

“Are there others like her here?” I can’t help asking. “In Metropolis I mean?”   

 “She one of a kind,” Bibbo tosses a fry into his big mouth and smacks his lips together as he chews.“But not from around here, mind de’,” he grumbles. “She’s from Gotham.” 

“Ugh,” I wince in pity. I’ve heard horror stories about Gotham. “But  surely you’ve seen a fair amount of strange things in Metropolis?” 

“I once caught a fish with two heads!” He marvels. “Strangest thing I see so far.” 

“But what about . . .” I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to figure out how to ask this without sounding like a complete nutcase. “What about an invisible man, or someone faster than a speeding bullet?” 

“Careful,” Bibbo’s gray eyes twinkle with amusement. “You’re starting to sound like Miss Lo.” 

“Who?” 

“Little girl always in here, asking weird questions,” Bibbo lets out a roar of laughter. “Convinced aliens are walking among us,” He raises a dubious eyebrow as if to say, ‘Can you believe her?’  

I smile despite everything. Looks like every town has a nut who believes in aliens. Jill will love this girl. 

“Spunky lass, that one - say, are you single, Chris?” 

“What?” The question catches me off guard. It comes out of nowhere, like a wild boomerang, coming in for the kill. 

“You look to be about Miss Lo’s age,” he says thoughtfully, scratching his chin. “Say, how old are you?”      

 “What?” I say again like a dumb parrot. I don’t understand how we have gotten so off-topic. I don’t need a matchmaker, especially not one that smells like grease and fish. I search for an exit route but have no home to run to. I am as good as homeless. Not for the first time today I regret my decision. I could be snug in bed not being subjected to this humiliation. Then I remember why I’m here. 

 If Bibbo knew the truth, he wouldn’t be so eager to set Lo up with a monster. She doesn’t sound like my type anyway. I prefer girls that are more down to Earth, not spunky. Then again, if she believes in aliens, knowing me would be a walk in the park. She won’t bat an eye at my oddities. 

“I usually got a sick sense about these things,” he tips his hat at me. “Trust me.” 

I don’t trust a man I’ve only known for half an hour. My mom taught me not to speak to strangers. “Thank you . . . I mean, that is I’m not looking for a girlfriend.”

“Nonsense!” Bibbo slaps me on the shoulder. For a millisecond he grimaces, and clutches his hand to his chest as if wounded. 

My heartbeat quickens and I silently curse myself for not remembering to relax my muscles. I fight the urge to scan his hand and make sure there are no broken bones. Only the first day in town and I’ve already screwed up royally, just by breathing. Bibbo shakes out his fist, no bruises in sight. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. 

“She mighty pretty,” he scribbles down a number on a napkin. “Be good for her. All work and no play.” 

I pocket the number but don’t make any promises. City girls are a bit too fast for me. I have a girl back home . . or I did. I’m not sure Lana would want to speak to me after what I did to her. I’m not returning to Smallville, so it’s a moot point. 

The old man stumbles out from behind a beaded curtain wailing like an elephant that has seen a mouse. He blows into a fistful of tissues, spraying icky snot all over me. Snot whacks me in the eye as he waddles past. “That’s attractive,” I grumble, wiping at my face. 

“Poor soul,” Bibbo tuts emphatically. “Never easy losing a loved one.” 

“No, it’s not,” I agree, thinking back to when Uncle Harry died. That’s history now. The rest of the family is dead just like him, or they would be if I stuck around any longer.  “Can she really speak to the dead or is it just a parlor trick?” 

Bibbo studies me thoughtfully, considering his next words carefully. “It's a family gift,” he hunches his shoulders. “Makes honest living at least.” 

I eye the old man sobbing at the bar, wondering what exactly Anna did to him. “Or she told him what he wanted to hear.” 

“Seem we have a skeptic,” Bibbo wriggles his eyebrows at me. “Trust me, laddie, she no fraud,” he mutters. “I seen it, de spirits speak through her.” 

“Bibbowski!” I tense at that familiar, brusque voice. I stay utterly still as Detective Turpin takes the empty chair beside me. I pull my hood tighter, praying the cop doesn’t recognize me.

Turpin gives me a cursory glance.“Another of your strays?” 

I stare at the table and avoid meeting the detective’s eyes. He’s supposed to be in Smallville investigating a murder. What is he doing back in Metropolis?  

“The usual Turpin?” Bibbo asks, slapping a towel over his broad shoulder. 

Turpin shakes his head stiffly. “I’m here on official business.” 

“Oh?” Bibbo prompts. 

Turpin slips his hands in his pockets, and for a moment I catch a glimpse of his M.P.D badge. On principle, I make a point to not be on a cop’s bad side, which has proven increasingly hard the last few days. I grimace. No doubt he followed the paper trail back to me and he’s playing it cool till he finds a way to corner me. 

“I received a call about a menace on the ten-o'clock bus.” He has to be referring to me. There’s no other explanation. I’m going to get arrested for property damage. I am too young to be arrested. 

“You see anything suspicious tonight?” Turpin asks. 

That’s my cue to leave. I don’t wait to hear Bibbo’s polite response, and as quietly as possible duck through the beaded curtain that leads back stage. Phew that was a close call. Though I really don’t have anything to worry about. There is no way he can prove I destroyed the armrest on the bus. Or can he? I could have left traces of my DNA on it. I comb my fingers through my already messy hair. I’m overthinking this. Ace of Clubs is full of mobsters and cut throats; he could be looking for one of them. 

I stumble into a quaint room that smells of incense. Anna Taz has set up shop in the back of the pub, behind a beaded curtain. I might have believed I stepped into a LARPer’s den, playing at being a seer, but the faint crackle of distant voices ruins the illusion. Unidentifiable objects hang from the low ceiling. I knock headfirst into something leathery and soft. I force down bile when I realize it’s a wrinkled hand decaying at the roots, the nails yellow with age. If she wants to scare me it’s working. ‘ Well, Boohoo. Pull yourself together Princess,’ Pete’s words come to me unbidden. I scowl at the memory. He had convinced me to spend the night in Thornton Hall and my bravery was rewarded with a snake bite. Some days when I close my eyes, I can still feel its sharp fangs digging in my leg. I shiver. 

Anna Taz’s den is a picnic in comparison to Thornton Hall. My throat grows tight at the thought of Pete Ross. He wouldn’t be storming any haunted mansions any time soon. Heck, he would have loved Anna Taz. He would have been able to identify each strange object with flying colors. He eats these strange things up like candy on Halloween, or at least he did. He’s convinced Smallville is a magnet for the paranormal. He acted like Christmas had come early when he found out about my meta-human status. Not so cool anymore. 

Anna Taz sits at a round table, the light from the lamp giving her an ethereal look. The table is empty except for the skull of a bird sitting front and center, which seems to serve no purpose except to scare the customers. She has traded out her tight one-suit for a loose, black gown, which completes the medieval vibe she’s going for. 

“Sorry!” I choke out, my heart racing. If I listen carefully, I can hear Turpin and Bibbo talking in the next room. It’s hard to tell if I’m the topic of interest. “I was just . . .” I falter, she doesn’t need to know the police might be after me. “I was just curious about how this works,” I slip into the seat opposite her. “There’s no crystal ball,” I observe. 

“The next person who says that is getting turned into a cockroach and squashed!” She slams her fist on the table, causing a mini earthquake.

“If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to be a grasshopper,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. She eyes me as if I’ve grown two extra heads and breaks out laughing. Considering everything, I wouldn’t be surprised if I woke up one day and found a hydra looking back at me in the mirror. Only a matter of time before the heroic Hercules bashes my brains in.   

“You’re a strange one,” she decides, her eyes dancing with mirth. “I’ll keep that in mind if I ever have the desire to rearrange your pretty face.” I’m too nervous to care that she thinks I’m pretty. Most girls are too busy fawning over Dean Reeve to notice the bumbling ox in the corner.  

“Kind of you,” I offer. 

She folds her arms in front of her on the table and leans in closer till the rim of gold circling her dark pupils is visible. Out from under the bright stage lights, she appears more human. Her expression is guarded, but beneath that hard exterior is a lonely soul searching for answers, just like me. She quirks up one fine plucked eyebrow expectantly. After a few seconds of silence tick by, she says impatiently, “I’m not getting any younger here. Whom would you like to speak to?” 

“Huh?”Anna Taz successfully robs me of my voice. 

I must look scared cause Anna Taz quickly explains, “I am not actually bringing the dead back,” she clarifies. “No spell can awaken the dead, I trust you know that.”

 She waits for me to speak, but I can do nothing but gape like a fish. I can’t believe we’re discussing necromancy. I feel like I’ve stepped into a bad episode of Supernatural , and it’s only a matter of time before the demon inside her attacks me. Only, there are no Winchesters here to save the day. “I will serve as a temporary vessel for your loved one to speak to you through,” she continues on, taking my silence as encouragement. “All I need is something of theirs.” 

It takes a moment for my brain to catch up. Then it hits me like a giant boulder to the face. I need to play along if I want to stay out of Turpin’s line of sight. There’s just one problem: I don’t have any loved ones waiting for me in The Great Beyond. Sure, there’s Uncle Harry, but he passed away before I knew the meaning of death. I doubt he would appreciate me dragging him out of heaven to have a little chat. I really need to start thinking things through before acting. She’s scarier than the cops.  

“I’m sorry, I don’t –” 

“That’s alright,” She nods encouragingly to me. “We’ll make do with what we have,” she grabs my hand from across the table, her touch cold as death. “I’m afraid the connection wouldn’t be as strong, but better than nothing.” 

She can’t be serious. 

“No, you see, I really don’t have – what I was trying to say earlier – You see, there’s this-” 

An involuntary shriek escapes my lips. Anna Taz rears back as if I slapped her. Her body starts to shake like a landlocked fish. I call out her name, but my cries fall on deaf ears. Oh, God, she is having a seizure. I need to get her to a hospital pronto. I fumble in my pocket for my phone and freeze.      

A shudder skitters down my spine as a chilling presence grazes against my mind. It takes the meaning of ‘brain freeze’ to a new level. My breath comes out in puffs of smoke, and cold seeps into my bones; it feels like I’m stuck in the North Pole, minus Santa’s helpful elves. 

An explosion of noises claws through my mind. Terrified screams, the kind that Death stalks. Buildings crashing asunder. Hurried footsteps flee with no salvation in sight. Planes zip by only to be knocked out of the sky. Hissing flames devour everything in their path. A man’s deep voice is drowned out by an eerie humming. The entire earth shakes, and then searing heat burns through my consciousness. The hungry flames reach out towards me. 

No. I’ve never been trapped in an exploding building in my entire life. There’s nothing to remember. I’m secure in my seat, no exploding buildings in sight. 

Anna Taz is playing mind games. She ceases her godforsaken shaking, but I wish she hadn’t. Unnatural white eyes stare back at me, the exact shade of eggshells. Every bone in my body screams to run, but I’m as good as chained to the seat.   

“Kal-El? Anna Taz tilts her head in question. Her voice is as soft as a newborn sheep’s coat, nothing like Anna Taz’s sharp grating voice. It’s as if she’s a different person. Her expression quickly melts into one of pure joy as she seems to recognize me. She smiles at me as if all her prayers have been answered and starts to speak excitedly in a tongue I don’t recognize. She uses short, clipped words that I can’t make heads or tails of. It sounds like the love child of Sindarin and Klingon. I catch the word Rao quite a few times. I can only assume it’s an explanation of joy, judging by her ecstatic smile. 

Anna Taz leaps up and wraps me into a tight hug. I don’t know what else to do, so I hug her back. The spirit acts as if she knows me, which is all levels of wrong. She has the wrong guy. If she weren’t so creepy, I might have felt sorry for her. She stares at me with unblinking white eyes, void of any emotion, such at odds with her emotional voice. 

Anna Taz continues to hug me as if there is no tomorrow. She is taking these theatrics way too seriously. I never asked her to create a made-up language. She is invading my personal space; I shove her off and immediately regret it. Her expression morphs into one of pain and frustration. She places a hand over her chest. “Ama,” she says, then places a hand on my chest. “Kal-El.” 

I shake my head and step away from her. “You’ve got the wrong guy ma’am,” I say gently. This isn’t happening. It is just an illusion. Illusion . Illusion . Illusion . No dead woman is talking to me through Anna Taz. 

She frowns as if trying to remember something, and then a smile brightens her face. She points to herself again. “Ama. Mother,” she says in a thick accent, the word sounding more like ma-der. Tenderly she grabs my hand and kisses my knuckle. “Filo. Son,” she says simply. 

“Shut the front door!” I snatch my hand away from her as if her kiss burns. “I’m not your son, lady.” I slowly step back. “I have a mom. Her name is Martha Kent, and she likes scary movies and baking.” 

A mom who has been feeding me lies since day one. The lies are kinder than the truth. I just want to keep pretending I’m their son.  

If my reaction bothers her, she does a good job hiding her emotions. She smiles as if she’s won the lottery. She inches closer to me and rests a hand on my shoulder. Her touch is strangely calming, and for some bizarre reason, I don’t bolt. Curiosity roots me in place. 

She combs a stray hair out of my face, a gesture that is foreign and yet familiar all at once, but that’s crazy. I’ve never met her before, whoever she thinks she’s supposed to be. Then why is my stomach twisted in knots? I find myself leaning into her touch. “Jor-El mishko,” she says unhelpfully. She tries again. “Have . . .” She falters, frowning in concentration as if trying to remember something. “Babar skis. Jor-El,” she elaborates, smiling sadly. She tilts her head, an unspoken question trapped in her gaze. Do you understand?  

 Her voice is a ghost of a memory, like a long-forgotten lullaby. No. I shake my head, and her smile falls. There is nothing familiar about her. Anna Taz is playing tricks on my mind. End of the story. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I slowly brush her off, trying not to care when she starts to resemble an abandoned kitten. “But like I said before, I’m not Kal-El.” 

Let’s face it, Anna Taz is simply a really good actress. That’s the only reasonable explanation, but that hardly explains her white eyes or where she came up with such a weird accent. It sounds like the echo of a dead language. Part of me wants to believe a long-lost relative speaks to me through Anna Taz. Maybe she can explain why I am so different. But the implication scares me. I’m already weird enough without family baggage weighing me down. 

“You are,” she says with an aching longing in her voice. “You a babe. You za remember,” she says, clutching my hand. She points at herself. “Ama never forgets.” 

There is no arguing with the dead. Let her believe what she wants. She coos more gibberish at me, as if speaking to a baby.  This is a dream, a very weird dream admittedly, but a figment of my imagination nonetheless. Any second now, I’m going to wake up.

 “Are you happy?” she asks after an awkward silence. “Martha Kent good?” There is a silent plea in her voice. She really does believe she’s my mom. 

 Blood pounds in my ears. I think of all the times I lifted the tractor as easily as a toy airplane, and Mom and Dad shared looks of wonderment and fear. The kind of fear that doesn’t belong on a parent’s face. Their endless lies are tar down my throat. I have to trust they had a reason for keeping me in the dark. What if  Whitney’s files were correct? My birth parents could be dead. 

“Kal-El?” she prompts. 

I sigh. “I was happy.” The wall I’ve built so carefully breaks, and I find myself spilling my guts out to a ghost. It’s easier to talk when you think no one is listening. I tell her about my crazy cousin Jill and how there isn’t a moment of peace in the Kent household. I tell her about how I wanted nothing more than to be a normal boy, and tried out for the football team the first chance I got. Her eyebrows knit together in confusion at the word football, and I have to pause to explain the game to her. I choke on my words when I get to the part about Pete Ross. Guilt weighs me down as I tell her about running away. Mom and Dad would be so worried. 

She cups my face with both hands. “Go home drothi,” she pleads, her voice fizzling out like static on the radio. She flinches as if in physical pain. When she speaks again it sounds like she’s trapped in an underground cavern, far away. “Ama and Babar ukem —”

 It’s an effort for her to get the words out. A shadow falls over her face and Anna Taz blinks, her eyes darkening. “You are not alone,” she manages to say in a hoarse whisper.  

I sure feel alone. How many guys do you know who can run at the speed of light, among other odd tidbits? Zero, that’s how many.  

Anna Taz blinks one last time, and the presence I felt earlier gradually leaves. I am back in an ordinary den, no ghost claiming to be my mother in sight. Anna Taz’s eyes are back to their normal, boring black color. I can breathe again. The last few minutes never happened. It’s just a fluke. 

Anna Taz extends her hand to me expectantly, and for a heartbeat, I fear we are going to have a repeat of The Exorcist . “That would be fifteen dollars.” 

“Huh?” 

 “You’re slow, so let me spell it out for you,” she says, scowling. “I. Do. Not. Work. For. Free. Cough up.” 

     “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I shoot to my feet. “You’re not even that good of an actress. I’m not paying for that shit!” 

Who does she think she is? She might fool others with her tricks but not me. I wasn’t born yesterday. She is no Hermione Granger. This is a bunch of baloney. That sounded like no language I’ve heard.  She’s just another con artist looking for her next fix. 

“Actress?” She raises to meet me, shooting me a look that would make Jack the Ripper run for the hills. “Damn straight, I’m not an actress,” She says icily. “I am a sorceress, and unless you want to spend the remainder of your miserable existence as a grasshopper, Kal-El, I suggest you give me what is owed.” I flinch when she uses that abomination of a name. 

“No, it can’t be real,” I shake my head. I try to remember a time before Kansas and hit an iron wall. “It can’t be,” I persist. The Kents are my family. 

She lets out a long-tired sigh, blowing her choppy bangs out of her eyes. “Have a mental breakdown on somebody else’s watch, kid,” She rasps. “I’ve got places to be, people to curse.” She looks at me meaningfully. “Don’t tempt me.” 

“Fine.” I take my good time counting the money and then hand it off to her. There goes my taxi money. 

“Pleasure doing business with you, Clark Kent,” She says, winking at me. 

It’s only after I’m outside, I realize I never told Anna Taz my name. I have half a mind to march right back inside and demand some answers, but I’d be lying if I said Anna Taz didn’t scare me a bit. I have no desire to face her again . . . if that is her real name. She might transform me into a dolphin. I’d make a cute dolphin. Come to think of it, that certainly would solve most of my problems. Or would I just be a super dolphin with a bad attitude? I shiver. Magic is weird. 

What Anna Taz did was wholly unnatural. Strength is one thing, but speaking to ghosts and transforming a grown man into a bear is a whole new level of batshit crazy. I’m not quite ready to wrap my head around that.  It had to be a trick. Somehow. But how do you explain her channeling my dead mother’s spirit? Or knowing my birth name, if any of that is true. I comb my fingers through my dark hair and grit my teeth. 

No. I can’t believe a word she said. She’s a liar. It had to be an illusion. It just had to be. My mother is back in Smallville, not waiting for me in the afterlife. But then why can’t I rid myself of that unearthly voice? Slowly, a picture forms in my head, each brushstroke bringing a new detail to light. A wistful, Mona Lisa smile that holds all the hope in the universe as she looks down at me. Piercing cerulean eyes drowning in tears. Ebony curls frame an angular face with high cheekbones. Cold hands hold me tight. A lilting voice lulls me to sleep. Silent tears shimmer down her pale cheeks.  

I clutch my head as it starts to pound. I shouldn’t be able to remember her face. Mama has baby pictures of me in Smallville. There was nothing before Smallville. It’s all I’ve ever known. Yet, somehow I remember this woman. Maybe she babysat for Ma when I was a toddler. That’s the only explanation. No human could remember the early days when they were infants. Anna Taz is planting false images in my head. I force my feet to keep moving and exorcize the foul vision from my mind.      

The alley is deserted except for an orange tabby scrounging in a trash bin for scraps. In the rain, the pavement shines like silver under the moonlight. I toss my hood up, but it does little good against the angry weather. The only light comes from a lit window on the third floor at level with a rusty fire escape; the silhouette of a person reading by lamplight is framed against the window. Shadows fold around me as I trudge deeper into the alleyway.  

There’s a flash of lightning, and a hunched-over old man comes into sharp focus. He balances precariously on the front step of an apartment complex. I freeze. It can’t be him.  Darkness swallows his features once more before I can get a better look. My heart races in my chest. Another shard of lightning illuminates Dr. Whitney’s gaunt face. I dash forward, sheets of rain slapping me in the face. His distinct, jagged shadow skids across a bricked building. I keep pace with him, delving deeper into Suicide Slums.  I reach out to grab him. My fingers are inches from closing around his labcoat, but in the span of a second, he is gone, and my fingers close around empty air. I swear and hammer a fist into the nearby wall. Cracks zigzag across the brick wall. I inhale and exhale, trying to calm my nerves. I almost had him. Or maybe, I’m completely off my rockers and seeing things where nothing exists. 

