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The Chronicles of Smallville: A Series of Altered Adventures

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  • #16
    The Chronicles of Smallville: X-Ray

    * * * * *

    Lana coughed, hard, and blinked her eyes open, feeling her sore throat. She couldn’t see anything but herself in the dark space, whatever it was, and she rolled her head—

    “AAAH!” She shoved the skull away, freaked out – then realized as she pushed upward where she was. She was in a coffin! She’d been buried!

    She pushed desperately against the heavy stone lid, feeling utterly confined, utterly trapped – she had to get out, had to escape…but it didn’t look like she could at all.

    Elsewhere in the cemetery, Clark ran through the night, looking around desperately. There was the gravestone for the Langs, but no Lana—

    “Clark,” said a voice he didn’t really care to hear. He turned to see Whitney standing a couple of yards away, shadowed by nearby trees. “What are you doing here?”

    “I could ask you the same thing,” Clark said, noting that the jock sounded more surprised than anything else. “Where’s Lana?”

    “I dunno,” Whitney said, glancing around as he walked forward. “Nell said she came out here, but I can’t find her.”

    But a sudden horrible feeling had overtaken Clark, giving the lie to those words. Within a pocket of the jacket, “Whitney” had stored the meteor rock necklace, which Nell had provided “him” with after a visit to her house, believing the claim that “he” wanted to surprise Lana with it as part of making up with her.

    Clark struggled to keep his balance, his stomach roiling – as if he didn’t already have enough to worry about!

    “What’s the matter, Clark?” The not-jock didn’t sound or seem concerned, though. “Not feelin’ well?”

    Too fast for Clark to dodge, a long metal pipe whipped out from behind the not-jock’s back and crashed over his own, dropping him to the ground with a cry of pain. “There – does that help?” came the scornful yet eerily calm voice.

    Clark grimaced, trying to push himself to his feet. “I know it’s you, Tina,” he groaned, his voice weak.

    “Tina?” echoed “Whitney” as if in confusion. “Who’s that? Never heard the name before.” “He” swung the pipe down again, knocking Clark back down.

    The farm boy didn’t give up, though the blows from the metal only made the agony of the necklace worse. “Where’s Lana?” he groaned, pushing as hard as he could against the ground.

    “I am Lana!” the disguised Tina yelled, losing her cool. She smashed the pipe into his chest, and he cried out as he flew high into the air. He crashed down hard, smashing a tombstone to rubble, and groaned as he lay stunned for a moment.

    Tina was coming towards him in Whitney’s shape still, and he struggled to get up, weakened. “You don’t have to do this,” he groaned. “I know what it’s like…to live with a secret. I know what happened to your mother.”

    “Oh, please,” Tina scoffed, sticking the pipe into the ground and taking off Whitney’s jacket. “That was a lifetime ago. And don’t worry about the old Lana – you’ll be joining her soon.” She tossed the jacket away—

    —and as it landed, the meteor rock lost its grip on Clark once again, frustrated in its inanimate desire to slowly destroy him.

    “I thought I killed you last night,” Tina continued in Whitney’s voice, picking up the pipe again. “But I won’t make the same mistake twice – I’ll make sure to kill you now.” She swung the pipe down—

    —and it crashed onto empty ground. She stared in disbelief, then straightened up—

    —and a steely hand clamped onto her broadened shoulder, eliciting a gasp of shock. “You’ve already made the worst mistake ever,” said Clark threateningly, twisting her around to face him, his eyes deadly. “You tried to kill Lana.”

    With that, he grabbed the not-jock’s other shoulder and pitched firmly, sending her sailing into the air. She screamed in Whitney’s voice, the pipe falling away – and collided with a tree. She dropped to the base and lay senseless, her disguise melting into her true form.