Chapter Text

“NO!” a brutal scream stabs the silence. I freeze and stare down the alleyway where the scream came from. Two large men cage a woman against a dumpster. The larger of the two holds her wrist in a vice-like grip. 

“Get your fucking hands off me!” There’s a THWANK as the edge of a heel connects with flesh. The large man flinches and tightens his grip on her. She’s outnumbered two to one. The thugs pin her against the wall. 

“Little mouse got claws.” The man digs the barrel of a gun into the side of her skull. She sucks in a shuddering breath. I grimace. She doesn’t look to be much older than me.

  “She would do nicely. Granny will be pleased.” he leans in till he’s at eye level with her and runs a strand of her fine hair through his fingers greedily. “A bit scrawny for my taste.” 

“You should be honored.” The second thug says. I’m surprised at the feminine, high-pitched voice that escapes the hunk of meat holding the girl down. She wears navy blue gear that hugs her bulging muscles. Raggedy green hair frames her grotesque face. “There is no need to fight. Granny will make everything better.” 

“I’m not going anywhere with you!” The girl aims a punch at the man holding her, and he catches her wrist.  

“You heard the lady.” I step out of the shadows and place a hand over his arm, freezing him mid-action. I carefully pry his thick fingers from around the girl’s hand, giving her a chance to scurry back. “No means no. Now get lost.” 

“She is no concern of yours,” the buff woman says, squaring off her shoulders, sliding towards me threateningly. A black omega sign is etched into her breastplate. I frown at the omega symbol. Must be a Greek mythology fanatic that fancies herself a daughter of Ares. “Be gone, mortal!” 

Yep. Definitely a Greek mythology nut. “See, here’s the thing.” I calmly fold my arms over my chest and slide in front of the scared girl. “I’m making it my business. I can’t stand bullies.” 

“We do not have time for distractions. We are on a deadline,” she grumbles. She signals her partner with a crisp jerk of the chin, her gesture so subtle the average Joe would have missed it entirely.   

 Quick as a whip, he turns the gun on me and pulls the trigger. A jaw-rattling BANG shatters my eardrums. I don’t have time to blink or move. The bullet whips toward me. I choke down a scream as the shell slams into my chest.  

The force of the shot sends me flying backward, and I  fall into a muddy puddle, the dirty water soaking through my jeans. My head rings with the aftershock of the gunshot. An irksome sting tickles my chest. This was not part of the plan. Two more years till graduation. My parents need me on the farm . . . Lana would never know I love her. My hand flies to my chest to put pressure on the wound. I freeze. 

There is no blood. There’s a smoking hole in my shirt where the bullet passed clean through. There isn’t so much as a scratch. I feel nothing but a dull throb where the bullet grazed my skin.  “Oh, hell no,” I grumble, feeling the smooth skin.  

I wish I’d never been born at all. It would have saved me a lot of trouble. Bemused faces watch me in wonderment as I stand. I don’t know what to say. I should be dead. The bullet hit a vital organ. . . or should have.  

“What are you?” the man steps back, his shock palpable. His eyes widen in fear, looking at me like I’m the monster under his bed. The girl looks between the gun and me. Then takes an obvious step away from me. 

“You’re a dead man!” Ugly unholsters her gun and releases a volley of bullets. I grimace, feeling the impact of each blow like pebbles slamming into my gut. This time, I’m ready and don’t fall back. The girl shrieks, ducking down and shielding her head with her arms. I stand utterly still, fear rooting me in place. One wrong angle and the bullets will hit her. The pebble ricochets off my bicep, embedding itself in the brick wall behind me. 

“Please!” she begs. “Don’t kill him!” 

I wait for the thunder to subside and flick a few scrunched-up bullets off my arm.  The bullets clutter to the pavement. Ugly grunts in displeasure and trades the pistol for a bigger gun.  I’m done being patient. They brought this onto themselves. I put on a burst of speed, the world coming to a standstill, and snatch the weapons right from under their noses. In a split second, I knead the guns together into a ball and toss it into the dumpster. I try not to think too hard about what I just did. 

“Two points for the mortal,” I say. “Zero points for the criminals.” 

The fear in their eyes hurts more than any bullet. I refuse to show any emotion. I hold their gaze, not daring to blink, for fear they’d see it as a sign of weakness. I’d rather not fight them if I can help it. They’d be hurting themselves more than me.   

The man drops the knife he had pulled out, turns tail, and runs. Smart move. “Where do you think you’re going?” his partner screams after him. “We’re not finished here.”

“Yes, you are.” I fold my arms over my chest and straighten up to my full height of 6’3”. I stand a good two heads above her, but that doesn’t seem to dissuade her in the slightest. She glowers at me and digs in her belt for a new weapon. I turn her new toy into putty before she has a chance to use it, eyes burning. The girl’s screams cut through the mounting headache behind my eyes. I close my eyes and wait for the heat to subside. When I open them again, Ugly’s gun is a melted green puddle between us. 

“This isn’t over,” she promises. “I will find you and make your life a living Hell,” she promises.   

“I’m quaking in . . .” she vanishes before I have a chance to finish my sentence. I peel my eyes, trying to find her. The only evidence she was there is the trembling girl. “Metropolis is weird.” 

I face the scared girl. She eyes me wild-eyed with a mixture of fear and detached wonderment. I crouch down to eye level with her, and she scurries back. “Are you okay?” I reach down and pick up her fallen purse, handing it to her. Mutely, she grabs it from me. Her gaze travels down my body, coming to a stop on the bullet holes in my shirt. “It’s just a flesh wound,” I say, hoping it’s too dark for her to see the truth. I shouldn’t be breathing. I should count my blessings, but my miraculous survival only serves to remind me I’m different than everyone else. I stand apart, alone. Isolated.   

“I can walk you home if you want,” I offer. “There’s safety in numbers.” 

“Stay away from me, freak!” she pushes past me and dashes down the dark alleyway. 

“You’re welcome,” I say to the empty darkness. I slide my glasses off and scan the area for the fashion-backward thugs. The stench of sulfur tickles my nostrils, but there is no sight of them. I slide my glasses back up the bridge of my nose, satisfied the coast is clear, and continue walking.      

I wander the narrow streets of Suicide Slums till I find a semi-dry bench beneath the shade of a large abandoned building. Bonus, it’s completely covered in shadow, perfect for hiding from unwanted visitors. A thin layer of raindrops coats the seat. I remind myself, I’ve slept in worse places during camping trips with Dad. This is a four-star hotel compared to the muddy swamp we crashed at once.  I have a front-row view of the apartment complex across the street. Street lamps line the sidewalk, casting an eerie glow over everything. The narrow walkway leads to the docks. I can almost smell a whiff of freshly caught fish coming from that direction.  

I pull Ma’s iPhone out. Come morning, Ma will search for the iPhone in the kitchen, ready to check if there are any new orders for the bakery. When she sees it’s missing she’d wander to the loft to hunt me down. There, she’d find the note. 

I’m sorry. I can’t live like this anymore. 

Short and succinct. I should have said something more to decrease her worries. The lies kept piling up, and I didn’t know who to trust. But that’s no excuse! They’re still my parents. But if they knew what I did to Claire, they would disown me. Once I’m rid of this curse, things will be better. But I’m not sure I can ever face the family again.      

There are sixteen or so unread messages from Jill Kent. I scroll through them with growing dread. 

I’m sorry, Clark. I didn’t mean what I said. I could never hate you. 

Open the damn door. NOW 

I know you’re in your room playing on the phone. Stop ignoring me and face the music.

It’s not your fault. Long story, but Claire is fine. We’re both better than fine. 

I’m not lying. 

Please answer. I can’t talk about this through text. 

Stop brooding and OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!  

WHERE THE HELL R U? 

ANSWER THE DAMN PHONE 

CLARK 

CLARK 

CLARK 

SPEED BOY 

KNUCKLEHEAD 

RETARD 

Okay, now I’m starting to FREAK. 

ARE YOU DEAD? 

IF YOU’RE NOT I’M GONNA KILL YOU 

. . . . . 

I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU WENT ON AN ADVENTURE WITHOUT ME! 

Sly dog! I’m not the bad Kent anymore! 

You’re knee-deep in shit. 

I WANT A FULL REPORT WHEN YOU GET BACK. 

YOU ARE COMING BACK?! 

DON’T DO ANYTHING STUPID! 

YOU’RE SO GROUNDED MISTER 

I grimace. The last few texts were sent only ten minutes ago. I thought I would have more time. Knowing my luck, the parents have already brought out the big guns. I won’t be surprised if Uncle Emil is prowling the streets of Metropolis hunting for me.  My thumbs hover over the keyboard. What am I going to say? Sign of life. Don’t come looking for me.  

Yeah, Mom would love that. It’s a miracle I don’t have the police on my tail already. I ignore Jill’s messages and do a quick Google search of motels in the area. Though no place in Metropolis would ever beat the feeling of  Mom’s handmade quilt on my bed, each stitch is woven with love. No hotel will make bacon and fluffy pancakes as yummy as Mom’s recipe. I groan when I see the prices. I’m not made of that kind of money. Shitty motel rooms are a lot more expensive than I originally thought. I don’t have a hundred bucks on me, at least not any I can spare. I’m saving the cash for the appointment tomorrow.  

But would the cure even work? I glare at the bullet holes. Just when I thought I couldn’t get even freakier. I had always been a resilient child, but not invincible. When I was nine, I fell out of the treehouse and broke my arm. In retrospect, I probably should have been hurt worse. I bled just like any other kid. It wasn’t till middle school, things got stranger, but it was easy to keep on pretending I’m normal. A tree collapsing on a kid wasn’t as deadly as a bullet wound. Most kids would have died . . . I let my parents lies lull me into a false sense of security. There was no explanation for the unmarred flesh . . . no explanation I liked. 

The guns could have been filled with blanks. I remember the bullets crumbling against my flesh. Had I imagined the whole thing? I can’t be as odd as I fear. I rake a finger across my bicep, relieved when I feel the sting of a cut forming. I dig my nail deeper into the flesh, blood oozing as I peel back the skin.  I’m not invulnerable. Those guns misfired. It was dark . . . the bullets likely hit the wall behind me. I take a coat out of my backpack and shrug into it, sealing the bulletholes out of sight and out of mind. 

At least one good thing came from joining the Smallville Crows: I learned to sleep anywhere. Like a pillow, I puff up my backpack against the bench and pull the hood up. It does little to shield me from the elements, but I’ve grown used to the cold after my many camping trips with Dad. The older I get, the less the cold seems to bother me. After a while, the hard rainfall becomes a distant lullaby and I close my eyes. 

The uncomfortable feeling of being watched returns, and I open my eyes, nerves on edge. Twice in one night- that’s no coincidence. I push my glasses down the bridge of my nose and gaze into the hazy darkness. Skeletal branches cast dark shadows over the pavement. A shadow cuts across the sidewalk, and my heart skips a beat, but it’s only a stray cat.

 There. The tip of his dark beanie pokes out from behind the railing on a fire escape. Any onlookers looking his way would have easily glossed over him, mistaking him for part of the building. But I’m not like most people. I focus my gaze on that dark corner, and isn’t long before I make out his features. A thick black scarf wraps around the lower half of his face. The only distinct feature visible is a pair of steel blue eyes. He wears a baggy coat that is so dirty it looks like he took a bath in coals. His face is pulled taut, his gaze turbulent. I don’t recognize him, but he seems to know me. It is unnerving. But I have nothing to fear. He’s just a homeless guy with a bad hair day. 

I turn my back on the stalker and try to get some sleep. But the knowledge that I have a shadow keeps the cobwebs away. I twist and turn, repositioning my backpack, but I can’t shake the feeling he is going to shoot me in the back the second I let my guard down.  

My pocket vibrates. I take the iPhone out, seconds away from turning it off —Jill has bothered me for the last time. But it’s a notification from WordBattle. Hope floods through my veins when I see LadyTruth’s name. I frown, it’s a little bit after ten-ocklock. No matter. I’m happy for the distraction. 

LadyTruth: Hiya Farmboy :) 

LadyTruth: I have a proposition for you. 

Oh, great, this ought to be good. I shake my head and fix to respond, but a new message pops up. 

LadyTruth: First, I want to make clear I’m not a girly girl.

I never got that vibe in the slightest. I’m halfway through typing a response when she beats me to the punchline. So, it’ll be one of those days where I don’t get a word in edgewise. I don’t mind, truly. She probably saved me from doing something incredibly stupid. Seeing something as simple as her name pop up has lifted my spirits. But it doesn’t change the fact that the world would be better off if I were ordinary Clark Kent.   

LadyTruth: I’m a career-driven woman who doesn’t have time for boys or drama. But I can’t stop thinking about you, which makes it hard to focus on my career. 

LadyTruth: It’s time we took the next step in our relationship . . . whatever this is. 

LadyTruth: Call me. 

LadyTruth: 639-501-0052

 No please or kind suggestion. It’s a command from the Queen of England herself, and if I refuse I will be sent to the stocks for a week until she deigns to forgive me for my insolence. 

I’m in no shape to talk to a girl right now, let alone a girl I’ve never even laid eyes on. She could be an assassin in disguise. 

LadyTruth:   I’m dying to hear your voice. 

LadyTruth: You can’t sound as dorky as I think you are. 

LadyTruth: That was rude. Sry. I’m nervous. 

LadyTruth: I don’t do things like this, like ever. 

I’m going to regret this in the morning. But. There’s no chance of getting any sleep in the cold, and clearly, she’s awake. With shaking fingers, I dial her number. She answers after the first beat. There’s silence on the other end.  

“Well,” she says, once she realizes I’m not going to make the first move. “Looks like you have balls, after all, Farmboy,” she laughs. 

Her voice is exactly as I imagined it, boisterous and assertive. It’s the voice of a girl . . . a woman who can take on the world and knows it. She’s a force to be reckoned with.   

“I thought you were going to chicken out on me there for a moment,” LadyTruth says incredulously. I can almost imagine her rolling her eyes. “The world does not need any more chickens. There’s an infestation of chickens. Pointy beaked, backstabbing, corporal, slimy- Say something.” 

“Hello,  I’m Clah . .” 

“NO!” she snaps. “Anything but that. I want to keep the mystery alive. Keeps things interesting,” she insists. “You probably have some boring-ass name like Henry or Chris.” 

“I don’t know anyone named Henry.” 

She pauses for a second. “Come to think of it, neither do I.” 

I shake my head in amusement. “Alright. No names. No pictures. Any other rules I should be aware of?” 

“No family drama,” she muses. “That rule is mostly for me. You’ve got a perfect Hallmark family.”  

She won’t be saying that if she knew I was in Metropolis, avoiding said perfect family. 

If we were perfect, I wouldn’t have run away. 

“No falling in love,” Elizabeth Taylor continues. “I don’t have time for it, Farmboy.” 

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” I promise. 

“How goes it with the redhead?” I swallow a lump in my throat. Lana is probably hospitalized or worse after what I did to her. 

“She’s fine.” 

“Fine?” she asks. “You don’t sound very enthusiastic.” 

I balance the phone on one shoulder. “Everything is swell,” I muster up some more enthusiasm. I should win an Oscar for my performance.  

“You know, Farmboy,” LadyTruth says. “There are very few people left in the world comfortable saying that word.” 

“What, swell?” 

“Yep,” she pops the p at the end of the word. “The world is not swell. It is a cesspool full of cutthroats, renegades, and people who never intend to keep their promises.”   

“That’s a pretty cynical view.” My stomach twists into knots. Though, if past events are anything to go on, she’s not far off the mark. But not everyone is like Dr. Whitney; besides.  

“There is good in everyone, even cutthroats.” 

“You’re so adorable,” LadyTruth says, a smile echoing in her voice. “You clearly are not from Metropolis.” I can almost imagine her rolling her eyes. “In the real world, it’s every man and woman for themselves.” 

“I don’t believe that for a second,” I say. I think back to the time there was a blizzard in Smallville, and all the crops completely froze; if our neighbors didn’t pitch in, we would have had to mortgage the farm. “We’re all on this long road together. At their core, people want to do the right thing.” 

LadyTruth lets out a snort full of disbelief. “There is nothing right about carving up a child like a Christmas Turkey!” There’s righteous anger in her voice. “What does Mister Always Look On the Bright Side have to say to that?”  

I wince. “Whoever did that needs some serious help.” I swallow a lump in my throat, thinking of what is left of Bri.   

Something tells me LadyTruth is referring to the elusive Madame X that has been plaguing Metropolis going on five years now. Madam X is what The Daily Planet has christened her, due to the pattern of stitches on her victims and the hint of crimson lipstick left on their forehead, where she kissed them goodbye. The victims are always found the same way, dressed meticulously in formal wear, right down to accessories such as diamond earrings or cufflinks, a toe tag tied on their right foot with the words: ‘Forgive me,’ typed out on it.  

“They’re beyond help!” 

“We don’t know her whole story,” I say.  

“She?” 

“You’re talking about Madame X?” I ask. 

For a moment, there is a beat of silence. “I didn’t think anyone else was following that story,” she says with a hint of surprise. 

“It’s tragic.” 

“No, tragic is the Titanic crashing into the iceberg,” LadyTruth growls. “This is totally barbaric.” 

“She won’t be killing for no reason,” I say, thinking out loud. “Someone with a conscience won’t ask for forgiveness.” 

“I don’t care if her story is as sad as Daenerys Targaryen’s,” LadyTruth hisses. “There is no excuse for murder.” 

“Agreed,” I affirm. I shake my head in wonderment and laugh. 

“Glad somebody thinks I have a future as a comedian,” LadyTruth says dryly. 

I laugh till my chest hurts. “I’m sorry,” I apologize. “It’s just . . . funny. Our first official conversation, and we can’t seem to stop talking about doom and gloom.” Appropriate, considering the hell of a day I’d had, but she didn’t need to know that.  

“Most guys would have hung up on me by now,” She says. “You start talking corpses and serial killers, and people look at you funny.” 

“Guess it’s a good thing I’m not like most people.” 

“You think Madam X is worth saving?” 

“Everyone is worth saving.”

Chapter Text

I hear the splish-splashing of heavy boots trudging through puddles and become utterly still—jovial whistling lights up the dark street. The stranger draws nearer, a jolly, off-key, voice ringing out loud and clear.  “Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry,” There’s a skip in the newcomer’s step. “Them good ol’ boys were drinking whiskey and . . .” he falters, a large shadow of a man hovering over me. “Chris is dat you?”  

It takes me a moment to realize he’s addressing me. I’m Chris Welling. Clark Kent is dead.  With a forced groan I wearily pull myself up and meet Bibbo’s concerned face. His wrinkled eyes narrow at the bullet holes littering my shirt. I immediately feel self-cautious and fold my arms over my chest. 

“Are you hurt, son?” he asks, bushy gray brows furrowing together in worry.  He scans my body for injuries, but he isn’t going to find any. 

“No sir,” I answer. 

“Bu’ those bullet holes?” 

How do I explain this away? In Smallville people sort of ran with the punches. Sure, they looked at me oddly, but they knew me. They shrugged off any unexplainable occurrences with a lame excuse of ‘There goes that strange Kent kid again,’ or my personal favorite: ‘That Kent boy gotta be the luckiest bastard on the planet.’ To be fair, I was never shot in Smallville. I shudder to think what would have happened if Ugly shot me in the eye. I’m not sure I could have walked away from that. 

“I guess they are,” I shrug. “I wasn’t paying much attention,” I decide it’s safest to play dumb. “There was a mugging, got stuck in the middle of it.” That part is true at least. Though it’s unclear what sort of mugging requires futuristic gear. Metropolis is full of surprises. 

Bibbo makes a tut-tut noise in the back of his throat and shakes his head. “Come along son,” he smiles warmly, reminding me painfully of Dad. “You can’t sleep out here. It not safe and it looks like a storm is a-brewing.'”  

“No, I’ll be alright,” I start to explain. He seems like such a good soul. I don’t want to accidentally hurt him. “I like the cold and I have thick . . .” 

“I wanna hear none of your excuses,” he holds up a big hand, silencing me. “No place for a kid on the streets. Certainly not with a killer on the loose.” 

That piques my interest and I leap to my feet. It also wouldn’t hurt to have a warm place to stay before everything changes tomorrow. “A killer?” I whimper and skid closer to Bibbo, scanning the musky buildings around me fearfully. “I don’t want to die!” 

“There, there, son,” Bibbo taps me gently on the shoulder. “You stay with ol’ Bibbowski, and he’d keep you safe.” 

My shoulders sag. A pep talk is not exactly what I was aiming for. It dawns on me that I’m near where Bri’s body was found. A cold bead of sweat slides down my spine. If I were the sort to believe in ghosts, I might think her spirit is haunting this neighborhood. I duck my head and force out some crocodile tears, which isn’t hard. I just have to think of all the people I’ve hurt being me. “I don’t want to end up like that girl.” 

Bibbo pinches his broad chin contemplatively. “Not to worry. We call your parents in the morning and have you back home safe ‘and sound in a jiffy.”  I must be off my game.  I grab my backpack and follow Bibbo down the narrow street, falling into step next to him.  

After a reasonable waiting period, I try a more straightforward approach. I shudder and eye him eagerly. “I feel bad for Bri - that was her name, wasn’t it?” I can’t believe I’m chasing after a story at a time like this. If I have time to follow a lead, I have time to call the fam and . . . and what? They’d only talk me out of it. 

 “Sweet kid,”  Bibbo sighs mournfully. “Awful way to go.” 

“You met Bri,” I realize. I’m surprised Bri was anywhere near Ace of Clubs, to begin with. Though it is within walking distance from the bus stop. “Did she seem . . .” How do I put it without sounding crazy? Did she seem brainwashed? Did she seem herself? He won’t know. “Well, you know, out of sorts at all?” 

 “Most teens hanging ‘bout clubs are out of sorts,” he tips his head and looks at me meaningfully. My ears turn pink, the follow-up question I had drying up on my tongue. A welt of guilt swells inside me at the sight of Bibbo’s sad, knowing gaze. He says nothing about my predicament but he might as well have twisted a knife in my gut for all the pain that single look causes. 

I should call my parents. 

But they’ll only feed me more lies. 

They’d try to talk me out of this. 

It’s better this way.

I deserve a chance at a normal life.

If Anna Taz is to be believed the Kents aren’t even my real parents.    

Bibbo resumes singing along to ‘American Pie’ and the ache in my chest decreases slightly. Occasionally Bibbo slips an Italian lyric in between the verses, whistling gaily. It’s not long before the air grows thick with the stench of fish and rotting bones. The sound of waves roars in my eardrums as we near the end of the pier. 

 My eyes water at the stench of dried blood and cocaine. Alarm bells blare in my head. I start to have doubts about following Bibbo deeper into Suicide Slums. I cough and cover my nose. The metallic smell of blood assaults my nostrils. It suddenly feels like I’m walking through a slaughterhouse. I can almost imagine the skin being peeled off the bones. I search Bibbo’s face, but he doesn’t seem to notice the odd smell, continuing to hum to himself. Or maybe he’s so used to the bad smell it doesn’t faze him anymore.  

“Does it always smell this bad?” I make a face and pull my hoodie over my mouth. 

Bibbo sniffs the air, hairy nostrils flaring, and shrugs. “You get used to the fish after a while.” 

It’s not the fish that’s bothering me. It smells like death iced over. The remnants of a brutal battlefield. “You don’t smell that blood?” I frown. I’m embarrassed I know what raw skin smells like. Courtesy of helping Dad on the farm. The aroma seems to be coming from Hobb’s Bay. It only gets stronger the closer we get to the end of the pier. 

Bibbo sniffs the air again and then looks at me funny. “Salty sea breeze,” he says almost wistfully. “What you need is some rest, old sport,” he grins. I must be losing my mind. The waters can’t be as haunted as I think they are. The smell seems to be coming from under the waves. I fight the urge to look deeper. 

“You’re probably right,” I relent, ignoring the pellets of doubt forming in my stomach. 

I follow Bibbo down the pier till he stops before a patriotic fishing boat with bleeding primary colors. The name Amara is sprayed across the hull in bold white letters, but it’s so old and scratched up that the hull looks like a Jackson Pollock painting. Bibbo surprises me when he jumps onto the deck of the ship. He waves me on and I follow suit. 

My foot catches on a wad of rope and I stumble forward, hands closing around the rail. When I loosen my grasp, the metal is concave where my fingers were seconds ago. I hurriedly straighten up and slide in front of the rail, hiding my modern art. Fortunately, it is a pitch-black night, the only light coming from a rickety gas lamp hanging outside the cabin’s door. 

“It's not much,” Bibbo unlocks the cabin door and has to duck to squeeze through the entrance. “But it’s home.” 

My knees grow taut and I become hyper-aware of every bone in my body. Bones that could lobotomize that small courter. Eyes that could burn away the flesh on Bibbo’s dopey face. “It’s nice,” my voice sounds strained even to my own ears. 

“Aren’t you coming, son?” Bibbo pokes his head out the door. “I promise I don’t bite.” 

He has no idea the monster he’s inviting into his home. His oh, so itty bitty home. “I’m fine out here,” I say crisply. “Won’t want to get in your way.” I don’t do well in close courters. I swallow a lump in my throat. 

“Nonsense,” Bibbo wraps an arm around me. “I not want you to catch your death in this weather.” 

I groan and allow him to drag me into the quaint cabin on the boat. A wood-lined counter wraps around the room, a thin white sheen of dust covering the top surface. To my right is a minimalist kitchenette with a sink and a microwave next to the broken cabinet missing one door. To the left, a bunk bed is squeezed in the farthest corner taking up half the room. The lower bed is covered by an assortment of knick-knacks, books, enough newspapers to make a sculpture out of, jackets that reek of fish, and a handgun poking out from beneath one of the sweaters. Bibbo gathers up all the items in his beefy arms and dumps them in a wicker basket by the door. 

I’m immediately drawn to a frame on the wall by the bed proudly holding an old photograph. A broad-shouldered young man holds a pretty girl in his arms bridal style. She hangs her head back laughing gaily, her midnight curls flowing in the wind. A white one-piece hugs a captivating figure that would make Jessica Rabbit blush. A black diamond shape is etched along her chest a familiar symbol inside. My eyebrows skyrocket as I recognize the crest. Two snakes intertwine to form an 8. A circle hovers in the top corner of the diamond-shaped crest. The 8 is framed by a curved triangle on the bottom. 

In all my research I’ve never been able to find a clear picture of Gotham’s Angel of Vengeance. She was either moving faster than the shudder of a camera, a white blob along the lens, or the few times a photographer got lucky, they caught the peculiar crest she wore. At a distance, it looks like an 8 with geometric shapes fanning it, but on closer inspection, it was something more. 

The Metropolis skyline spans out behind the lovebirds, the Daily Planet the brightest skyscraper in the city. The young man has only eyes for the masked angel in his arms, his easy-going, charming smile magnetic. Something nags at the back of my mind. There is something familiar about him. And suddenly it hits me. 

He’s ten years younger, give or take, and there is no Rhett Butler mustache to hide his generous smile. And more importantly, there is no spoiled, little boy squeezed between his lovesick parents. There’s no mistaking the TW engraved on his cufflinks.  

“Is that who I think it is?” I scurry to the wall to take a closer look. 

Bibbo follows my gaze, his mouth quirking up slightly. “Aye,” he stands up straighter. “Shock of the century,” he marvels at the photograph. “I ferried Ol’ Mr. Wayne to Metropolis back in ‘85 for a date,” he says wistfully. “Poor sap was a wreck,” he shakes his head, laughing. “Checked his watch every two minutes,” he explains. “Imagine my surprise when I see de girl there to meet him,” he whistles and points at the girl in Mr. Wayne’s arms. “Strongest Lady I know.” 

I swallow hard not believing my ears. “So it’s not a cosplayer?” I dare ask. 

“What a cosplayer?” Bibbo frowns. 

“Never mind,” I say. “She’s the Angel of Vengeance,” I clarify. “The mystery woman Lichtenstein saw flying when he was a kid.” The excitement in my voice is palpable. “The real-life Power Girl!”  

“Sure is,” he sighs fondly slumping into a cushion by one of the oval windows looking out at sea. “Last night I saw her,” he clarifies. “What was her name?” He wonders, frowning. “Anya . . . Moira something,” He thinks out loud.  “One moment wrote it down,” he lumbers to the frame and carefully pries it open, taking out the photograph. He turns it over and studies the writing on the back. “Ah yes!” Bibbo all but skips for joy. “Funny name that one. Amara Lor Van.” It doesn’t sound like any name I’ve ever heard. Almost alien in origin. “She was something else.” 

“Was?” My stomach plummets. “She’s gotta be still around,” I plea. I spent so many years thinking the Angel of Vengeance was a cruel joke, a myth to mock my pain. All this time she’s been here. Please don’t be dead. The whisper of an idea slowly forms in my head. It can’t be a coincidence we share the same curly black hair and angular features. I’d bet all my life savings behind that black domino mask we share the same cerulean blue eyes. 

What if she’s my mother? 

Bibbo shrugs. “Hasn’t been seen since that night.” 

“What happened to her?” 

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he says. “I like to think she found love and started a family of her own.” 

If she’s anything like me, a family isn’t in the cards for her. But I let him keep his fantasy. “Can I take a photo?” I pull out the iPhone from my backpack. 

Bibbo pales and hurriedly snatches the photo up, his ears turning beet red. “I shouldn’t have told you that. No one’s supposed to know about them. Why did I tell you that?” he frets, taking his hat off and combing his fingers through his graying hair. 

“You told me because you miss her and want to keep her memory alive,” I say. “Please, I promise I won’t tell a soul.” 

“Uh, what the heck?” Bibbo says, setting the frame back down. “Go ahead, kid.”  

I snap the photo, marveling at our physical similarities. She wears a mask so I can’t see her eyecolor, but she has the same wavy black hair as me. She’s as tall as Martha Kent is short. Tall genes she might have passed down to me. 

 That leaves me with more questions than answers. Did Thomas Wayne have an affair with the Angel of Vengeance? The photo was dated before the Wayne wedding, so that theory is a bust. Then what happened to Amara after Thomas married Martha? Could Amara have given me up for adoption? That didn’t make any sense either. I was born . . . found in Smallville, over two thousand miles away from Gotham.  

The love flowing out of the photo is evident for all to see. They don’t strike me as someone to abandon their children. Not willingly. If she’s my mom . . . she must have had her reasons for leaving me. 

“Could she really fly and shoot fire from her eyes?” I ask. 

Bibbo dodges my questions and fixes a cot by the window for me with new sheets. I slip the pillow into the pillowcase. “Did you ever see her in action?” 

Bibbo’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “Saw her save a baby from a fire once,” he says. “Cute thing too.” He sprawls a fluffy blanket on top. “Time for some zs, ol’ sport,” he says, affectionately slapping my shoulder. “Extra blankets in cubby if you cold.” 

I want to ask more questions, but exhaustion weighs Bibbo down. I thank him and decide to save my questions for later. Bibbo mutters a heartfelt goodnight and climbs onto the top bunk. 

I toss and turn, my mind wide awake, the storm rocking the ship. I study the couple in the photo, heart racing. Could she be the answer to all my prayers? I do a quick search online. Bibbo was right, the Angel of Vengeance hadn’t been spotted since her date with Thomas Wayne. Occasionally a ghost too fast for the naked eye to see, would cause miracles. But the reports were few and far between. People quickly attributed the miracles to youths with overactive imaginations. Any sites with solid evidence led back to Vicki Vale’s book, ‘Tales of the Weird & Unexplained,’ which I had memorized long ago. If it weren’t for Bibbo’s photo, she would have faded into urban myth. With my luck she’s probably dead. 

I am no stranger to being alone. Even when I was surrounded by people in Smallville, I stood apart from everyone, not quite one of them. And yet, laying inside the boat with no one but the raging storm outside to keep me company, I feel more alone than I ever have in my life. Out there is a whole city full of strangers. A whole city of strangers waiting to judge me. There is no Pete or Lana to hang out with on Main Street. Maisie isn’t waiting around the corner for me to share another of her outlandish theories. The air lacks the homey scent of Ma’s cooking.  

 A clap of thunder rocks the room. The room shakes and shifts, the walls closing in on me. I sit upright and gasp as I’m jostled against the wall. Rain pounds on the roof insistently. There hasn’t been a storm this violent in Smallville since I was a toddler. There’s a flash of lightning and it illuminates the boat’s interior. I start to get up and catch a whiff of a woman’s perfume, the powdery scent of Iris with a hint of Vanilla extract. I freeze and regard her sidewise. At this angle, all I can see is her back. She wears a purple raincoat, her damp black hair pulled into a tight ponytail. I must have dozed off at some point cause Bibbo is sitting right across from her. It looks like they’ve been talking for a while. 

“There’s a cheesecake in it for you, if you tell me where you found Routh’s body.”

 I marvel at how easily she speaks about death. 

Bibbo scowls. “I will not be bought with sugar.” 

“You sure?” she asks, a teasing lilt to her tone. She leans forward, her wavy ponytail sliding down her spine. “It’s a cinnamon roll cheesecake,” she offers. “It’s to die for!” 

“Lois,” Bibbo says in a careful, tired voice. “It is past midnight on a school night. The General will have me. . .” 

“Forget the General,” Lois snaps. “What he doesn’t know can’t kill him,” her voice hardens. 

“It's me I worried about,” Bibbo shudders. “Your Pa ain’t the forgiving type . . .  and with you all on your lonesome. What if something happened to you?” he stutters. “You know miss, mugging happened yonder a block from here.” 

“Muggings happen in my backyard,” Lois says curtly. “That is hardly newsworthy. Now a girl that allegedly has X-Ray vision winds up dead, that’s the stuff a Pulitzer is built on.” 

That actually explains why she thought I had a tumor. 

“She was meta too?” Bibbo’s eyes widen. 

“It’s amazing what your friends will say when they think you’re dead,” Lois shakes her head. Bri didn’t have many friends. Whomever Lois spoke to they were no friends of hers. 

“Look Mr. Bibbowski,” Lois says. “I am going to find out the truth one way or another,” she promises. “You can either tell me or I will bug every crook in Hob’s Bay till someone squeaks,” she beams. “It will be exhausting and possibly dangerous, but gal got to do what she gotta do.” 

She’s unbelievable.  

“Alright,” Bibbo concedes. “I will tell you, but then I take you home, and you stay there. No snooping in the middle of the night.” he points a thick finger at her, dead serious. Lois’ shoulders slouch in defeat and she nods. “I was doing my nightly deliveries on a stormy night just like this one . . .” 

“Skip the prologue,” Lois’ voice lashes out like a whip and there is something familiar about it I can’t quite place. 

“Do you want me to tell you the story or not?” Bibbo raises an eyebrow at her. A low sigh escapes her lips. “Now where was I,” he continues. “Oh yes, deliveries,” he says achingly slowly. “I had a fresh catch of bass to deliver.” He lists off a bunch of places and I start to suspect he’s doing this on purpose to torture Lois. “It was at my last stop St. Martin’s Isle I see her. Thought she a harbor seal at first - funny little buggers,” he smiles fondly. “They usually sleep under the bridge, but sadly I was wrong.” 

“You could have just said St. Martin’s bridge,” Lois sighs. 

“You could have stayed home and let poor Bibbo sleep,” He yawns exaggeratedly. “I have a guest. Lucky he heavy sleeper.” 

Lois turns sharply on me. The lone lamp hanging from the ceiling bathes half her face in shadow, but even in darkness her effortless beauty is there for all to see, soft curves and a set of captivating eyes. She studies me and I’m grateful for the shadows hiding my pink face. 

“Another stray?” Lois observes. “It’ll be good for Bobby Big Mouth to have someone to play with. Where is he anyhow?” Lois wonders, turning back to Bibbo. 

“Got a job in the East End at Big Belly Burgers.” Bibbo beams proudly. “Bobby still visits when he can. I’m so proud of him. Has his own flat now too! He moving up in the world. You watch Miss Lane, one day we’ll be eating from his restaurant.”

 “That’s a scary thought,” she shudders. 

“Be nice,” Bibbo chides. “He could teach you a thing or two about cooking if you ask nicely.” Bibbo grabs his overcoat and slides it on. 

“I take great offense at that,” Lois mopes. “I am always nice.” 

“Come on Lolo,” Bibbo opens the door and a gust of hard wind blows through, ruffling the sheets. “Let’s get you home,” he carefully closes the door behind him and I’m once more left alone in the darkness. 

I unplug the iPhone from the wall and scroll through the feed on The General Store’s website. It’s backed up with enough orders to keep Ma busy for a month with baking. The sight of her juicy apple pie leaves me homesick and aching for her cooking. I click out of the website and log in to WordBattle on the off chance LadyTruth might be online. Unlikely, since it’s past her bedtime. She’s a Metropolis gal, how cool would it be if we met in person? I read through our old messages and feel slightly less alone at the sight of her uplifting words. 

There are four voice messages, each one from the fam. I should delete them. Dad’s as bad as Mom. They’re both lying to me. They know exactly why I am so different and continue to keep me in the dark. I’m better off without them. They’re better off without me. Come tomorrow none of the lies will matter anymore. I can start a new life without them, but I’m not sure I have the courage to fly the coop. Martha and Jonathan Kent have been a permanent fixture in my life for so long that it feels utterly wrong not to breathe the same air as them. It can’t hurt to at least hear them out. I balance the iPhone against one ear. 

“Son, things are never as bad as they seem,” Dad says. “Please come home. I can explain everything.” It’s too late for that. I delete the voice message and listen to the next recording. It’s more of the same garbage. ‘We love you, you’re not alone.’ ‘ What happened at the festival wasn’t your fault.’ 

   I rub my eyes, the phone a poignant weight against my ear. It’s unrelenting and uncompromising like Mama. She had every window of opportunity, to be honest with me. I shouldn’t have to scare my parents into telling me the truth. If I hadn’t run away, they would never have budged. Mom would have been content living a lie. But was it really a lie? I am Jonathan and Martha’s son. No question about that. 

 “You really need to come home, Clark.” I sit up in bed at the sound of Claire’s voice. “Jill won’t want me calling you, but she did something crazy and I don’t know how to help her. She needs you.” 

I dial Jill’s number, and it goes straight to voicemail. It probably means nothing. Jill likes her beauty sleep. I’ll call her again in the morning. The remaining messages are from Mom with various degrees of worry and disappointment. Her voice sets my nerves on edge. Call it my reporter’s intuition, but I’m 95% certain she’s the reason they’ve lied to me for so long. At least Dad wants to give me an explanation, doesn’t sound like they’re on the same page at the moment.

 I log back into  WordBattle hoping LadyTruth will be there to distract me from the doubts filling my head. I wait for a few minutes, but when her side remains silent, I plug it back into the wall. No telling when I will be able to charge it again in the future. I close my eyes and try to catch some z’s. No matter which way I turn, my failures stare back at me, demons glaring out of the shadows. Time is as meaningless as a candy wrapper blowing in the wind. At one point I hear the creak of the door, signifying Bibbo’s return. He lumbers in the darkness as he changes out of his wet clothes. With surprising stealth, he climbs onto the top bunk and immediately starts to snore.

I kill time by looking out of the window and counting the stars' light years away. The stars in Smallville are brighter than the stars in Metropolis. A thick sheet of pollution hangs over the sky, dimming their once radiant light; the stars are like lightbulbs in a swimming pool drowning in murky water. 

The itchy blanket suddenly feels like Ma’s gentle caress and my throat closes up. Mama had held me in her lap after a nightmare woke me. “You see that sea of stars up there,” she kissed my tears away. “That’s where you will always find me. Those that love us never truly leave us.”  

If she loved me she won’t have lied to me for sixteen years. There’s a small chance I’m overthinking everything and the lies are a figment of my imagination. I have two very worried sick parents waiting for me to come home, but that isn’t an option. I will bring them nothing but pain. 

 I can’t stand the silence any longer and roll out of bed. I busy myself in the kitchenette, scrounging around for scraps to cook breakfast for Bibbo - it’s the least I can do after he let me crash at his place. There are slim pickings in the fridge, a couple of eggs, a case of beer, and stale bread that looks to be three weeks past its prime. I move the dirty plates on the counter to the sink and am rewarded with an electric stove, perfect for cooking. I manage to whoop up an omelet out of the eggs and canned tomatoes I found stashed behind a box of Rice Krispy Treats. By the time the sun climbs over the horizon, breakfast is set on the table.   