    Clark turned away from her, sucking in a deep breath. “LANA!” he bellowed, terror for her safety filling his voice as it thundered through the cemetery—

    —and, as if on cue, his x-ray vision flashed on without being asked. He whipped around, looking quickly and desperately – there! A skeletal form struggled against the lid of a concrete coffin within a nearby tomb, but the struggle was already dying down—

    “NO!!!” Clark shot forward at super-speed, smashing right through the metal gate of the tomb and inside. He punched at the lid of the coffin, smashing a big hole in the center, then grabbed the two large pieces that resulted and moved them aside.

    Lana lay still in the coffin, and for a terrible moment he feared the worst – but then he heard her moan softly, her air restored. Gently as could be, he gathered her into his arms and carried her out of the tomb, whispering a near-silent thanks heavenward.

    She stirred and blinked her eyes open, gasping as her breath returned completely. He knelt on the ground, still holding her effortlessly. “Lana?” he asked softly.

    “Clark,” she whispered, her beautiful face showing such quiet joy and relief that he felt it could stop the world. “Thank God for you.”

    He smiled, feeling very warm inside, then bent down and kissed her softly. She moaned and slipped her arms around his neck, feeling so wonderfully alive after her brush with death.

    Tina herself wasn’t dead – but her shifting ability seemed to have been knocked out for good. She was loaded into an ambulance that drove to Lana’s house along with the police – Deputy Sheriff Ethan Miller, a heavily-mustached man who was an old friend of Jonathan Kent’s, took Clark and Lana’s statements himself. He’d been one of the two men to discover the money in Tina’s locker, and he quietly praised Clark for both the anonymous tip and the timely rescue. Clark took it in good grace – Lana had already given him all the thanks he could ever ask for.

    They leaned against the white picket fence and watched as the police spoke with Clark’s parents, whom he’d called over. “Hey!” a voice suddenly said, and they looked to see Chloe in a long gray jacket and red-and-black scarf. “I heard what happened.”

    “Did you come to see if I was okay?” Clark asked with a wry smile.

    Chloe smiled back. “Actually, as concerned as I always am about your physical well-being, I’m not here to see you.” She turned to Lana, fishing in her pocket – and drew out a small tape labeled “Graduation Address 1977”.

    Lana stared in amazement as she accepted it. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “How did you find this?”

    Chloe smiled wryly. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you, and it looks like you’ve had enough trauma for one night.” She glanced around meaningfully.

    Lana smiled widely, feeling deeply moved. “Chloe, thank you,” she said, touching her heart.

    “No problem,” Chloe said, and Clark had to smile himself at her civility. Maybe more than one relationship had changed lately.

    As she walked away, a new arrival appeared – Lex. “I came as soon as I heard,” he said. “Are you two okay?”

    “We’re fine, Lex,” Lana assured him. “Clark stopped Tina and got to me just in time.”

    Clark looked modest, and Lex smiled knowingly, unsurprised. He glanced into the ambulance and shook his bald head. “So that’s the one who impersonated me and started this whole thing off,” he mused. “Amazing what some people will do.”

    “Tell me about it,” Clark sighed. He looked sympathetically at Lana, who leaned against him.

    “Still,” Lex said, brightening, “like Lana said, you got there in time.” He smiled at her. “Sometimes, I think we’ve been touched by the hand of God.”

    “I know the feeling,” Lana whispered, smiling up at Clark, and he couldn’t help but grin. Lex moved off, figuring it was best to leave the two alone.

    Unfortunately, nobody had told Nell that – she came over and all but pulled Lana away from Clark, giving him a cold look. Lana shot her a glare, then looked apologetically towards Clark, who assured her with a smile that it was okay. She nodded, and as Nell walked inside with her, she mouthed, “Meet me here later.”

    He smiled and mouthed, “Okay,” then straightened up from the fence as his parents joined him. “How’s Tina?” he asked aloud.

    “Not seriously hurt,” Martha reported, “but she won’t be able to hurt anyone else.”

    Jonathan sighed. “I still don’t understand why a girl would do all that.”

    “I think I do,” Clark said. “Sort of. You go through life with a gift you have to keep a secret, and when you see everyone around you being normal, you get jealous.” He shrugged sadly. “You just want to be somebody else.”

    He glanced towards the door of the house, watching as Nell guided Lana inside, not wanting to let her niece go after nearly losing her. He couldn’t blame the woman – but did she really have to view him so negatively? He’d never do anything to hurt Lana – he’d sooner kill himself.

    Jonathan had moved away, but Martha noticed her son’s gaze “You really like her, don’t you?“ she said softly.

    There was that word again – like. That word that could never, ever do justice to what Lana meant to him. He looked at Martha seriously. “Mom,” he said, voice little more than a whisper, “I love her.”

    Her face revealed only sympathy – somehow, she didn’t doubt his words. He glanced towards the house, his vision peeling away the outer walls to show Nell hugging Lana. He sighed and looked away. “If you could see anything,” he asked his mother, “what would you do?”

    “Learn to close my eyes,” she said sagely.

    He nodded, seeing the wisdom in that. There was no point worrying about the things he could see but not change. He would simply have to settle for the things he could change, one at a time.

    He walked away from the house with Martha, leaving the girl he loved and her aunt to their reunion. Despite Nell’s unspoken wishes, he wouldn’t be gone forever – not even close.

    * * * * *

    The sky was no longer clear – it was cloudy. Furthermore, it was raining.

    Clark stood in the small amount of shelter provided by the overhanging roof, waiting patiently. He’d sneaked out after his parents had gone to bed, figuring that Lana would do the same with Nell.

    His instinct proved correct again – she appeared at the window in a pearly white nightshirt and pants, gesturing to him. He walked over and helped her get outside, then over to the cherry-red truck sitting in the driveway. They climbed inside, and he shut the door behind them, sitting in the navigator’s seat while she took the driver’s seat.

    She took the tape out of its plastic case and held it up, then gingerly put it into the player. He touched her shoulder gently as sound came over the speaker – a microphone being adjusted. Then a man’s voice said, “As principal of Smallville High, I would like to introduce the valedictorian of the class of 1977 – Miss Laura Potter.”

    Applause followed the announcement, and Clark watched Lana as she watched the speaker, already seeming affected. Then a dulcet female voice, clear despite the age of the tape, came over the speaker – and Lana found herself crying as she heard her mother speak. Clark held her close, rubbing her side, and listened just as intently.

    “Ladies and gentlemen, graduating seniors: good evening. Those familiar words open every graduation address at Smallville High, and I use them deliberately, because the rest of my speech will not be so reassuring.

    “I never made a difference here, but maybe my children can.

    “When I first came to Smallville High, I was full of hope – hope that I could make an impact, that it would be different for me. But of course, it wasn’t. I had thought that I could change Smallville instead of letting it change me. Unfortunately, four years later, I stand before you as valedictorian of the graduating class of 1977, and all I can tell you is that you should be ashamed of yourselves.

    “I know these speeches are supposed to be about memories, about shared moments that will last a lifetime. But my best memory of Smallville is the day I realized I could leave this town behind.

    “Though my memories are few, my regrets are many. I regret that I didn’t stand up for James Alexander when he was bullied in the cafeteria, that I didn’t speak up when Sally Adams left town because she was socially excommunicated by a group of girls she called friends. I should have spoken out, should have said something, should have raised my voice in protest. But I didn’t. I sat quietly with my mouth shut, just like the rest of you.

    “I put on my cheerleading uniform and my false pompom smile, and when the going got rough, I recessed into a book. That’s probably what got me here in front of you today. But I’d happily give it all back if I could. I’d trade in the pompoms and the straight A’s and the college acceptance for just one thing: the chance to stand up for what was right. So you see, you should be ashamed of yourselves, but no one is more ashamed than I.

    “Good luck with your futures. I hope that you leave the cruelty and ignorance behind – I know I will.”