“Mhmm,”   Bibbo moans appreciatively as he wakes up. “Think I die and went to heaven,” he chuckles and climbs down the top bunk, joining me at the counter. 

“It’s the least I could do after you let me crash here,” I serve him a slice of omelet. 

“Think nothing of it,” he waves me off. “I ‘wud hate for something to happen to you. Can’t ever be too careful these days.” he takes a bite of the omelet his features melting with pleasure. We eat in awkward silence, the hiss of the sea the only sound. Bibbo’s movements are fluid and nonchalant, but there’s a hardness to his clenched jaw that suggests he’s troubled. In between each bite, he offers me a tentative smile. I start to feel like I’m in the principal’s office awaiting his verdict. 

“This is a good omelet,” Bibbo sets the fork down. I tense, bracing myself for the next question. “Did your Ma teach you to cook?” 

It should be an easy enough question, but I feel like the Sphinx is breathing down my neck, waiting for me to slip up so she can devour me. “Yes,” the word is dragged out of me against my will. I clench my fists at my side. 

“Good woman, I reckon,” he muses, poking the food with a fork. “I had a mother once - used to sing me lullaby with a most angelic voice.”  I stiffen and look down at my feet. Ma used to sing me lullabies too, she called me her ‘Little Star-Sweeper.’ “Been long gone now, going on seven years,” Bibbo says forlornly. “Terrible thing losing your mother.” 

“Ma is not dead!” I snap. 

“Then what are you doing here?” 

“I don’t see how any of that is your business,”  I snap. “Thanks for your hospitality,” I  grab my backpack off the floor by the door.

“Wait a minute,” Bibbo stands. “I only trying help.” 

 “No one can help me,” I say darkly. “Forget you ever met me.” 

Bibbo dashes forward to follow me, but by the time he reaches the top deck, I’m long gone. In the daylight, the city looks different. The grit and gloom from the night before are washed away by the bright rays of the sun. The apartment complexes stand proud and erect, laundry hanging outside the windows like a knight’s banner of old. Laughter tickles the air as children play in the narrow streets of Suicide Slum, not a care in the world. Even the grotesque graffiti painting of the old lady I saw last night, seems brighter. Everything is a little less scary when you shine a light on it. 

Chapter Text

I weave in between cobbled streets and narrow back alleyways till I reach an open area. Wide oak trees line a white, shiny pathway that winds through rolling hills. A glittering river that feeds into Hob’s Bay cuts through the landscape, flanked on one side by a vast garden and on the other side by more serpentine pathways that lead to different parts of the city. I pass several little nooks with civilians walking their dogs or relaxing on a bench while they read the morning paper. 

I unknowingly wandered onto Lillian Trail, Lionel Luthor’s pride and joy. The park was a gift to his wife for their third anniversary; that way no matter where she was in the city, she could always find her way home. Centennial Park was little more than a haunted playground till Lionel Luthor expanded it to the sweeping 24-mile park it is today, with winding trails that lead into the main city. I remember reading about Lillian Trail in the Daily Planet and wishing we had a trail like this in Smallville. 

I exit the park and stop at the corner of Clinton Street. The crosswalk is so crowded with people that I can’t see the moving traffic. I freeze as an elbow brushes against my side. Silently, I count the cracks on the sidewalk till my racing heart quiets. As long as I stay utterly still everything should be okay. Finally, the light changes, and the crowd surges forward as one. On the next corner, I flag down a taxi and crawl into the back seat. 

I’m fixing to give the driver directions when the opposite door flies open and a girl barrels through. She’s tall and gangly, with an unquenchable fire in her gaze. “Nellie Bly, Daily Planet,” she says without preamble. “According to my sources, you were the last one to see Bri Routh alive . . .” 

“Do you mind?” I cut her off midstream. “I was here first.” 

I might as well be invisible. “Where did you drive her to?” 

I lean forward and catch the driver’s eye in the rearview mirror. “She’s lying,” I say candidly. “Nellie Bly is a reporter from the 1900s,” I inform him. 

I look the intruder squarely in the face and suppress a groan of annoyance. It’s the same girl from last night. Her hair is combed neatly to one side, and the elegant makeup she wears gives her the appearance of someone much older. “Unless you are an immortal witch, there is no way in hell you’re Nellie Bly.” Though, she’s much prettier than Nellie Bly. She has the timeless beauty of Elizabeth Taylor. I frown at her, trying to recall her name. It was something simple but bold, like Leia or Laura. No, that didn’t seem right.  Elouise. Lola. Lois! That’s the one. 

“Pay him no mind,” Lois shoots me a crude side glance. “He’s a runaway from a Hicksville town with Daddy issues.” She tilts her head conspicuously. “Trust me, he’s not important.” 

“How could you possibly know I’m a runaway?” I narrow my eyes at her.  

Lois humors me with a bored expression.“Your scarf is knitted but not smooth like the ones in a department store. There are fringes, which tells me it's not store-bought - a mother or grandmother made it for you. Your boots are worn and stained with mud, but there are no fields to muddy your shoes in Metropolis - not to that degree. Farmer or rancher’s son, then. Hamilton is the closest farm town, and they’ve had no drop of rain in over two weeks. Outer towner. Your iPhone further proves my theory.” I stiffen as she reaches over and boldly pulls the iPhone out of my pocket. “Cute case,” she studies the colorful cupcakes on the back. “Wayne Thiebaud print. Perfect for a mother or doting grandmother, but not exactly your style. You stole it from your parents.” 

“You know nothing of my style.” I retrieve the phone and slide it back into my pocket.  She’s really starting to get on my nerves.  

“No doubt jeans and flannel. And you rotate between two shirts.” How could she possibly know that? “Your hoodie tells another story . . .” she freezes and gasps. Her eyes zero in on the Smallville crow on the front of the jacket. “You’re from Smallville?” 

“What of it?” 

She digs around in her purse and pulls out the same autopsy report I saw in Detective Turpin’s bag. My stomach recoils at the sight. She leafs through it till she finds the photo of Bri the cops had on file and shows it to me. “Do you know this girl?” 

“That’s a police report,” I glare at her. “How did you manage to get ahold of that?” I return with a question of my own. 

“I have friends in high places,” she straightens up haughtily. 

“Meaning you stole it,” I clarify. “You know that’s a federal offense,” I smirk, crossing my arms over my chest. “What’s to stop me from reporting you to the cops?” 

“Because I have a hunch they’re hunting you,” she smirks. “You won’t want any unwanted attention.” 

‘What’s it gonna be, kids?” the driver asks. “I ain’t got all day.”  

“He’s leaving.” 

“She’s leaving,” I say at the same time. “I was here first!” I remind her.  

“Congratulations. Do you want a merit badge for that?” She coyly raises a lone eyebrow at me. I open my mouth to retort, but she doesn’t slow down for a second. “Look, Smallville,” she glares at me. “Your existential crisis can wait. I’m in the middle of a very important investigation that could save lives.” 

“You don’t strike me as the saving-the-world type.” I cross my arms and glare at her. “I don’t believe you.”  

“And you strike me as a guy who holds doors open for ladies,” she bats her long, full eyelashes. “Come on, Smallville, do a gal a solid,” she pouts. 

I feel my will crumbling at the sight of those round lavender eyes. If it were any other day, I would have succumbed to her whims long ago. It would have been the proper thing to do, but I’m on a time crunch. 

“Read my lips,” I enunciate each word carefully. “No.” 

“Look, I’m not paid enough for this shit,” the cabby driver says with a note of annoyance. “You can bicker on somebody else’s watch. Now, where are we going?” 

“The Metazone,” I direct him. 

At the same time, Lois says, “St. Martin’s Isle.” 

The cabby driver chortles, slapping the steering wheel with mirth. 

“Care to clue us in?” Lois asks. “I fail to see what is so funny.” 

“The Metazone is located at St. Martin’s Isle.” 

“Of course it is,” I scowl. I meet Lois’s horrified expression. “Like it or not, your wagon is hitched to mine.” 

The driver lets out one last booming laugh and drives into moving traffic, still chuckling to himself. He mumbles something under his breath and laughs some more. I am thrilled somebody finds this situation hilarious. I’m not laughing. 

Lois slumps against the window and groans. “Somebody save me.” 

“Don’t expect any sympathy from me,” I say.   

“Asshat,” Lois sits up and glares at me. She bristles, cheeks red with fury. What did I do now? It’s not as if our destinations are across the globe from each other. I see no problem in sharing a cabby with a beautiful spitfire. 

“It’s Clark, actually,” I extend my hand to her. If we’re going to survive the drive together, one of us might as well try to be civil about it. “Clark Kent.” 

Lois crinkles her nose in disgust and reluctantly shakes my hand. “Lois Lane.” She opens her mouth to say more and decides against it, shutting her mouth sharply. 

Lois studies my face with rapt attention, her sharp lavender eyes peeling me apart, layer by layer. I feel like a pinch of bacteria under a microscope. “Do you play football?” she asks abruptly. 

“Not anymore.” I avoid eye contact and face the window. The Daily Planet looms in the distance, its golden globe towering above the rest of the buildings. It’s a beacon of hope shining through the vast city. I sigh. In another life, the only extraordinary thing about me would have been my writing skills. In another life, I might have landed an internship at The Daily Planet, climb the ranks, and become a full-fledged reporter. LadyTruth would be there, living out the dream. In another life, I could have had friends, friends that know the real me.      

“Interesting,” she muses, her gaze not once leaving my face. It is unnerving. “You carry yourself like a dork, but you have the build of a jock. Why did you quit?”

“Guess it’s all the chores on the farm,” I shrug, deflecting her question altogether. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” she tilts her head to the side contemplatively. “Football is your one ticket to get out of Geeksville. Why did you quit?” 

“I fail to see how that is any of your business.” I glare at her.
“Wow,” Lois whistles softly. “You must have sucked royally if you can’t even talk about the game.” 

“I did not suck!” I bite out. Far from it. The game turned me into somebody I don’t like.  “It’s complicated,” I decide is the safest thing to say. 

“I do not care about your high school soap opera,” she says crudely. “That was just a bit of foreplay. What I do care about, is that there’s a girl from your hometown in the morgue at MPD.”

My ears turn pink at the mention of Bri. “She was a sweet girl.” 

“Ah-ha!” Lois claps her hands together. “So you do know her!” 

“Of course, I knew her,” I groan. “Smallville is a small town.” 

“How small?” 

“Shy over three hundred people.” 

Lois’s face scrunches up in disgust. “No wonder you ran away. Probably dying of boredom.” 

It didn’t use to be like that. Before the meteor shower Smallville was a bustling town full of life. Everything changed after that crisis. If I were a little older I could have saved so many people. 

“Then you must know what happened to her,” Lois continues. I nod. Guess it’s too much to hope she’d lose her voice in the next five seconds. “Well?” Lois prompts. “What was she doing in Metropolis?” 

“I wish I knew,” I say honestly. “It’s not like her to skip town.”

“Something tells me it’s not like Clark Kent to skip town either,” she observes astutely. “Are you here to find Bri’s killer? That does seem like something you’ll do, Smallville. But no,” she raises a brow at me, too observant for her own good. “Something drastic would have had to happen for you to leave the safety of the farm.” When did this interrogation shift from Bri to me? “So, what did you do? Lose a cow, forget to lock the gate . . . run over the neighbor’s dog—” 

“You talk too much,” I say.  

“I’m told it’s one of my best qualities.” 

“What idiot told you that?”     

Lois’ smile morphs into an ugly scowl. She glares at me murderously. Her curiosity about all things Smallville outweighs her disgust with me.“Is it true the Fordmans were all killed in their sleep?” Lois asks. “The founders of Smallville,” she clarifies as if there ever was any doubt. “I read about it in Smallville A History. . .” 

“Yes, I’ve read the book too.” I grit my teeth and pull my hoodie tighter. I am in no mood to play twenty questions this early in the morning, certainly not with a stranger that has no right to know so much about an inconsequential small town not even in the same zip code as her. 

“Don’t you think it’s funny the only evidence was an owl’s feather?” she taps her fingers insistently on her knee. 

“I don’t find death amusing.” 

“There have been a few murders with the same M.O. in Gotham, but the cops could never find any connection between the victims.”

“That’s horrible.” 

“That’s brilliant,” Lois smirks. “I can see the headline already, Killer Owls Rule the World.” She takes her phone out and starts to play games, simultaneously keeping a wary eye on me.  

“Please tell me there’s an off switch on you,” I groan, burying my head in my lap. 

“It malfunctioned when I was a toddler and I haven’t slowed down since.”    

My phone beeps and I get a text. It feels wrong talking so openly with a stranger online when I give the family the cold shoulder. A family that might not be family after all , a small voice reminds me. 

LadyTruth: I’m so sick of men. shivalree is dead. 

Skywalker16: You mean chivalry? 

Lois tenses beside me, two angry red dots appearing on her cheeks.  

LadyTruth: Case in point. Men are constantly underminning women and insirting their superiority. I do not need you editing my rants!  

“Word of advice, Snoop,” I say crisply. “Wait till someone has had their cup of coffee before playing twenty questions.” Lois blinks at me momentarily shocked; it’s as if she completely forgot I was there. I pray she loses interest and returns to gaming. I turn back to LadyTruth’s message and type a quick reply. 

Skywalker16: Sry. I was only trying to help.

 “I didn’t peg you as a coffee guy,” Lois frowns. “More of a fresh milk from the farm kinda dude.” She says without looking up from her phone. 

“Guess Miss Snoop doesn’t know everything.”  Lois gives a noncommittal response, mercifully ignoring me. 

LadyTruth: Bullshit. You’re showing off. Well, I’m not impressed!

LadyTruth: Newsflash! I don’t need your help or any man’s help for that matter. 

LadyTruth: Men are super stupid. I wish I lived in a world with only women. 

This is a new side of LadyTruth I’m not sure I like. She’s usually more amiable. I’ve done nothing wrong! I’m only guilty of being a member of the opposite sex, which apparently she finds offensive. 

Skywalker16: You could always join the Hunters of Artemis.

LadyTruth: Good idea. And I’d swear off all men. No men=Happy. 

That’s a surprise. Most girls in Smallville don’t know the first thing about Greek Mythology. They won’t know the difference between Hermes and Apollo.  

Skywalker16: That sounds lonely 

LadyTruth: No, it sounds relaxing. 

LadyTruth: Do you have any idea how stressful boys are? I swear my bf is giving me gray hair. 

Skywalker16: He can’t be that bad

LadyTruth: He tattled to my Dad about me sneaking out last night. Now The General has surveillance on my room.  

Skywalker16: Sounds like he’s only looking out for you 

LadyTruth: Bullshit. All he cares about is earning brownie points with the General. He cares more about his relationship with my father than me. 

Skywalker16: I’m sure that’s not true. 

LadyTruth: No it is. I’m nothing more than arm candy. A prize to be won. 

LadyTruth: He’s the kind of boyfriend who orders for his girl without asking their opinion first. He sickens me. 

Skywalker: If that’s how you feel, why don’t you break up with him? 

LadyTruth: I can’t. He’s my only inside contact at the D.E.O

I shake my head. Why am I not surprised? It is just like her to date somebody for a story. I couldn’t do that. 

Skywalker16: What’s that? 

LadyTruth: You can’t tell anyone. I’m not supposed to know. 

Skywalker16: Scout’s honor. 

LadyTruth: It stands for the Department of Extranormal Opperations 

Skywalker16: Like the X-Files? 

LadyTruth: Exactly! BF says they even have a spaceship locked up there. 

Skywalker16: And you believed him? I mean this is aliens we’re talking about. 

It’s hard to wrap my head around aliens. Growing up Pete and I binged all the Alien movies, which have scarred me for life. I would not want to live in a world with aliens walking among us. Think of the ramifications. They’d lay eggs in unsuspecting humans and kill all my friends. I shiver at the memory of the alien jumping out of the darkness, teeth sharp as daggers. Sweat coats my palm. On the bright side, if they did exist, yours truly could probably last a few rounds with the aliens before dying of fright. That’s a scary thought in itself. I don’t want to be the alien clean-up squad.    

LadyTruth: Of course. It’s pretty arrogant of us humans to think we’re alone in the universe. 

Skywalker16: What was in the spaceship? 

It has to be a hoax. A real alien would not be stupid enough to leave its spaceship laying around in the open.   

LadyTruth: IDK they never found E.T. But that means squat. It could be living as one of us. 

A shiver runs down my spine as I recall Pete’s words. All the evidence points to him being right about me. But that would mean this trip is fruitless. Would the cure even work on me? I pinch the scab I left on my arm last night — a reminder those bullets were a fluke. There’s a 50/50 chance the cure would work. I owe it to my family — and the people around me – to make it so I will never hurt another person. 

Skywalker16: That sounds like a bad sci-fi movie waiting to happen. 

LadyTruth: Laugh all you want. It’s real and I’m going to be the first to break the story. 

Skywalker16: And I’d be the first to land an interview with Bigfoot. 

LadyTruth: You don’t believe me. 

Skywalker16: It’s a bit of a stretch. 

LadyTruth: A bit out of your league you mean. 

Skywalker16: I’d need to see some evidence first. Then I might consider doing a story. 

I’d admit as a wild-eyed kid with Vince Welling as my role model, the idea of aliens captivated me. I thought, sure, why the hell not? I used to daydream about going on galactic adventures with Warrior Angel and saving planets from annihilation. But that was a child’s fantasy. I grew up and learned quickly Warrior Angel wasn’t real. Aliens were a figment of humans’ imagination to explain the mysteries of outer space, no different than the mermaids under the sea. The closest thing we’ve got are metahumans, but they fly under the radar and are little more than urban legends. I shudder to think what would happen if aliens are real. It won’t bode well for the human race, that’s for sure. 

LadyTruth: Fair enough. 

LadyTruth: I wonder where the alien is. It must be so lonely. 

Skywalker16: Probably haunting the woods and feeding on reporters that get too close. You might want to call the Winchesters for backup. 

LadyTruth: I love that show! I’ve never met anyone else who watches it. 

Skywalker16: My cousin is a huge fan. 

LadyTruth: And you’re not? 

I tense. I’m the sort of creature the Winchesters would hunt, which is a scary thought. Supernatural has led to a number of detailed nightmares starring Dean Winchester as the boogeyman of my dreams. Part of me wishes a hunter would end my misery before I hurt someone close to me.  

Skywalker16: It’s okay . . . kinda predictable and formulaic. 

LadyTruth: So is the X-Files. 

Skywalker16: I like Agent Scully. She’s smart and can hold her own in a fight. 

Lois laughs so hard tears spring out of her eyes. “Typical male response.” 

“I didn’t say anything,” I frown at her. “Are you okay, Snoop?”

“That's the best nickname you can come up with, Smallville.” Lois hurriedly shoves her phone into her pocket. Please, like I would have any interest in reading her boring text.  

“It suits you,” I smirk. “I don’t know many girls that sneak out on a school night for a story.” 

“Who said anything about sneaking out?” She narrows her eyes at me, her expression darkening maliciously. She tightens her grip on some pepper spray in her pocket. I grimace and avert my eyes before I unwittingly glimpse more than I should. I didn’t mean to peek.    

“Relax,” I say. “I’m not a stalker. I saw you last night at Bibbo’s place.” 

“That was you!” her eyes widen. “You’re the stray he picked up.” 

“Guilty,” I shrug. “I was kinda having an off night.” 

“Welcome to Metropolis,” she smiles, a real genuine smile that lights up the dim cab. “The nights are long and not a dull moment in sight.” 

The cabby takes a sharp turn onto a Gothic bridge with two twin towers standing guard on each side. If I squint I can imagine the intricate pillars are Notre Dame. Murky, dark water as green as the canal in Venice flows beneath the bridge. In the distance, ornate buildings rise out of the mist each with their own personality. A giant spherical-shaped building, with glittering round windows, is situated in a patch of freshly mowed grass; a sign above the door identifies it as Morrison Theater. It’s unreal. Smallville Theater consists of the school auditorium or the movie theater at the Talon if we’re feeling adventuresome. The theater in Metropolis is the size of a small planet. 