    * * * * *

    The very next day, that speech was reprinted in the Torch under the headline “THE MOST CONTROVERSIAL SPEECH EVER GIVEN IN SMALLVILLE”, where many read the following introduction courtesy of Chloe Sullivan and then the speech itself:

    Twenty-four years ago, the SHS prom theme was “Saturday Night Fever,” Styx was voted band of the century, and in an unprecedented event, SHS valedictorian Laura Potter (mother of current SHS student Lana Lang) delivered a graduation speech that was never transcribed in the Torch due to its “controversial nature.” Well, today, since the Torch is all about controversy, we have decided to reprint the address in its entirety, because, as with most censored speech, it contains the words that most forcefully speak the truth. We hope you get as much from it as we did here at the Torch.

    One copy of the paper found itself torn apart, twisted up into a ball, and plunked straight into a trash can. The enraged reader stormed off in a huff, her heels threatening to stab through the floor. She had gotten a lot more than the Torch had hoped – or perhaps a lot less.

    This was no longer a mere contest of wills and words – it called for a massive re-strategy. As far as Dawn Stiles was concerned, Chloe Sullivan had just declared war – and she was going to fight back with every dirty trick in the book.

    But she wasn’t only going after Chloe. Whitney had told her what had happened last night with him and Lana – and what Lana had told him about Clark Kent and Tina Greer. And now the ex-cheerleader had flip-flopped and was insisting that Kent had saved her from Greer and that she’d never even seen Whitney that night! Ugh, she was such a lying hypocrat!

    She was gonna pay, though. Oh, yeah – they were all gonna pay. Kent, Lang, Sullivan – they were all frauds, just like everybody else. Nobody was good at all – it was just a lie they used to cover their dirty tracks. But Dawn swore, by every blonde hair on her head, that she’d find those tracks and throw the mud right where it belonged, where everybody would see it. She smirked at the idea – genius.

    Those freaks were finished!
    Last edited by superman_lives_on; 06-27-2010, 10:05 AM.

    Comment


    • #17
      Wow! What a brilliant rewrite of "X-Ray", my friend! Oooooh, that was one hot daydream Clark was having there at the beginning! And now he doesn't have to simply imagine what Lana looks like naked after seeing her in the shower! I certainly enjoyed all of the additional dialogue between them surrounding Lana finding out the truth about her mother and Clark's development of x-ray vision. Somehow, I had a feeling that Lana wouldn't be upset about Clark seeing her in the shower. Yikes, Tina was even more twisted in this one...I wonder if Whitney knows that it was Tina who came to his house and not Lana. I also very much enjoyed the fact that Clark didn't have to hide the fact that he saved Lana, and that he was with her when he heard the recording of her mother's speech. Ugh, I'm dreading what smears Dawn plans to spread about our heroes. I can't wait for the next installment!

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      • #18
        Awesome update, the Clana scenes were beautiful. I like your version of Smallville better the actual version. Please update soon.

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        • #19
          Yeesh, I hope Whitney doesn't go bragging that he slept with "Lana." Correct me if I'm wrong, but as a high school senior he should be about 17 or 18, and Lana's not quite 15 (her birthday party was in "Crave," which is a couple episodes away). That makes it statuatory rape. Hell, I'm surprised Nell encouraged Lana to date a guy that much older.

          On another note, I'm glad you had Lana discovering Clark's "allergy" to meteor rock (since he can't refer to it as kryptonite yet). Hopefully that'll make it easier to explain his actions when "Red" rolls around -- if you get that far, that is.

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          • #20
            Wow brilliant rewrite as said before. I hate Whitless. He's such an Idiot. If only Clark would kick him and show him who's boss. I loved X-ray the way you wrote it. Amazing job and I hope you can continue your brilliance with this story.

            ~~~~Clanagirl

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            • #21
              This is my very first post. I would like to use it by saying that I've been reading Smallville fan fiction for a little over a year now and this is one of the best stories I've read! As they say in the forums, PPMS!