St. Martin’s Island is filled with art deco architecture that transports you right back to the 1920s. The homes are no less impressive than the office buildings. The neighborhoods are meticulously clean, some of the houses big enough to fit the Kent barn inside with room to spare. I’ve stepped right into one of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s books. I can almost taste the Jazz music in the air.   

The cabby driver pulls into a parking spot outside a square building with a flat roof and high windows. It looks like a giant fish tank. The windows are so clean I can see the receptionist at the front desk binging The Vampire Diaries on her computer. On top of a high, ominous black door the words: Glenmorgan Research Facility, are carved on the side of the building. 

“Meta Zone should be in there,” the driver directs. I pay him and climb out of the car. 

“I thought you were joking,” Lois slams the door behind her and falls into step next to me. Is there no end to her torture? “You can’t go to the Meta Zone.” 

“I have an appointment.” 

“Then cancel it!” she stomps her foot. “You can’t go in there,” she repeats. “Whatever ailment you have, it can’t be worth your life. Going in there is suicidal.” 

“Ailment!” I ball my fists at my side and slowly count to ten. My affliction is a little more serious than a common virus. “I’m not sick.”  

“Good, take some Tylenol and move on,” she slaps me patronizingly on the shoulder. I go completely still, loosening my muscles till they’re like water. “People meet with Dr. Rofara and never come back. You don’t want to be the next one.” 

“I didn’t know you cared, Snoop,” I smirk, stepping back just in case Lois gets handsy again. 

“Don’t flatter yourself, Smallville,” she returns in kind. “I won’t shed a single tear if you go belly-up, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” she starts to slink away and falters by the gate. Face pinched with worry, she turns and locks eyes with me. “Be careful,” she warns and then disappears down the cobbled street. 

Lois doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I did my research before seeking Dr. Rofara’s assistance. Metropolis High student, Sean Kelvin, can finally live a normal life free of suffering and it’s all due to her research. One dose of that medicine and I can finally put my fears to rest. I could go home and live the remainder of my life in peace. There will never be another Pete Ross. This cure will see to that. 

I am optimistic things will work out for the best.

Chapter Text

When I stop at the front desk, the receptionist doesn’t look up from her phone. “Name,” she demands, smacking on a wad of gum. 

“Clark Kent,” I mentally kick myself. It was stupid of me to use my real name. What was the point of creating Chris Welling if I wasn’t going to hide behind him? At this rate, the police will be on my tail before the afternoon Daily Planet edition is published.  

The receptionist’s fingers fly across the keyboard as she searches for my reservation. “You’re late,” she says with a note of irritation. “Dr. Rofara does not like to be kept waiting.” 

“I’m sorry, there was . . .
“I don’t care,” she pops a bubble of gum. “Third-floor room 331.” Jeez, are all city people this rude?  

“Thank you, ma’am.” 

“Don’t call me that,” she says crisply. “I’m not that old.” 

“I never said you were . . .” I clamp my mouth shut. She has returned to watching The Vampire Diaries, dismissing me entirely. “Never mind, have a good day,” I smile and head towards the elevator. 

The third floor is as squeaky clean as the rest of the building. Almost too clean. There isn’t a single soul in the hall, save me. Nondescript doors line the hall. My head pounds, a familiar weight pressing behind my eye sockets. I brace myself against the wall. “Not now,” I groan. This shouldn’t be happening. Uncle Emil’s glasses are supposed to help  . . . 

Colors swim in my vision, colors that the human race does not have a name for yet. The pastel color of the microscopic atoms that dance through the foundation. The color of putrid bacteria crawling up the walls. Skeletons mull about in each cubicle, their hearts pulsing in their ribcage. I see one black lung. A hand gripping a lit cigarette. Test tubes are filled with a dark liquid that smells suspiciously like blood. Body parts floating in jars. The red glow of a meteorite sitting on a shelf.  

I focus on the dotted pattern on the wall, counting each speck till my vision clears. I’m getting worse by the second. Soon, these glasses will be as useful as sunglasses in the middle of a storm.  My heart pounds furiously, and I don’t relax till I close the door behind me. I exhale sharply. Luckily, only my microscopic vision seemed to be on the fritz. 

“Clark Kent, I presume?” Dr. Rofara stands at the ready by the counter, clipboard in hand. She observes me with the same detached, stony expression she wears in her ads online.  

“You know who I am?” My voice shudders. 

“You’re my only appointment for today,” she elaborates, not unkindly, but there is something off about her voice.

“Lucky me,” I say. “Does it work, I mean the cure . . . I mean, it’s not going to turn me into a monster?” More than I already am, that is. I grimace. 

That’s exactly what happened to one of Warrior Angel’s supervillains. He was trying to rid himself of a terminal disease, and it backfired and turned him into a hideous reptilian creature. Standing face to face with the scientific marvel I spent days researching, I start having second thoughts. I can imagine what Dad would say if he were here.‘God gave you these powers for a reason, son, and it’s not to score touchdowns.’ But what good is having power when I hurt those close to me?

“Young man,” she glares at me. “I personally oversaw the creation of the cure. It will not fail, shall you wish to proceed.” 

“Of course.” I can’t live like this for another second. “I’m ready.” 

“Very well, then, follow me,” she says in an unfamiliar accent I can’t quite place. When she speaks, she rolls the ‘e’ in such a way that it sounds like a ‘u.’ Very sounded more like V-uh-rih and follow sounds more like f-uh-low. 

She leads me through the back door and into a smaller room. Other than the sci-fi landscape paintings on the wall it’s your run-of-the-mill clinic, complete with an examination table and squeaky clean countertop. I jump onto the examination table. I take a closer look at the painting hanging by the sink. A frozen landscape spans for miles, the red sky reflected in the icy terrain. An Eskimo-like building perches on top of a slab of ice, and it’s even bigger than the round Morrison Theater. Two twin suns wink in the crimson sky. 

“Interesting painting,” I muse. 

Dr. Rofara acts as if she didn’t hear me. She rolls my sleeve up and wraps a tourniquet around my arm. I feel nothing when she tightens the strap, my muscles bulging in protest. Mutely, she wipes a damp cloth along a vein. Her sleeve rolls up a fraction. I catch a glimpse of a black bracelet with a peculiar pattern of blue hieroglyphs. 

“So, where are you from?” I ask. “You seem well-traveled,” I observe. The bracelet most likely is a souvenir from Egypt. I notice she wears its twin on her other wrist. “I’ve always wanted to visit Egypt. Really anywhere outside of the U.S. My parents can’t afford plane tickets, so we usually go on road trips, but we never stray far from Kansas.” I don’t know why I told her that. I can’t stop thinking of everything that will go wrong with the cure. For starters, the needle might be as flimsy as the bullets. 

 “Farthest we’ve been in Metropolis. You see, I have an uncle here. You might know him, he’s a scientist also.”  

She continues to give me the silent treatment, rummaging around one of the drawers. “You’re not much for small talk. I can respect that,” I say. “I don’t usually talk this much. I’ve just never done anything this crazy before. But anything is better than being a walking time bomb.”   

“This will only sting for a second,” she reassures, pulling out a huge syringe with a needle sharp enough to cut steel. I swallow audibly. A green serum bubbles to the surface. If I’ve learned anything during my short time, it’s to not trust green things. Green brings a world of pain and suffering. I snap my eyes shut and brace myself for the poison. 

The blinding agony I’ve grown accustomed to when near meteor rocks never comes. I tentatively open my eyes. The syringe inches closer to my flesh. There’s a soft prick that reminds me of the time Jill threw a straw at my face. Dr. Rofara shrieks as the needle bends as easily as a pipe cleaner and then finally snaps in half. 

She gapes at the broken needle and then looks at me quizzically. I grimace.“You won’t happen to have an edible version of the serum?” 

“Where did you say you’re from?” she studies me with renewed interest. 

“Kansas,” I answer. 

“Are you sure?” She asks. 

“Born and raised there,” I say with confidence I don’t feel. Is there no hope for me? “Please, you’ve gotta help me,” I beg. “I can’t live like this any longer. I almost cremated my cousin’s girlfriend.” 

“Cremated,” she rolls the word around her tongue with an expression of bewilderment. English must be her second language. 

“Burn,” I clarify. “I can shoot fire from my eyes . . . and see through solid objects. I hate it. You’ve got to help me before I hurt someone else.” 

Understanding flashes in her dark eyes.“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she scowls. “Turning your back on your birthright is not the answer.”

“But that’s what you do every day,” I protest. “You help metahumans live normal lives!” I clench and unclench my fists at my side. I might not be a metahuman. 

“Yes,” she relents. “I help metahumans. The cure works on humans.” 

Cold fingers crawl down my spine. Her words tear me open from the inside. My fears laid bare. “Are you saying I’m not human?” 

It sounds as ridiculous as earlier. These things just don’t happen in Smallville. Could my upbringing be hindering me from accepting the truth? It would explain why Ma forbade Warrior Angel comics in the Kent household. His story was my story. The picture in Dr. Whitney’s office depicts the spaceship I arrived on Earth in. But it looked photoshopped. In his files, he referred to me as the last Kryptonian. Is that I am?   

“Are you sure you’re from Kansas?” she asks. 

“Of course, I’m sure!” I leap off the examination table. “I was born in Smallville. I have a birth certificate to prove it.” 

Papers can be forged. And what teenager needs to look at a birth certificate? Ma had shown it to me to dispel any doubts. I was gullible and continued to believe the lie.   

Her gaze is rife with turmoil. She opens her mouth and then closes it sharply. “I can’t explain it. Needles don’t usually break against humans' skin, even the strongest ones.” 

“No,” I shake my head. 

She’s dead wrong. Everything I ever knew is in Smallville. Everybody I ever loved. My parents. Lana. Pete. I grew up with them. It couldn’t be a lie. What she suggests is unthinkable. Why won’t they tell me the truth? I won’t have believed them if they did. I’m still unsure. All these years, the Kents were hiding an . . . alien. It was easier to go on believing the Kents were my birth parents. Even when all the evidence suggested otherwise.    

“You’re wrong,” I say. So long as there’s no spaceship . . . How long am I going to keep telling myself that lie? Just because I can’t see it doesn’t mean the spaceship isn’t there. It might be the same spaceship in D.E.O. lockup. 

  I dash out of the vile building. The cold wind is as comforting as a mother’s caress. The city lights blur together as I zip through dark alleyways and in between traffic. They’re all wrong. Anna Taz was wrong. Dr. Rofara is wrong. My mother is not dead. I am as human as Tom Hanks. This is all one big misunderstanding. In time, the doc will manufacture an edible cure. There is still hope. Where do I go from here? A new cure might take years . . . decades to create. I can’t wait that long.     

SMACK

I slam into something bony and soft. My muscles tighten, fear wrapping around my heart. My ears pop, hot red bursting across my vision. The metallic stench of blood assaults my nostrils. My stomach curdles, bile rising up my throat. I choke on a thick-hot liquid. I tell myself it’s out-of-date ketchup. I can’t swallow the lie. My knees grow weak, and I collapse next to the animal. Blood soaks through my jeans. 

No, not an animal. A small girl. I soak her in, inch by terrible inch. Wispy curls, plastered against a round forehead. Small face, button nose buried in a puddle of blood. The drip-drip of a heavy liquid skidding off her motionless bent hand.  Blood that will stain my soul forever. A cold fist closes around my heart. A heart that isn’t even human. No human could have caused such carnage. She’s a mere child, hardly past her ninth birthday; she didn’t deserve to be run over by a mountain. Mossy brown pigtails hang over her pale neck, but they’re stained through with red. A loose, creamy hospital gown is all that shields her from Winter’s wrath. 

My life as I know it is over. I’m a killer. My hands are as dirty as Lady Macbeth’s. There is no going back now. There’s a black mark on my soul I’ll never be able to wash out. “Oh, God, please don’t be dead!” 

My vision blurs with tears, and I lift her into my arms, shaking uncontrollably. She’s as light as paper. I will never be able to live with myself. Her ghost will haunt me to my grave. Her head lolls to the side, coming to rest on my shoulder, and I nearly drop her. There is a gaping black hole where her left eye used to be. Blood streamed out of the eye socket, encasing half her face in a mask of horror. I throw up inside my mouth, heaving uncontrollably. 

I fled Smallville to avoid something like this happening again. Red obscures my vision. I take her pulse. Hope has flown out the window and isn’t coming back anytime soon. It takes a few seconds too long to find her heartbeat, and when I do, it’s so faint there might as well not be a pulse. The Fates are seconds away from snapping her cord. Bile rises up my throat. I’ve never seen so much blood before. Nobody can survive that much blood loss. 

I gather her in my arms and falter when I catch empty air beneath her shoulder. It’s worse than I thought. Much worse. Her left arm is reduced to a bloodied stump, the top of her nightgown painted in scarlet. I thought Pete Ross was a nightmare. This is a deep dive into Hell. Her head rolls onto my shoulder, limp, her breath coming out slow and raspy against my neck. I gently place her back down, certain that if I hold her any longer, I’d snap her in half like a twig. It is a miracle she still has breath left in her body. No thanks to me. 

“What have I done?”

I don’t know how long I kneel in a pool of blood, ropes of iron cutting off my air supply. I feel like I’m being held underwater, slowly drowning. My heart rate quickens, and all I hear is the thump, thump, thump of blood pounding in my ears. Her blood. My fault. My head swims so badly that I feel as though the ground beneath me is swaying like the deck of a ship. I taste foul bile. I hug my knees to my chest, fearing if I let go for a moment I’d fall into a black hole and never come up again. I breathe in the smell of blood and city grime . . . waiting for the police to arrest me for cold-blooded murder. They should be here any second. 

My arm is suddenly enveloped in warmth. “Don’t just sit there; do something!” A gravelly voice snaps. I blink the tears out of my eyes. The homeless guy from earlier kneels next to me, his expression grim. He rips the hem of his shirt off and with the practiced hands of a surgeon wraps the fabric around what’s left of her arm. 

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to,” I sputter. “All my fault,” I rock back and forth, unable to wipe the image of her smashing into me. The cure didn’t work. My body is made of stronger steel. Steel that no human should be running into. What if I’m not human? 

The homeless guy slaps me across the face, and I stumble back. I actually felt that. “Pull yourself together, Kansas,” he growls. “This is no time to have a pity party,” he grabs me by the shoulders and forces me to look him in the face. A black, scratchy scarf that looks as if it might have lice is wrapped around the lower half of his face.  Azure sharp blue eyes stare back at me, keen and observant. “You can save her.” 

“No,” I shake my head. “I’ve already done enough . . . Dam . . Ee-age,” I barely manage to get the last word out.

“Listen to me, Kansas.” he rips the scarf down, revealing a distinct square jawline. Beads of sweat slither down his pasty-white face, making him seem even paler. A dusty, gray beanie cap is plopped clumsily on top of his thick black hair. He watches me, not betraying a single emotion, his mouth set in a firm line. 

“Clark, if you don’t cauterize her wound, Maggie will surely die.” he squeezes my arm in what’s supposed to be a reassuring gesture, but it sends shards of fear through me. My knees buckle. I become achingly aware of the hot blood soaking through my jeans. Cauterize the wound. He can’t mean . . . That would mean . . . 

“How?” I scurry away from the stranger. I trip over a wooden crate and topple backward into an icy puddle. He knows my name. He knows about heat vision. My head spins, the poignant smell of fresh blood making it hard to think straight. What else does he know? A secret agent could have been keeping tabs on me all these years. But he looks too young for that. What other explanation is there . . . Only two people outside of my family know of my powers. Pete and . . . 

“It’s me, Clark,” Bruce crouches to eye level with me. “It’s okay,” he rests a steady palm over my heart. “You’re amongst friends.” 

He has a very loose definition of ‘friend.’ I haven’t seen or heard from Bruce Wayne in over ten years. He dropped off the face of the Earth after his parents were murdered. He should have known he wasn’t alone. I mourned their loss also. Mrs. Wayne used to visit Smallville regularly and regale me with tales of Nightwing and Flamebird. Dr. Wayne gave the best horsey rides, next to only Dad. 

“You’re supposed to be in Gotham.” 

“No time to explain,” Bruce says in a grim tone. “Maggie is dying, but you can save her.” 

“I can’t!” I protest, the meaning of his words sinking in. “I could make it worse.” 

“She’s already dying, Kansas,” Bruce says seriously. “At least this way you can give her hope.” 

“Hope of a life full of misery,” I say darkly. “Third-degree burns are no picnic.” I grimace, remembering the state I left Lana in. 

“If you don’t cauterize the wound, Maggie’s death will be on your head,” Bruce states candidly. Newsflash! Her death is already in my head. “Trust me, Kent, if you ran into her, there would be nothing left of Maggie but shattered bones and intensities to wipe off the street,” he says, reading the trepidation on my face like an open book. 

 My stomach curdles. “Thank you for painting that vivid picture.” I throw up a little in my mouth and swallow down bile. “I feel ten times better.” A small portion of my brain realizes he’s right, but I have a hard time accepting that truth. 

“Please,” Bruce mutters the single word as reverently as if it’s a prayer. “You are her only hope.”

I study Maggie’s limp form. The hospital gown curls up her bony thigh, revealing a slashed knee calf and scraped feet she most likely got while running barefoot in the city. Mousy-brown hair plasters across her sweaty brow, stained black with blood. If I keep my eyes trained on her face, I can imagine she’s a sleeping child. But the hole in her left eye socket ruins the image. I steel my nerves and slowly turn toward the lump where her arm used to be. A blade had sawed clean through the humerus, the bone blackened with blood; it seeped into the concrete, filling the air with the heavy, metallic stench of a slaughterhouse. The back of my neck crawls up my scalp and into one ear. It truly is a miracle she’s alive at all. 

 Monty Python and the Holy Grail makes losing a limb seem fun. There is nothing remotely fun about this situation. She’s not going to suddenly start hopping around one-legged like the Black Knight, screaming ‘Tis but a flesh wound.’ 

This is real. She could die. I swallow hard and taste remnants of breakfast slushing around my throat. Raw and hideous. My stomach convulses, and I start to wretch, coughing up bits of egg and gunk. It mingles with the red liquid, turning it brown.  

Silently, Bruce massages my back using rough, precise motions. I catch his stony expression in the rippling puddle. “There’s no other way,” he grunts. “Are you willing to let a twelve-year-old die on your watch?” He says in a spurt of passion, desperation ringing through each syllable.

God, I hate Bruce and his deadly guilt trip. His words are sharper than a guillotine blade. My hands clench into angry fists. Ten freaking years. No show. Practically obliterated off the planet. And suddenly, he’s here beside me, breathing and puffing in my face, asking me to do the impossible. The nerve of him. But goddamnit!  The arrogant, angry, spoiled brat is right. The closest hospital is probably twenty minutes away, at least. By then, it will be too late. I kneel by Maggie, mentally preparing myself for the turmoil ahead. Bruce steps back, giving me a quick nod of encouragement. 

If I focus on one part of her arm at a time, it doesn’t seem so bad. It’s another day on the farm. Dad is teaching me how to skin a sheep. Mom is showing me how to grill burgers using my ‘God-given talent.’ My eyes flare, my vision smoldering red. Maggie jots awake and screams. Her scream is so loud and raw with pain, a flock of birds takes flight off the rooftop, caw-cawing in agony. I keep my gaze trained on the stump that is left of her arm, keeping my breathing steady. Calm thoughts. Easy. Just like lighting a candle from afar. Only gentler. 

I snap my eyes shut and turn away from Maggie, vision still red and warm underneath my closed eyelids. My throat tightens, and I brace myself against the brick wall, my palms shaking fiercely. Freak. Abomination. Monster. The words ricochet off my frozen mind. I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe I willingly burned another human being. I can’t believe Bruce stood by and did nothing. He’s as much of a freak as me. My breath comes out short and raspy, my heart clambering in my chest. 

“You did it, Clark,” Bruce says. I hear the smile in his voice and ease one eye open to look at them. He crouches next to Maggie and holds her hand. “You’re going to be okay, Mags.” With the tenderness of an overprotective brother, Bruce brushes a stray curl out of Maggie’s feverish face. 

I drag myself over to kneel in front of them. For a secon, I stare in shock at my handiwork. The area around the edge of her shoulder- what’s left of it — is a scabby, blackened lump of badly cooked meat, burned dark. But she was no longer bleeding profusely. I’m no doctor, but I fail to see the up-side of this situation; it looks like I did more damage than good. She blinks at me with a foggy gaze filled with pain and weakly closes her eyes. 

“This is all your fault,” I snap. “I should have never . . .” Bruce rests a hand on my shoulder, and my words turn into garbled, choking sobs. 

“You made the right call, Clark.” Bruce clumsily wraps his arm around me, pulling me into an awkward embrace. Tension rolls off him in waves. “The worst of it is over.”

Chapter Text

A sleek black limo slides to a stop at the edge of the alleyway, the engine humming softly. I tense, preparing for the worst. The door props open, and a middle-aged man with thinning black hair combed neatly to one side steps out. He smiles warmly in our direction and nods courteously to Bruce. Bruce returns the gesture, wordlessly implying with his eyes the dire situation. I frown at the stranger, getting a sudden sense of deja vu. I remember snapshots of a tuxedo-clad man holding me while I cried. A woman scolds Bruce in a quick, clipped language. 

“To the hospital, then, Master Bruce?” 

Bruce’s shadowy gaze skids toward me. He studies my face for a millisecond and returns his attention to the older man, numbly shaking his head. He bends down and carefully picks Maggie up bridal style, her head lolling against his chest. “Something more private, Alfred,” Bruce directs. “And close by.” 

“Very good, sir,” Alfred opens the back of the car and helps Bruce lay Maggie in the backseat. “I’d phone to let the professor know we’re on our way.”  

“Thanks, Alfred.” 

The butler gives my shoulder a fatherly squeeze. “Good to see you again, Master Clark,” he says.  I’m too shocked to offer anything but an incoherent, garbled response. When I look over again, Alfred has returned to the driver’s seat. I’m trapped in a never-ending nightmare Bruce Wayne is the star of. He’s supposed to be in Gotham. This doesn’t seem right. My mind is playing tricks on me. 

“What are you waiting for, Clark?” Bruce props the limo door open with his shoulder. “I’m not leaving you here,” he says in a tone that suggests he knows exactly the sort of trouble I am bound to get into if unsupervised.  

“I thought you —- limos and I not really mix . . .” My words filter out at the hard look Bruce shoots me. “Okay,” I relent, sliding into the limo. The seats are made of shiny black leather that is as smooth as a dolphin’s hide. Underneath each window is a makeshift bar with pastel liquids that couldn’t possibly be healthy. Maggie is sprawled out on the farthest seat. Bruce sits beside her, resting her head on top of his lap and elevating her feet against the window’s edge. I sit opposite them, feeling completely out of place. Bruce clearly knows Maggie. She’s not some random victim of a crime he happened upon. The engine purrs to life and rolls into oncoming traffic. 

We drive in awkward silence for three blocks, the only sound coming from the hum of the engine. 

“So how do you two know each other?” I ask, mainly wanting to fill this eerie void. 

“She’s a friend’s kid sister,” he supplies in a monotone, dead voice, not leaving any room for further questioning. Too bad for Bruce I’m a reporter and don’t pay attention to social cues. 

“You have friends that are not on your payroll?” I gape at him in shock. “I find that hard to believe.” 

Two red dots appear on Bruce’s otherwise pale cheeks. “Her name is Selina.” He utters her name with a melancholy reverence that leaves me wondering if Selina and Bruce are more than friends.  

“I’m sorry,”  I say, eying Maggie. 

We roll over the bridge and pass through a misty fog. Thick rain droplets slam on the dashboard. Streetlights twinkle through the fog, the outline of skyscrapers kissing the stormy sky. 

“Have nothing to be sorry for,” Bruce tenderly holds Maggie in place as the limo drives over a bump. She whimpers, but her eyes remain shut, face pinched in pain.  “It’s not your fault she’s hurt.” 

“If I didn’t . . .” I look down at her amputated arm and grimace. “Then who did?” 

“Working on it.” 

Great. Swell. That clears up everything. “How did you know where to find her?” 

“I wasn’t looking for her,” He meets my eyes. “I was tailing you.” 

“You know,” I lean forward and rest my arms on my knees. “Most people would have just said ‘hello’ when seeing an old friend.” I scowl. “Not hide in the shadows and stalk them.” 

“Hello,” Bruce smiles sardonically, the corner of his mouth not quite reaching the middle of his eyes. “Burn down any more barns?” 

My ears turn pink. “You suck at small talk.” 

Alfred coughs to cover his laughter. 

“I find small talk to be redundant and a waste of brain cells.” 

This coming from the same boy who talked my ear off for hours about baseball. I’m not sure what to make of this new grittier Bruce. I can’t picture the man seated before me having a Nerf gun fight with his buddies. Did he even have friends anymore? The tabloids make Bruce Wayne sound like a recluse who throws tantrums when in the public eye, but it’s unclear how much of what the tabloids say is true. The papers hadn’t mentioned Selina at all. 

Silence falls between us once again. He’s making me wish Lois was here. 

 We pass Siegel Street and my heart jumps in my throat as I realize where we’re heading. We’re fifteen minutes away from S.T.A.R Labs. I can’t be here. My body grows taut ready to run, but there’s nowhere to go. I glare at Bruce.  

“Relax,” Bruce grunts. “We’re almost at S.T.A.R. Labs.” 

 He confirms my fear. “I can’t go there.” Uncle Emil will surely call the woman, pretending to be my mom. I wouldn’t know what to say to him. Is he even my real uncle? I brace my head against my knotted fists. I’m not human. It’s hard to swallow, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. 

“Be grateful you still have a family alive to worry about you.” 

I bow my head in shame. He’s right. They might be big, fat liars, but I know without a doubt the Kents love me. They’re still here, alive and kicking. But if I stayed, I’m not sure how long they would remain that way. My one golden plan failed.

The street grows narrower as we drive deeper into the heart of the city. Skeletal trees bedecked with golden lights line each side of the street. The Daily Planet zooms out of the fog. Just one block more, and we’re home free. The giant gold globe glistens overhead like the moon in the night sky. So long as there is breath in her body, there is hope. I am not a killer. I never meant to hurt her. 

S.T.A.R Labs is situated on West Cain Street, which is located in a fairly posh industrial park, mostly specializing in various biotech industries and Metropolis University research facilities. It’s sleek and elegant. There are wide green lawns, carefully kept and trimmed, complete with guardian statues and picnic tables for students in between classes. A fantastic view of the Metropolis skyline greets me. If I squint in the opposite direction with my particular vision, I see the massive Metropolis University campus, which is about half the size of Smallville, if not bigger. 

Finally, a familiar, peculiar-shaped building cuts out of the fog. At first glance, S.T.A.R labs look like a flying saucer parked in the middle of a bustling city. Three metallic towers pierce the skies, eerily resembling folded wings of a UFO. Alfred parks in front of the entrance, paying no attention to the ‘No Parking’ signs on the sidewalk. 

Uncle Emil is waiting for us by the door with a stretcher in tow. The second the car rolls to a stop, he scurries forward and opens the back door. I draw back out of the light and flatten myself against the seat. So far, he hasn’t noticed me. I hunch down and try to make myself invisible.

“What happened?” Uncle Emil asks as he eases Maggie onto the stretcher he brought with Alfred.  His round spectacles are foggy with droplets of rain. 

“No time to explain,” Bruce cuts him off before he can ask any further questions. “She needs medical attention immediately.” 

Uncle Emil glances toward Bruce, who had strategically placed himself near me. I inwardly curse him. 

 “Jesus Christ.” A flicker of recognition crosses Uncle Emil’s features, replaced a second later with anger and relief. “Do you have any idea how worried sick your mother has been?” His knuckles turn white against the stretcher’s rails. 

“You can scream at me later.” I crawl out of the limo with some difficulty. “There’s a girl that needs your help. Can you save her?”

Uncle Emil studies her wounds with growing horror. “I’d try.”

 Wordlessly, he wheels the stretcher into the building. We get some funny looks from people on our way to the med bay. We’re an odd bunch. Me in my oversized sweatshirt stained with blood. Alfred is in a meticulously neat tuxedo, looking like he stepped right out of a James Bond movie. And Bruce in his mismatched, yucky homeless get-up. At first, I thought the onlookers were making funny faces at me, but it was Bruce. He smells like the underbelly of a sewer and clears the path for us faster than an armed policeman. 

I’m relieved when we reach the med bay. Uncle Emil extends one arm holding me back. “My office now, Clark.” He commands. 

“But I can help!” 

“Yes, sir,” Bruce says in the same breath as me. “I’ll make sure he stays out of trouble.” 

“Good lad,” Uncle Emil nods in thanks and heads into the med bay with Alfred.   

“Keep me out of trouble!” I repeat angrily, cheeks flushed. “I’m the most responsible guy on the planet!” I say to the closed steel door, which honestly won’t be a problem for me if I chose to break it down. 

“Somebody responsible won’t let fear rule their actions,” Bruce says with a small amount of judgment in his tone. 

I scowl at him. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“Fear brought you to Metropolis. Plain and simple.” Bruce turns and starts to stalk down the hallway. I follow in tow, my veins boiling with anger. Judgmental, arrogant, dick. “If you were smart, you would have stayed in Smallville.” 

“If you were smart you wouldn't be such an asshat,” I snarl. “I could take you apart with bare hands.” 

“True,” Bruce concedes. 

His reaction hits me in the face. I trip on a shoelace, nearly falling on my rear end. I grab ahold of the railing latched to the wall and straighten myself. I grimace when I feel it break apart. Spectacular. I hurry to catch up with Bruce before anyone notices the mess. 

“But you won’t because you’re afraid of yourself.” Bruce stops before Uncle Emil’s door and kicks it open with an arrogant smirk. I storm past him and plop myself into the armchair by Uncle Emil’s desk. 

“You don’t know me, so stop pretending like you do,” I say, even though I hear the ring of truth in his words. He would be afraid, too, if he had my powers. Every breath I take has to be precise and careful. 

Bruce ignores me and studies the office. Stacks of paper are strewn all over the desk with no rhyme or reason, a few pages buried beneath a half-eaten strawberry-sprinkle donut. A busted pen spews ink over a discarded book that seems to have seen better days. Looks like I got my clumsiness from Ma’s slob of a brother. 

 A corny framed picture of itty bitty Clark Kent is set proudly front and center on his desk. Mom sits in front of a pumpkin patch with me on her lap, her face free of any wrinkles. That year, for the costume competition, I wanted to be Zorro; he was all the craze that year. I make quite a pathetic vigilante sucking my thumb and pointing a plastic sword at the camera. Of course, Dad is not in the picture, he never is; he’s always the one hiding behind the camera. In a smaller, oval-shaped frame, there’s an embarrassing picture of me wearing nothing but a diaper, smiling toothlessly at the camera.

 I hate to think that is one of the first things his colleagues see. I’m his only nephew, so I suppose I can forgive him for wanting to show me off to the world. The evidence staring back at me sets my nerves on edge. My life can’t be a lie. There’s no way I’m anybody else but Clark Kent. There’s no way I’m something else. I don’t know what to think anymore. Dr. Rofara’s words haunt me. If I were human the cure should have worked. If I were human, Maggie wouldn’t have suffered. There’s a small chance that metahumans can be invulnerable like me.

 There have to be others like me out there. The Angel of Vengeance is proof of that. I study Bruce. He has slick black hair just like her . . . we both do. I clench my eyes shut and mentally kick myself. Poor Maggie is fighting for her life, and here I am, obsessing over a stupid urban myth. I clench my fist and suck in a hard breath.    

Bruce picks up the framed photograph of me. His face remains stony, except for a ghost of light flickering in his steely blue eyes. It’s difficult reading his expression. 

“I was kinda obsessed with Zorro back then,” I supply. “Movie was such a hit the Talon played it for two months straight.” Then I remember he’s not from Smallville. “The Talon is the only diner and movie theater in town - usually only plays one movie at a time. It’s super small.” He remains silent, and his Adam’s apple bounces up his throat. “You ever see Zorro?” I frown. Bruce might as well be a marble statue for all the reaction I get out of him. 

“Once,” he answers simply. Bruce sets the frame back down, eyes growing distant. 

“It was so cool, right?’” 

“Cool,” Bruce echoes. He straightens, his face going blank. “I need to make a call,” he announces and slides toward the door. He pauses for a moment and looks back at me sadly. “You don’t realize how lucky you are,” he whispers. “Call your mom, Clark,” he commands and slams the door in my face. 

What is this? Slam the door in Clark’s face day?

The sun dips beneath the horizon when finally Alfred and Uncle Emil step through the door, looking worse for wear, and report that Maggie’s vitals have returned. Uncle Emil collapses in the armchair behind his desk and let out a heavy yawn, his shaking fingers folding around a steaming mug of coffee. His patchy-red hair is plastered to his sweaty brow, his round spectacles set askew on the tip of his round nose. 

Bruce’s eyes light up with hope and he exhales sharply. “She’d live then?” 

Alfred and Uncle Emil share a dark look. “She’s not out of the woods yet, son,” Alfred rests a hand on Bruce’s shoulders. “But there’s hope.” 

“All we can do now is wait for the little tyke to wake up,” Uncle Emil says. Bruce’s mouth forms a hideous scowl as if he knows exactly how much Maggie will hate being called ‘little tyke.’ Uncle Emil either doesn’t notice Bruce’s disgust or doesn’t care. “I need you boys to be honest with me,” he shoots me a look rife with tension. “How did she get hurt?” 

“It was an accident.” 

“She was tortured,” Bruce says in the same breath as me. 

I gape at him. Really! Torture? That’s the best story he could come up with on short notice. It’s insane. No one will believe him. 

Uncle Emil’s jaw slackens, the color draining from his face. “Are you sure?” 

“Positive,” Bruce nods vigorously. He can’t seriously believe Bruce? 

“I’m gonna have to call this in,” Uncle Emil reaches for the telephone on his desk. 

Bruce slams his hand on the phone, gaze turbulent. “I can’t let you do that,” he says, a low growl rippling from the pit of his stomach. “My sources tell me there’s a cop on the take,” he says as casually as if he’s commenting on the weather. “The less people that know about Maggie the better,” Bruce proclaims. “There’s a reason I brought her here instead of a local hospital.” 

“And here I thought it was because you love my natural good looks and sense of humor,” Emil smirks. Bruce doesn’t laugh. “Tough crowd.” 

“Can I see her?” Bruce asks after a pause. 

“You own the building,” Uncle Emil says. “Not much I can do to stop you.” 

Bruce turns on his heel to leave and comes up short. Alfred stands in his path and holds up a gray duffel bag. “Might I suggest a change of clothes? You wouldn’t want to scare young Miss Kyle to death.” Wordlessly Bruce takes the duffel bag and marches out, Alfred dutifully at his heels. I grimace. Uncle Emil looks far from happy. 

 My legs start to shake from the day’s ordeal. It feels like something that happened to somebody else. I groan and clamp onto the locks of my hair. What am I still doing here? Maggie is on the hard road to recovery. She doesn’t need me causing any more mayhem. I broke one of my sacred rules: No contact with the past. But I don’t have the energy to stand up. A heavy weight presses down on my chest. The weight of what I did. I feel Maggie’s weight against me as if I still hold her. Small. Frail. Innocent. Broken. My reckless behavior crippled her. Bruce is wrong. 

“I’m sorry,” I wince. “I didn’t mean to.” The apology sounds empty. 

Uncle Emil rests a comforting hand over my trembling hand. “Clark, I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not true,” he reassures. “You heard Mr. Wayne. Someone else hurt. . .” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say in a small voice. “You weren’t there. She just came out of nowhere . . . and I couldn’t stop myself.” I shudder. “I should have never used my powers.”  

Uncle Emil bites his lower lip contemplatively. He looks like he wants to say something more but is holding back. “Trust me, Clark, she was already hurt before you ran into her. She’s lucky you were there.” 

“Lucky?” I raise my voice. I stand, snatch a scalpel from the drawer, and slash it across my arm. The cold metal contorts on impact. “She should be dead.” 

“It’s thanks to you she’s not,” Uncle Emil sighs. “Now, please cease with the melodrama. You’re acting like one of those nuts in a Greek Tragedy. ” My whole life is one big tragedy.  “What you need is some caffeine.” Uncle Emil wanders toward the coffee machine behind his desk.   

“Are we going to address the elephant in the room?” Uncle Emil asks after a poignant silence only filled by the hum of the coffee brewing. A few minutes later he slides a mug across the table to me. I don’t have an appetite for anything.  His forehead creases the same way Mom’s does when she’s worried. He shouldn’t be worried about me. I might not be his nephew. He’s yet another lie I’d have to live with. Another soul I could ruin. 

I comb my fingers through my damp hair. “I’ve got pretty good vision, and I don’t see any elephants nearby.” 

 He looks at me over the top of his round spectacles, scowling. “I will have none of your lip!” 

Right. You mean, why am I in Metropolis specifically? It was my last hope. I can’t ever be around people again. The only cure is death, I know that now. Some meteor rock will be welcome right about now.  

“I felt like a run,” I shrug. “Aren’t you happy to see your favorite nephew?” I put on my most jovial smile and pout. 

  His scowl deepens.“Did you think of your poor mother when you ran away?” 

“Of course,” I cross my arms over my chest defiantly. I left to protect her from me. 

“Your actions say differently.” He tightens his grip on the mug. “No nephew of mine would intentionally hurt his mother.” 

“I never hurt her!” 

“No?” he slams his mug down on the table and I flinch.“You have ripped her heart out and crushed it like a grape!” His eyes are wide with fear, but I can’t figure out why. Uncle Emil has never been afraid of me before. More evidence, I’m not his blood relative. He glances at his wristwatch nervously.

“You and I both know, crashing at your old uncle’s lab was not on the agenda today. Hmm?” His hard gaze bores into me, and I look away in shame. He sees right through me just like Mom. His scowl deepens. 

 “Clark this isn’t you,” he says, mindlessly combing his fingers through his matted beard. I notice he does that when there’s a question he can’t solve. “You have a family that loves you. Together you can work this out.” 

“Stop pretending like you care what happens to me,” I bite out. “I’m a scientific anomaly you can’t wait to crack. Nothing more.” 

“Clark, how can you—” 

“I’m not even human, am I?” I challenge, hating how right the words sound.

 Uncle Emil’s jaw slackens, his eyes widening dangerously. “You’re being ridiculous, son.” 

“That’s the big secret, isn’t it?” I continue, pieces of the puzzle slowly falling into place. “Your baby sis couldn’t conceive so she adopted an alien.”  

Uncle Emil’s booming laughter fills the air. “Do you hear yourself, Clark?” he chortles. “You’re talking crazy!” 

“That’s not a denial,” I lean forward, folding my hands together on top of the desk. “So what planet am I from? Are there others like me you’re not telling me about?” 

Uncle Emil’s eyes skit nervously to the camera above the door. “Clark,” he holds up his hands in a placating manner. “You’ve had a long day. You’re not thinking clearly . . .” 

“No!” I leap to my feet, shaking with fury. “I’ve never seen clearer!” I ball my fists at my side. “I’m a monster!” 

“Listen to me carefully, son,” he reasons.“You’re Martha’s boy.” He grasps ahold of my shoulders, nailing me in place. If I wanted to, I could rip his arms out of their sockets. The realization brings a whirlwind of tears to the surface. 

“You’re lying!” I scream. 

“You’re not an ‘it’; you’re a person,” Uncle Emil’s grip on me tightens almost urgently. He silently pleads with me to calm down. “One day soon, I hope you'll realize you’re a gift from the heavens, not a curse.” 

I don’t miss how he can’t meet my eyes. His gaze stays trained on the corner above the door where I know there is a camera. Unbelievable. He should know no force can stop me. No one is coming to his rescue. The man who tended to me all these years, a steadfast fixture in Clark Kent’s life, is afraid of me. I can smell the fear on his skin. He reeks of it.  

 “Your parents will be worried about you.” Uncle Emil says, his steady voice contradicting his dilated pupils. “Let’s all take a deep breath.” 

 “They’re not my parents!” I thunder, slamming my fist down on the table. The force of the impact snaps the desk clean in half, the computer crashing to the floor. Uncle Emil jumps back, his foot narrowly missing being trampled by a fallen frame. I watch as, one by one, the framed photographs of the family shatter to pieces, just like my life. 

“I’m sorry,” I recoil from the wreckage, tears blurring my vision. Uncle Emil kicks a broken mug aside and steps forward, expression guarded. “No. Stay away!” I retreat to the front of the office, my back coming to rest against a filing cabinet. “I’m not human,” the phrase echoes in my head like a death knell. “I shouldn’t be here.” 