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              • #22
                Please update soon

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                • #23
                  I love this story. You really capture the characters. Personally, I'd like to see a confrontation soon between Lana and Nell about Clark, now that Lana's broken up with Whitney.

                  Comment


                  • #24
                    The Chronicles of Smallville: Hallowed

                    FIVE
                    Hallowed

                    The leaves had lost their veneer of green, showing rich shades of gold and orange and red, and many had already fluttered free of the trees, borne upon gentle winds. Much of the grass had also lost its sheen, taking on yellowish and brown casts, and the plains resembled old parchment from a bird’s-eye-view. The days had become shorter and colder, and sometimes at night, one’s breath could be seen fogging out.

                    It was Sunday, close to the end of October, and autumn was clearly in full swing. In years past, Smallville had held Homecoming two weeks before this time…but that was back when it was still known as the Creamed Corn Capital of the World, back before the meteors fell. Ever since that dark day in 1989, Homecoming had been moved to early September, just a couple of weeks after school began, and the only special occasion now held here was one far older and more mythical…All Hallows’ Eve itself.

                    Right now, Clark wasn’t thinking about Halloween. He wasn’t even dwelling, in that gloomy manner he had down to a fine art, on the anniversary of his arrival on Earth. Lately, he’d started to think that life was too short to spend constantly feeling guilty for the destruction that the meteor shower had caused. At the moment, he was out in the back forty acres of the Kent Farm, land that his family had never used and likely never would.

                    He was putting it to use as of late, though. He stood at a roughly diamond-shaped chunk of flat, whitish rock he had plunked down. In his left hand, he was gently bouncing a baseball – in his right, he held a wooden bat.

                    He glanced around, making sure that he was alone – just in case something went wrong and he had to utilize his powers. No-one else was present, and he focused on the ball. Then he carefully tossed it upward, grabbed a firm hold of the bat, and swung as the ball came down.

                    Crack! The ball went hurtling away, arcing through the air as if it had been shot from a small cannon. He dropped the bat and ran, not letting himself break into super-speed, and easily reached first base – another flat chunk of whitish rock, shaped more like a square. He headed for second base, checking on the ball as he ran – it was still sailing through the air.

                    He went right over second base and darted towards third, reaching it with ease. He glanced towards the ball just in time to see it coming down to the ground a good distance away – then he shrugged and finished off with a home run. It wasn’t like there was anyone around to stop him.

                    He walked leisurely towards the spot where the ball had landed, finding it easily enough. He picked it up and bounced it lightly, his gaze a bit distant. As decent as he seemed to be, there was only so much he could test on his own – sooner or later, he’d need to enlist some friends to help him practice.

                    He looked towards the bases – and there he saw the closest friend of all walking towards him. A smile spread over his face as he began walking to meet her – but it faltered as he saw the look on her face. He knew that look all too well, and it instantly brought concern, worry, and protectiveness to the fore.

                    “Lana,” he said as he reached her, his own face showing all his concern. “What’s wrong?”

                    She inhaled through her nose and wiped at her eyes, smiling weakly at him. “No point in even trying to hide it, is there?” she remarked, her voice rather watery.

                    He shook his head gently and laid a hand on her shoulder, forgetting all about practice. “Not from me,” he said softly.

                    She sniffed a bit, then inhaled more deeply and let it out as a heavy sigh. “I thought I could handle hearing stupid rumors,” she began. “Goodness knows how many I expected to hear after dumping Whitney. But these…” She looked down, upset and miserable. “They really hurt me, Clark. And to think that anyone could actually believe them…”

                    Clark could practically feel his face darkening. He knew which rumors she meant – Dawn Stiles and her cronies had been spreading them quite efficiently and nastily over the past week. They claimed that she had slept with Whitney – and that she had seen him with Tina Greer. Never mind that she hadn’t gone near either the Kent Farm or the Fordmans’ house that day – never mind that Tina had been trying to take over her life, and thus had impersonated Lana in an effort to kill Clark the previous night, then again no doubt to get close to Whitney. No, that didn’t compute for the rumor mill – the truth never did.