“You mustn’t say things like that,” Uncle Emil cautions. “Not here, certainly not now. These walls have ears.” It’s not exactly a denial. He won’t be so worried about being overheard if what I said wasn’t true. It sickens me. A wave of nausea hits me as the truth of my words sinks in. I never was human.  

His words pass right through me like liquid through a sponge. I crash through the door and stumble into a brightly lit hallway. I am not going to find answers in Uncle Emil’s cluttered office. Uncle Emil rushes after me frantically. His mouth forms words, but I hear nothing over the pounding in my head. In the medbay, I see Maggie hooked to the monitor. Sweat coats my spine, drenching my shirt. Bruce sits at her bedside, wearing a change of clothes. Visions of the horrors that await her plague my mind. 

No human can shoot fire from their eyes. The answer was glaring at me in the face all this time. Clark Kent was the biggest clue. But I look so human. What does that make me? 

I pass a labyrinth of rooms, each with its own dark purpose. Scientists meander about the halls, their skeletal frames reminding me of what is at stake should I bump shoulders with them. Uncle Emil’s pattering footsteps and hurried ‘excuse mes’ echo off the white walls. “I’m too old to be chasing after pigheaded teenagers.”

A hulk of a man stands in my path. I gasp, stumbling forward and righting my clumsy feet before I hurl into him. He wears a pressed military uniform, the string of medals over his vest pocket implying he is someone of repute. His medals are only outshone by an unforgiving expression of displeasure. In his left pocket, there is a paper bag with an official-looking falcon logo on the front. I gasp. I never forget a face. He’s a bit heavier, particularly around the middle, and his black hair has turned silver. It’s the mystery FED on the wall of weird.  

“This is a research facility, boy,” he grabs my arm menacingly and hauls me up straighter. My head spikes, a pressure building up behind my eye sockets. His breath reeks of day-old tobacco and scotch whiskey. “Not a zoo,” he growls. 

“I’m sorry, General,” Uncle Emil lurches to a stop, resting his hands on his knees, out of breath. “It’s . . . muh nephew, Clark Kent,” he wheezes, his cheeks shining with perspiration. “Visiting . . . out of town.” 

Alleged nephew. I’m not human, remember? I catch my reflection in one of the windows, and doubt flickers through me. Long, broad nose with no remarkable characteristics that scream inhuman. Deep-set, sunken eyes weary with exhaustion. Five fingers on each hand, no talons in sight. At a glance, I look like your average teenager recovering from a long night of partying. If only. The tumor Bri saw was evidence of how unnatural I look internally. 

My not being human will explain my family’s strange paranoia. But looking at my weary reflection in the window, I see no abnormalitys to mark me as alien. 

“How old are you, boy?” 

“Sixteen, not that it’s any of your business,” I say. 

Is my birthday a lie also? Was I even born naturally? My head thunders in protest. The technicality of my birth doesn’t matter. With power like mine, I don’t need to concern myself with mundane things like parents. I can make new friends and choose a new family that respects me and doesn’t fear me. Doesn’t lie to my face every day. I clench my fists angrily, wanting to punch something. Anything. There is a crackling noise like rocks tumbling, and cracks suddenly zigzag across the floor from under my feet. I inhale sharply. 

“Old enough to know right from wrong,” he releases me with a grunt of disapproval. “Tell me young Kent, is the office on fire?” 

Not yet, but if I stayed a second longer it might be a different story. But why should I care? It’s not like any of these people ever did a lick for me. A little cleansing fire might be just what the doctor ordered. Lord knows the projects in here don’t look safe. Why, on the floor above a cliche mustache-twirling scientist is building a robot. There’s only one reason the military needs a super robot. Death. 

“No,” I snarl. Uncle Emil’s eyes widen and he looks between me and the General worriedly. 

“No, sir,” he corrects crispily. “I am a four-star general, you will address me with ‘sir’ or General Lane.” 

I shrug and stifle a huge yawn, bored with this game of cat and mouse. “You need to loosen up,” I reach forward and pat down the sourpuss’ jacket, feeling the rough, red lump in his pocket. My palm stings a bit where it brushes against the bulge in his pocket; it’s a pleasant, euphoric feeling, like a bubbling bathtub. “It’s not healthy to have a stick up your ass. Might impale yourself,” I smirk. 

“Clark Joseph Kent!” Uncle Emil screams. “Bite your tongue!” 

I shrug, stick my tongue out and bite down hard, all the while glaring at Uncle Emil. He should choose his words more carefully. He gawks at me, horrorstruck. “What?” I demand. “You said to bite your tongue?” I shrug, lean against the wall, and cross my arms. “You’re not my real uncle anyhow. I shouldn’t have to listen to you.” 

“Real uncle or not, he is your elder and you will treat him with respect!” General Lane snarls. 

“Respect is earned,” I say candidly. “I have no respect for big, fugly liars, especially not one that shoots unarmed farmers!” I glare at the big bully. 

“What did you say?” General Lane says. 

“I am not fat!” Uncle Emil screams, his eyes sparking with fury. Funny how he doesn’t deny he’s lying to me. 

I make a tut-tut noise in the back of my throat and survey his ample beer belly. “You should be in prison,” I tell the general. “You think that because you’re a soldier . . . oh, sorry, four-star general, you can impose your will on those smaller than you.” I jab a finger into his chest, head spinning. “You repulse me. I used to look up to guys like you,” I say. “I was raised to believe the government would protect humanity . . . That’s a fucking lie.” The government didn’t care about the little guys. They proved that much when they shot a defenseless farmer. 

Uncle Emil strolls toward me and fastens onto my shoulder. “Clark,” he whispers, his voice dangerously low. “Something is seriously wrong.” 

“I’d say,” I kick off the wall, and Uncle Emil scurries back, his face dripping with unease. “No one in this fucking family can give me a straight answer!” I spit out. 

“You could go to prison for attacking an officer,” General Lane hisses. 

I smirk at him. The dolt is built like a rhino, squared body and squared forehead framed by a gray military buzz cut. His mouth curls into a repulsive snarl. He looks at me with utter disgust. I disgust myself most days, so no hard feelings. A lesser man would have peed in his pants at the General’s chilling glare.

“And what about shooting a civilian? Why aren’t you in prison, old man?” I ask. The color drains from the general’s face. “I’m sorry, did I stutter?” I glower at him. “You remember Jonathan Kent, honest . . . salt of the earth, farmer, who didn’t deserve to be shot. He’s doing much better, no thanks to you.” 

“Clark,” Uncle Emil warns. “It’s not what you think.” 

“How do you know about that?” The General asks. 

“A little green man flew down and told me,” I smirk, relishing the nervous energy flowing off him. Good. He should be scared. I’m not someone you want on your bad side.  

The General frowns. I find his expression of horror hilarious and can’t help throwing in a little gemstone. “Yeah, the alien sent me visions of horror. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes right now,” I shudder. “You’re a dead man.” 

“He’s kidding,” Bruce says. 

“Jesus Christ!” I jump out of my skin. “Are you a vampire?” I didn’t see or hear him sneak up on me at all. One second there was the empty hallway and then POP Dracula appeared, ugly fangs dripping with blood. Bruce glares at me. 

“Ignore him.” Bruce meets the General's cruel gaze, unblinking. “I slipped something in his drink to take the edge off,” Bruce explains smoothly, without a single ounce of remorse. “He’s a bit of an ass when high.” 

“You’re going to Hell,” I say. “All liars go to hell.” 

“No worries,” Bruce subtly grabs my arm in a vice-like grip and slowly starts to steer me away from the shocked grown-ups. “I already live in hell.” 

“Drugging a minor is a very serious offense, Mr. Wayne,” General Lane narrows his eyes at Bruce. “You could have killed him.” 

“It’s lucky I know what I’m doing then,” Bruce winks at General Lane. “Clark will be fine once we get some food in him,” Bruce reassures. “Right, Kansas?” His fingers clamp over my shoulders like talons. 

“‘Ight,” I parrot, making an effort to make my words sound slurred, realizing Bruce is doing me a favor. “Pretty lights,” I mimic trying to catch fireflies midair. “Such beauty,”

“Alright,  Lennie Small,” Bruce guides me away from them. “Let’s get some sustenance in you.” 

“No more roofing my nephew!” Uncle Emil shakes a fist in the air. He locks eyes with Bruce, giving a subtle nod of thanks. 

Chapter Text

Bruce throws me into Maggie’s room, slamming the door behind him. My ears pop at the abrupt noise. I scurry away from the loud door and promptly trip over a duffel bag. The floor looms up to greet me. I brace myself for impact and swear as Bruce grabs me and slams me against the wall hard enough to break a lesser man’s back. Jeez. Somebody forgot to take their chill pill. 

“I have had it with you,” he snarls in a way that’s supposed to be menacing but he forgets I’ve seen him fall off a horse into a pile of dung. “Do you have a death wish?” 

I shrug. Honestly, the sweet release of death wouldn’t be a welcome change of events. Bruce must read the truth in my face; his grasp on me tightens. He looks at me as if he’s seconds away from punching me. “You’re an idiot.”

Maybe it’s the egotistical tone that rubs me the wrong way or his utter disregard for personal boundaries. Whatever the case, my tense muscles respond to the threat. Before I register what I’m doing, I brush Bruce’s hands off and one-handed shove him away from me. Bruce flies backward and crashes into the sink, his legs comically hanging over the counter. 

Suddenly, I’m at his side, the surge of speed sending pleasure down my spine.  “Touch me again, I dare you!” I snarl, matching his tone from earlier. I brace my arms on the counter, sealing Bruce away from any possible escape. I add a smidge of heat into my eyes, the room swaying and turning red.  

 Bruce doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by the inhuman freak trapping him. He growls and nails a kick at my groin. I gasp and stumble. Before the discomfort registers, Bruce grabs me by one arm and flings me bodily over his back. In a blink, he slams me onto the tile floor and digs a knee over my throat. I can’t believe I fell for this again. 

“Go back to Smallville,” Bruce growls. “Before you hurt yourself or someone else.” 

“I don’t have to listen to you!” I pry his fingers off my throat and climb out from beneath the Playboy. “And you certainly are not my friend, so stop acting like you have a say in my life.” I stand and fix my flannel shirt that had gotten tangled in our scuffle. “Friends don’t abandon each other for fucking ten years!” 

Bruce winces a flicker of pain in his dark eyes. “I was busy . . .” He falters and sighs in resignation, pinching the bridges of his nose. He faces me determined. “You won’t understand. I didn’t want...” 

“You didn’t want my pity,” I finish for him. “Did it maybe cross your brilliant mind that you weren’t the only one hurting?”

 I was in kindergarten when the Waynes were murdered. As such, my parents tried to shield me from the worst of the truth, but I was an inquisitive kid. It wasn’t long before the truth found its way to me. I felt an old wound open up at the thought of Martha Wayne. She might not have been my mother, but there had been a strong connection between us. I mourned her as if she were my flesh and blood. 

“Did it maybe cross your brilliant mind that metahumans go to Dr. Rofara for the cure, and then their bodies wash up in Hob’s Bay?” He matches my irritated tone. “You could have been the next victim!”  

“Nice try, Casanova,” I glare at him and stroll toward him till we’re nose to nose. “You’re not changing the subject . . .” 

A sputtering cough draws my attention. “Bruce?” 

“I’m here,” Bruce grasps Maggie’s sweaty hand, his expression guarded and pensive. Over his left eye, a purple bruise has blossomed where he hit his head on the counter. The raging lunatic from moments before has vanished. I stand awkwardly behind him, untapped adrenaline pumping through my blood. My fist shakes with uncontrolled rage. I clamp my shaking hands into my pocket. I had come inches from rearranging Bruce’s face. All because I didn’t like his attitude. What is wrong with me? I shake my head as if by some miracle, the motion will re-screw the loose wires in my noggin. 

   Maggie clutches onto Bruce, eyes wide like a startled stoat.“Where am I?” her breathing comes out faster, building into a panic. Furious, defiant tears swell up in her good eye and she wheezes. The gauze covering her other eye makes her look like a pirate queen of old. I want to reassure her, but I don’t know how. She stares at me as if I’m a nightmare come to life. Her lone eye is a brilliant shade of jade, almost entirely darkened by a dilated pupil.  

“Get away from him!” she screams, flinging a weak hand toward me. 

“Maggie, STOP!!!” Bruce screams. 

An immovable force crashes against my side and nails me to the ceiling. I choke on prickly air and try to budge free, but it’s as if invisible, icy hands hold me hostage. This must be what it feels like to have the ‘Force’ used against you. 

Maggie glares at me with eerie calmness.  She tilts her head, and suddenly a surgical blade soars into the air, a halo of eerie green light encasing it. The knife whizzes toward me, as fast and true as a bullet. I brace for impact, silently apologizing to Uncle Emil for the damage. 

“No! He’s a friend!” Bruce holds her down. “You’re safe. Clark isn’t a threat.” 

The tip of the blade hovers inches from my left eye. I stifle a stuttering breath as my eye burns. The blade reeks of blood and bodily fluids. I suck in a breath, not daring to move. I’ve never been stabbed in the eye before. I don’t want to push my luck. I inhale sharply and clamp my eyes shut as I feel a familiar flare of heat.  

“Are you sure?” she asks Bruce. 

“Yes,” Bruce says seriously. “He’s one of the good ones.” 

I crash to the floor. “Ouch,” I grumble, massaging my chest. Only after my eyes return to normal do I risk opening them. I stand on wobbly feet and grab onto the bedpost. Bruce glares at me sharply, openly judging me. I sigh. There’s no fooling him. Maggie might as well have dropped me on a cloud for all I feel. I straighten, cross my arms, and return his glare. 

My act of normalcy was for nothing. By the time I face Maggie, she is out cold. Bruce gently drapes the covers over her shaking body and wrestles something out of her tight fist. His movements are quick and sleek, if I were anyone else I might have missed the keychain he stole from Maggie. He slips it into his pocket and turns toward me. 

“Ready for round two?” He raises a thick eyebrow at me. 

“I don’t want to fight you,” I cross my arms. 

“And I don’t want you to get hurt,” he says. I scoff. He might have a chance of beating me in his dreams. “Go. Back. Home. Kansas.” 

“Smallville isn’t my home.”

“Neither is Metropolis,” he reminds me. “In Smallville, you have people that love you. Don’t take that for granted.” 

“People who’ve lied to me all my life!” Just like Bruce is doing right now. The keychain he grabbed from Maggie must have meant something. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have tried to hide it from me.  

“Oh, cry me a river,” he hisses. “Lying is part of life. Grow up!” 

“Such a cynical view for a princeling to have,” I say. “You can only be speaking from experience. You know exactly what it’s like to have parents that lie to your face every day,” I observe, taking a shot in the dark. “But their secrets are buried with them.” 

Bruce stiffens his face, turning ghostly-white. He parts his lips in shock. Bringing up his parents was a low blow, but he didn’t give me much of a choice. In that split-second he’s distracted I lower my glasses and scan his left pocket. There’s a wad of receipts, ranging from General Stores to a five-star motel in Metropolis. Squeezed between the mess is a Smallville Crow’s keychain. At first, I think my eyes are playing tricks on me, but there’s no mistaking the black crow hanging on the keychain or the cute, googly-eyed Stitch. That keychain belonged to Bri, which means Maggie saw Bri before she died.  

Jackpot. It’s a long shot, but if I retrace Bri’s steps I might be able to find who tortured Maggie. My instincts tell me Dr. Whitney is at the heart of both instances, but I feel like I’m still missing crucial pieces to the jigsaw puzzle. 

Bruce recovers from my attack quickly, his face growing blank. “Your parents are still alive,” he states, almost resentfully. “There’s still hope for you. It’s not too late. You can go back. Talk to them.” 

I’m done talking. They had ages to tell me the truth and refused to. Now, it’s up to me. Some good, old-fashioned investigative reporting is just what the doctor ordered. 

I frown and think for a second. There is nothing back in Smallville for me, but pain. My parents are not going to tell me the truth ever. I’m content to go on pretending I’m human. The humane thing to do will be to help Maggie, catch the killer, and end this cycle of suffering. It’s my responsibility to help those who can’t help themselves, my fake parents taught me at least that much. I’m needed here in Metropolis. 

“They might not be my parents,” I argue.  

“That shouldn’t matter. They still raised you. They’re your family.” Bruce says. 

I smile sadly at him, quite proud of my performance. I should win an Oscar. I muster up some misty tears. “Do you really mean that?” 

“Of course I do,” Bruce claps my shoulder. “I want what’s best for you, Kansas.” I fight scrunching up my face in disgust. 

“Maybe you’re right,” I concede, slumping against Bruce. I start to shake and Bruce embraces me in an awkward hug. My slippery fingers slide into his pocket and fasten around the keychain. “I do miss Ma’s apple pie,” I slide the keychain into my pocket, Bruce, is none the wiser. 

 “Eat some for me,” Bruce suggests, no doubt in his mind that he has won the battle. 

“You should come with me,” I say. “Smallville could be your home too,” I mentally grimace. As much as I would love to have an older brother around, now isn’t the time to get all mushy. There’s a killer on the loose, possibly a serial killer. 

Bruce freezes and smartly shuts his mouth. “Smallville isn’t for me, but I’ll come visit.” 

“I’d hold you to that,” I nod, heading to the door. I can’t believe Bruce is falling for this, but then I remind myself he doesn’t know me. 

“Clark?” I stop halfway out the door and face him. “I should have been there for you. I’m sorry.” 

“You’re here now,” I shrug. “Better late than never.” 

“I know, but . .” Bruce falters and runs a hand over his weary face. “If you need anything, call me, okay? Even if it’s just to talk,” he says. A knife twists in my gut. Why does he have to be so nice all of a sudden? It’s making lying to him much harder. “You’re not alone. You’ve got me, okay?” 

“That goes both ways,” I say. “I don’t want you going down any dark alleyways without me.” I grimace, realizing my poor word choice a second too late. 

Bruce grunts and nods curtly. I offer him one last smile and slip out of the room before Bruce realizes I’ve pulled one over him. 

I hail a taxi and head back to Hob’s Bay, a plan slowly forming. The twenty-odd minutes in the car feels like twenty years. Smallville swims in the corner of my eye. A redhead crosses the street and I ache for Lana’s coy smile. On the bench, a golden retriever is snuggling next to a homeless guy; it reminds me of Shelby. Suddenly, I feel Ma’s calloused hands holding me fast as she consoles me after Shelby’s death. 

We drive by an apartment complex. Through a misty window, I spot a father and son laughing. My throat tightens at the memory of Dad teaching me how to dribble. I dribbled so hard that I punched a hole through the concrete. My eyes sting. Smallville was never my home. It was an illusion of happiness. I don’t have a home. Bruce’s words haunt me. The longer I stay away, the more pain I cause my parents. 

Parents who have been lying to me from day one. I point blankly asked them why I was so different, and they gave me some bullshit, hallmark answer. It’s their fault I ran away. If they were honest with me, things might be different. If they were honest, I would have never joined the football team. Pete and I might still be friends. I lean against the window and watch the city lights burn against the sky.

The phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a good thing I charged it the other night at Bibbo’s. The battery is at 25%. I pry it out of my pocket and answer. 

“It’s your favorite alien girl.” 

I frown and sit up straight. “Huh?” 

“If you can’t recognize my voice, what are you thinking about, Skywalker?” 

 I lean back and exhale sharply as I remember our earlier conversation. “Sorry,” I apologize. “It’s been a weird night.” I hope she’s watching Netflix and not doing something dangerous. 

“You want to talk about it?” she sounds earnest, but knowing her she’s looking for another angle to exploit. 

“We’ll be breaking one of your golden rules,” I point out. “No family drama,” I quote her, mimicking her voice. 

LadyTruth laughs. “That’s quite a talent you’ve got there,” I hear the amusement in her voice and find myself smiling. “You should be a voice actor.” 

“Or a cyclops,” I say darkly. Take away one eye and I fit the bill. Gigantic, super strong, prone to emotional outbursts, and can mimic their victim’s voices flawlessly. 

“I thought you were past the moody ‘I’m a monster phase’,” LadyTruth wonders, a hint of worry in her tone that achingly reminds me of Smallville. A home I will never see again. I bite my tongue. Every fiber of my being wants to tell her the truth, but the truth is dangerous for both of us. 

“You need to stop calling me,” I say. I should hang up, but I can’t bring myself to do it. “It’s not safe.” 

 “No, we’re friends, and we’ll-” 

“Friends that don’t even know each other's names,” I cut her off. “Face it, LadyTruth, it’s better this way.” 

“You’re my only friend,” she blurts out. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I shake my head and shove a fist into my pocket. The cabby driver keeps his eyes glued to the road, but his ears perk up slightly. The traffic trudges along and gradually becomes a parking lot. The flashing lights of a police car wink in the distance. “You have friends.”  

“Friends that like to call me Nosy Bitch behind my back,” she says with a note of irritation and resignation. “Witch of Metropolis is a personal favorite of mine.” 

Guilt gnaws at my insides. At one point we had toyed with the idea of me coming to Metropolis to meet her. It had been all in good jest, we both knew the two of us meeting was impossible. But now that I’m here, it feels like I’m letting her down on an astronomical level. 

“Sure beats being called Godzilla or alien.” I mentally kick myself.

Lois chuckles. The sound of her laughter fills me with sunshine. “Tell those losers you’ll fry their brains out if they don’t shape up,” she says deadly serious. 

My mouth falls open. I rack my brain, trying to pinpoint a moment in the past I let slip the nature of my fiery condition. I can’t believe I slipped up so royally.  I can’t believe she would ever suggest such a foul course of action. She must know, that’s not how I roll. My heartbeat is a thunderous roar in my head. 

And then LadyTruth lets out a stream of wheezing giggles. The taut muscles in my chest start to relax.  

“Godzilla my ass,” she swears. “Your friends don’t actually call you that?” 

Clarkzilla actually, but she doesn’t need to know specifics. “I’m clumsy and break things a lot.”   

“Honestly . . .” her laughter crackles against my eardrum. “Imma not sur-prized,” she wheezes. You give off this super dork vibe.”

Funny word choice. “You think I’m super odd?” 

“Nothing wrong about being a dork. Own it Skywalker,” she gives her unsolicited advice. “You know what they say, nerds rule the world.” 

“Right,” I agree, secretly relieved. Her peculiar word choice was just that, a simple coincidence. There’s no way she knows how odd I really am. There’s a scratching noise on the other end as LadyTruth writes something down and she hums softly to herself. Silence drolls on and I contemplate hanging up on her. She’s better off without me. 

“I need your unbiased opinion on something,” she announces in a hurried breath as if she knows she is close to losing me. 

“I’m not sure how much help I’ll be, but . . . I’m a good listener.”

“There’s this guy,” Oh, God, shoot me now. Doesn’t she have girlfriends for this? “We bumped into each other earlier, and I could tell he was upset . . . possibly suicidal.” She falters as if she’s not sure how to go on. “Anyways, I know he’s in trouble. Should I go after him or let nature take its course? It’s been bugging me all day.” 

Wow. I’m speechless. That was not at all what I thought she was gonna ask me. I swallow hard and contemplate my next words. “You’ll probably know better than me,” I shrug. “He’s your friend. What does your gut tell you?” 

“First, he’s not my friend. We just met,” she elaborates. “Second, my gut is telling me he is walking into a trap.” 

“Trap as in storming Mordor with no plan,” I frown. “Or trap as in getting captured by Darth Vader and tortured.” 

There’s a gagging noise on the other end and the distinct sound of her dropping the phone. “You are such a dork! Honestly, with a name like Skywalker16, I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Dad got me into Star Wars and Ma read J.R.R. Tolkien at bedtime,” My throat closes up at the mention of my parents and doubt invades my bloodstream. Bruce was right about one thing: I do have people in Smallville that love me. 

“As much as I want to hear about your cornbread-fed childhood. NOW IS NOT THE TIME,” Ladytruth bites out. “Someone’s life is in danger . . . or maybe it’s too late. I knew it was a trap and still, I let him go in there!” she starts to hyperventilate; her words slurring together in wheezing gasps of panic. “I should have followed him. He’s probably sinking at the bottom of Hob’s Bay as we speak.” 

“Calm down.” 

“I am calm! I am perfectly calm!’ She screams into the receiver. “Why would I not be calm?” 

“I just meant slow . . .” 

“You would be freaking out too if you know what I know.” 

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” I say even though I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for or what the hell she’s blabbering on about. “It bothers me also when people are in danger.”  Best I can figure, one of her sources has landed himself in a sticky situation and she’s battling with her conscience whether to help him or not. 

“So you’re saying go after him?” 

“I didn’t say that,” I hurriedly say. The last thing I want is for her to run headlong into danger. “You need to be smart about this.” 

“I’m always smart,” she hisses. 

“I know, I know,” I quickly add. “I just meant make smart choices. If this guy is really in trouble, you should call the cops.” 

“The cops?” she repeats incredulously. “They’re about as useful as a broken colander.” 

“You don’t mean that . . .” 

“Yes, I do. They won’t be able to find their way out of a paper bag,” she grumbles. “And one of them is on the take. I’m sure of it.” 

“You have no proof of that . . .” I start to argue.  

“There are way too many unsolved homicides to dismiss the possibility,” she retorts. “Someone is covering it up.” 

“It’s all over the news,” I point out. “The police are not deliberately withholding information.” 

“Of course, they are,” she says with a note of cynicism. “The official story is that Routh was a hit and run.” 

“Now you’re just making up stories!” I grind my teeth together in frustration. “I’ve read Bri’s report. It’s most definitely not a hit and run.” 

“You’re on a first-name basis with a dead girl from Smallville?” I hear the skepticism in her voice. 

“Bri is a common nickname for Brianna,” I hurriedly say, too late realizing my lapse in judgment. 

“But you said it with familiarity as if you knew her personally,” she observes thoughtfully. “And I didn’t mention her first name. Yet, you knew exactly who I was talking about,” she muses. “It took me months of sleuthing and hard work to get my hands on the homicide report. And you expect me to believe a guy from a hicktown just happened to get his hands on it.”  

“You’re reading into this too much!” I snap. “Bri is a nickname. End of the story.” 

“Am I?” She challenges. “Then explain to me how you managed to read the report.” My throat grows tight, eyes prickling with the memory of those grotesque crime photos.

“The only possibility is that the MPD followed a lead to Smallville, which happens to be your hometown. While they were  there, you nabbed the report right from under them —- the how is a bit foggy.” 

“I’m not a criminal!” I snarl, resenting her analysis wholeheartedly. She’s hitting a bit too close to home to be comfortable.    

“Breaking a few rules is nothing to be ashamed of,” her tone softens. “It’s healthy even. Makes you human.” 

“I’m not like you!” I snap. “I don’t make a habit of breaking the law!” I clench my fist inside my pocket, fingers closing around the Crow’s Eye keychain. “I’m not sure I’m even human!” 

I gasp, wishing I could take those words back, but it’s out there now. Oddly, it feels liberating to say that to a complete stranger. It makes me realize how ridiculous this alien theory of mine is. It’s stupid.

“If you’re not human, then what are you?”     

“I don’t know . . .” I start to open up about all the doubts I’ve been having, and common sense returns. She could use this information against me. I can’t trust LadyTruth. “I don’t know why I said that,” my hand tightens around the phone. “That was a stupid thing to say. Of course, I’m human.” 

“You’re scaring me Skywalker,” LadyTruth says worriedly. 

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” 

“I’m not scared of you,” she quickly adds. “I’m scared for you. The last few times we’ve talked you’ve seemed off, on edge even,” she observes. “I’m a good listener, ask anyone,” she prattles on without pausing for air. “Is there something you want to get off your chest?” she asks. “You can trust me, Girl Scout’s honor.” 

“I have a hard time picturing you going door to door, selling cookies.” 

“You’re deflecting,” she says. “My therapist says it's a form of distancing.” 

“You see a shrink?” I marvel. 

“Don’t change the subject, Skywalker,” she admonishes. “We’re talking about you, not my problems.”

“I appreciate the concern . . . really I do,” I say. “But my life is messy and bizarre,” I eye the cabby driver, whose eyes are glued on the road ahead, but no doubt he’s listening in to my conversation. “You won’t believe the crazy things I’ve done – I hardly believe it myself.”

“Try me. I might surprise you,” she implores. 

“I can’t, I’m sorry,” I bite my lower lip, conflicted. She’d never speak to me again . . . or she might have the answers I’ve been searching for. But now is not the right time. “It’s not something I can talk to a stranger about.”  

“You still see me as just another online girl.” 

“You’re the only girl I talk to from online,” I admit. “But that doesn’t change the fact we’re practically strangers.” 

“And you’re the only one I talk to online,” she deadpans. “Let me help you,” she pleads. “I can sense how much whatever is upsetting you, is eating you up inside. Having an unbiased ear couldn’t hurt.” 

“And landing the story of the century won’t hurt you either!” I snap. “Well newsflash, Lady, I am not your ticket to the big leagues!” I growl. 

“I was only trying to help . . . this is not about a story.”

“It always is with you,” I say. “You’re always on the hunt for the next scoop.” 

“You’re not some random story to me, Skywalker,” she reassures, her voice never losing its sincerity. “I just want to help. Why is that so hard for you to believe?” 

“Help the loser who walked into Mordor,” I grind out. “I don’t need your help.”      

“Fine, I will!” she snaps and hangs up on me.

Chapter Text

The remainder of the drive back to the Southside is in blissful silence. LadyTruth’s angry voice screams in my head. She has no right to be upset! She has no idea the stress I’m under. It’s not any of her damn business. We’re not friends, not really. If she so much gets a whiff of anything ‘Supernatural,’ she’d expose me. She’s an intern at the Daily Planet! I have a right to keep my secrets. She was the one who said, ‘No family drama.’ I am simply following her rules. She shouldn’t be angry. She has no right to be angry. 

Metal crumbles in my clenched fist. I gasp and hold up the snapped iPhone in one hand. “Spectacular,” I grumble. I roll the window down and toss the remains outside before the cabby driver can see the incriminating evidence. The stench of fish and decaying flesh assaults my senses, and I gag. I look to the driver to see if he notices the weird smell. I’m rewarded with a bored, tired expression. There is something seriously wrong with this neighborhood. I can’t be the only one who smells the rotting bottom of Hob’s Bay. 

I scan the sporadic faces in the neighborhood. It is late so not many are out. Squeezed between two rundown buildings, a shadowy figure nails an old man to the wall, the steel edge of a knife flashing between them. A teenager with colorful hair and piercings offers a plastic bag to a younger kid with green pills in it. The deeper we drive into the neighborhood, the more uncomfortable I get. We drive by an old, rustic apartment complex in dire need of repairs; a pregnant girl sits on the steps, hunched over and crying. She meets my eyes, full of hopelessness and despair. 

Finally, the taxi rolls to a stop in front of Ace of Clubs, and I pay the driver. He shakes his head in disapproval and drives away. The rotting smell from the bay is stronger here. I flip my hoodie on and zip up my jacket, wrapping Ma’s scarf around my nose. A smidge better. How does everyone else not smell that? I shake my head in wonderment and head into the pub. Bibbo’s greasy cooking mercifully drowns out the stench of the bay. The pub is packed with mobsters and a variety of underdogs, each with a chip on their shoulder. I straighten and march forward purposely, keeping my eyes trained ahead. I find an empty stool at the bar.  

“What can I get you, sailor?” a cute waitress bats her eyes at me. 

“Uh . . .” I falter for a moment, the sight of her full breasts freezing my brain. “Dry martini, shaken not stirred.” 

“Coming right up,” she winks at me. I can’t believe she fell for that. Guess it pays to show some confidence once in a while. 

“He’s fallen all to pieces,” Anna Taz winks at the crowd. She has traded her fishnets from the other night for a dainty tuxedo outfit and wears a magician’s tophat. Three magic boxes are set on the stage with intricate runes painted across their surfaces. She taps the first box with a wand and it slides open to reveal the lone head of a man. She taps the second box, which is a smidge bigger than the first and it too slides open to reveal the lower half of his body. I grimace, reminded of Arnold Garcia’s chopped body. 

“Let’s see if I can put him back together.” With a wave of her wand, the boxes soar into the air and hover overhead for a few minutes. I slide my glasses down and look for any wire holding the boxes afloat, perplexed when I find none. One by one, she stacks the magic boxes on top of each other without lifting a single finger. She turns an invisible handle on the middle box, and a doorway appears. A very confused Bibbo steps into the light. The crowd erupts with delighted applause. 

“I’ve got one last trick up my sleeve.” She waves a delicate, white-gloved hand. The keychain in my pocket suddenly feels heavier. It could be my imagination, but it seems like Anna Taz is slowly growing bigger. 

“A classic never dies,” she plucks her hat off and shoves a hand into it; all the while, her dark, mysterious eyes remain glued on me. 

Those twin orbs of midnight swirl and shift till suddenly I’m zooming through an endless darkness, the stars the only light guiding my way. Flames lick my face, scorching the skin. A raw scream tears through my throat, but no sound comes out. Sharp boulders soar past me, encased in balls of fire. Miraculously, the rocks don’t hit me. I keep falling and falling, tumbling to my certain death. No end in sight. 

Suddenly, a ginormous white hand breaks through one of the rocks and scoops me up, sparks flying. I blink, and the darkness dissipates. I’m back in Ace of Clubs, only it’s a lot larger than I remember. I sniff, my nose itchy and wet. I reach up to scratch my nose, and my heart stops. A white, fluffy paw swats at my all-too-small face. I squirm and thump my feet, but Anna Taz holds me in place by the ears. I get a sudden hankering for carrots.  

 “Thank you,” Anna Taz bows her head low. “You’ve been a wonderful audience as always Metropolis,” she slams her hat back on and with her free hand repositions me so she’s cradling me. This is absurd. Any second now, this illusion will end, and I will return to my rightful body. I peek over to the audience and find where I was sitting. The stool is empty, and a broken glass on the floor is the only sign I was ever sitting there. “Goodnight, Metropolis!” She screams ecstatically, the curtain sliding closed over us. 

“Gnirb su emoh,” she whispers under her breath. My vision grows hazy, and my stomach lurches in protest as the world spins madly. 

When I open my eyes again, I’m seated on a fluffy pink loveseat that feels eerily like rabbit fur. My mouth tastes like armpit, and it feels like a gorilla is dancing the Thriller in my skull. “What the hell . . .” I snap my lips together, trying to rid myself of the persistent taste of carrots on my tongue. I’m starting to regret seeking out Anna Taz’s help. 

“Dnib mih,” her eyes flash gold. A gold chain materializes out of nothing and slithers around my torso, holding me fast. I bulge against it, but struggling seems to only make the metal stronger. She strolls toward me and cups my chin, forcing me to meet her eyes. “Why are you following me? Did Allura send you?”

“You’ve got the wrong idea!” I scream. “I’m not here to . . .”  

“I think not, Kal-El,” she says in a quiet, dangerous voice that carries power. “You were there last night at S.T.A.R. Labs and before at Ace of Clubs.” Her dark eyes spark with fire. 

“This is all one big misunderstanding.” I strain against the binds and bite my tongue in frustration. What the hell is this thing made of? I should be able to break it.  

“I hope so for your sake. I do not take kindly to demons stalking me.” 

“I’m not a demon,” I say. “At least I don’t think I am.” 

“Either you are a child of Lillith, or you are not,” she frowns at me. 

“I don’t know what I am,” I say. I’d admit that the possibility of a demonic origin had crossed my mind.  “I just wanted your help,” I wince as the chains wind tighter around me, making it hard to breathe. 

“Help with what?” she hisses, her features softening a degree. 

“You can speak to the dead, right?” 

She rolls her shoulders back and raises her chin hotly. “What of it?” 

“Somebody is killing metahumans,” I say. “I need to speak to one of his victims. Maybe then I can stop him from killing again.”

“Allura really didn’t send you?” her frown deepens. 

“I have no idea who that is,” I grit my teeth. 

“Fine, I believe you,” she relents. “Don’t make me regret this Kal-El.” She waves a hand, and the gold chains evaporate into gold dust. I can finally breathe again. 

“Stop calling me that,” I growl, massaging my sore arms. Whatever that metal was it sure packs a punch. 

“It is the name your parents gave you, is it not?” she challenges. 

“No. My name is Clark,” I hiss. “Kal-El is just a name you made up to scare me with your voodoo magic.” 

“Trust me,” she snaps her fingers. I shriek as the fireplace roars to life behind me. “This is not voodoo magic.” She slides onto the loveseat next to me, wrapping the black robe tighter around her strong frame. I frown, I don’t remember her changing out of the tuxedo outfit. 

“So you’ll help me?” I ask, hope floating into my words. “For a price.” 

“I don’t have any more money . . .” I start. 

“I don’t want money,” her long fingers close around my bicep, subtly tightening her hold on me. She blinks at me through a curtain of black bangs. 

“No,” I stiffen. “I have a girlfriend . . . or I will once I ask her out.” Lana’s rosy face soars to the front of mind, eager and full of love. 

“Relax,” Anna laughs. “You are an intriguing specimen, to be sure,” she acknowledges me, licking her sultry lips. “But what I have in mind is more dangerous,” she promises. “With your unique gifts,” she traces my jawline with her fingertip, coming to rest on my top lip. My skin burns under her touch. “You could prove to be a valuable asset.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “I’m just Clark. Nothing special about me.”

“Come now, don’t be modest. I felt your aura,” she smirks. “There is nothing ordinary about you. You have rare power, Clark Kent,” she says. “With Superboy at my side, I will be unstoppable.” Her dark eyes pool with lust, lust for power. “In return for my services, I want your word that you will come to my aid, no questions asked, when I need you. That is my price.” 

“You want me to be your muscle for hire,” I clarify. That doesn’t sound so bad. She nods. “This favor will not involve anything illegal?” 

“Law enforcement will be the least of your worries if you agree,” she promises. “I have nasty friends.” 

“What the hell?” I extend my hand to her. “You’ve got a deal.” 

“In my culture, we seal bargains with a kiss.” The corner of her mouth twists up into a coy smile. She straddles my lap and kisses me. Her lips are moist and cold against mine, filled with the promise of adventure. The kiss is no longer than ten seconds but leaves me feeling as if Anna has infiltrated my mind and soul. 

She extends her hand, all businesslike. “I will need something that belonged to the deceased.” 

“Right . . . I had something,” I scramble through my pocket and offer her Bri’s keychain. 

Anna cradles it between two fingers, almost reverently. “Her spirit is restless.” 

“Murder will do that to you.” I grit my teeth, angry all over again. I only hope I’m not too late for the next poor soul. 

“No, you misunderstand,” Anna says. “She’s angry and confused. She might attack you. Remember, I’m only the vessel.”

“Do it,” I say. “I can handle it.” 

“No doubt, Superboy,” she chuckles softly to herself.  And then her eyes roll back in her head. A chilling presence caresses my mind much like before, but this time I’m prepared for it.  

Anna stands abruptly, white eyes glaring at me, her mouth agape in fear. “Stay away from her!” Anna madly dives for the poker stick by the fireplace and slams it across my chest. I don’t have time to duck, and the iron breaks in two. The force sends Anna stumbling back, and she topples onto the loveseat. She blinks up at me, white eyes ablaze with confusion. 

“Bri, it’s me,” I sit down beside her and rest a hand on her knee. “It’s Clark Kent . . . we went to school together.” 

Anna sags with relief and melts into me. “Clark,” she sobs. “I think aliens abducted me. I’ve been trying to find a way out for ages! Did they take you, too?” 

This day just keeps getting weirder and weirder. I swallow a lump in my throat as her words slowly sink in. She doesn’t realize she’s dead. I decide it’s best to play along. Maybe it’s the wrong call, but I’m not sure how one breaks this news gently. I can’t just come out and say, ‘Newsflash: you're dead.’ 

 “Where are we?” I frown, hating every second of my deceit.

She tilts her head to the side, listening carefully. “I don’t hear anyone. That’s a good sign. We’re alone.” She grabs my hand urgently. “Listen to me, Clark. There’s a weird blue elevator on the third floor . . . it will take you back to Earth. We just need to find a way to get out of this lab.”

She’s got to be kidding. It’s wrong to disrespect the dead, but she’s off her rocker's crazy if she thinks I am going to believe this for a second. There has to be a reasonable explanation that doesn’t involve aliens experimenting on her. Lab I can work with. Labs are filled with hallucinogenic drugs and mad scientists. That, I can believe. 

“How do you know about that?” I ask.