                    He sighed and pulled Lana close, wrapping his arms around her as she leaned into him. “You know they’re wrong, Lana,” he said softly. “I know they’re wrong. Everyone who truly knows you knows that they’re wrong. And anyone who doesn’t know that just isn’t worth your time.”

                    She nodded slightly. “I know,” she whispered. “At least in my head. But I can’t help feeling hurt.” Then she looked up at him, her eyes seeming moist. “Especially since Nell doesn’t believe me.”

                    At that, Clark felt incredulous. He knew that Lana’s aunt didn’t like him and thought even now that Whitney really was the golden god that nearly everyone treated him as – but would she really go so far as to believe spiteful gossip over the word of her own niece, her own family?

                    Lana saw his incredulity and sighed. “Believe me, I wish I were lying,” she said, sounding rather bitter. “But no. She’s convinced that I slept with Whitney and that you were with Tina – and nothing I say is enough to convince her otherwise. She almost seems determined to believe that I did that with him – and she’s actually angry that I keep denying it.” She shuddered a bit, her expression showing pure disgust and hurt. “The worst part about all this is that she acts so reasonable until push comes to shove. It’s bad enough that she’s biased against you – it’s even worse that she acts as if her opinions are simple facts.”

                    Clark grimaced, knowing that she wasn’t exaggerating – it wasn’t a habit of hers at all. “Good Lord,” he murmured. “That’s sick.”

                    “Exactly,” she said, shuddering again. “The more I think for myself, the harder I find it to put up with her.” She looked up at him again, wiping at her eyes a bit. “And the more I want to scream at her that she’s wrong about you, about how my life should go. But I don’t think that’d do any good.”

                    He nodded silently, understanding how difficult holding all that in had to be. He wanted to say something to make her feel better, to assure her that it wasn’t wrong for her to feel such frustration and disgust. It wasn’t an easy task, though – after all, she had to live with the source of those feelings for a good while longer.

                    …or did she?

                    “Maybe it wouldn’t,” he finally said, “but I don’t think hiding that frustration forever would work any better. It’s your life, Lana, and your aunt has no right to dictate it – you’re not a kid anymore. And if she can’t realize that even when you explain it calmly, then does she really deserve to be your guardian? Besides,” he added with a note of strong disgust, “her attitude about Whitney sounds awfully close to insanity.”

                    “Tell me about it,” Lana murmured, her brow furrowing prettily as she considered his words. Did she really have to put up with this? How could someone with such an unhealthy view of the world be considered fit to be anyone’s legal guardian? Since when did that sort of thing turn out well?

                    Never, she admitted to herself with a soft sigh. The truth was, her relationship with Nell had suffered some serious damage as of late. She didn’t want that to be the case, but it was. And at this rate, it was unlikely that she’d be able to salvage anything from it.

                    She nodded a little, a look of sad acceptance on her face, then smiled wanly up at Clark. “I think I can deal with it…so long as you’re here to help me.”

                    He nodded back, smiling more firmly. “Always,” he vowed simply.

                    She inhaled softly, her own smile becoming warmer, then leaned up and pursed her lips. He happily bent down to meet them, and they shared a tender kiss. Though no words could be uttered, much was said in that simple and intimate touch. She especially tried to tell him what she did not yet have the courage to put into words…what she had whispered in his direction that fateful Tuesday in September.

                    They parted far too soon for their liking, and she backed away reluctantly – her own body refused to let her get far from him. She glanced around the field and smiled knowingly. “Been racking up your batting average?”

                    He chuckled and nodded. “And working on my pitch – at least as much as I can solo.” He shrugged a little. “Actually, I think I’ve gotten as far as I can on my own. I really need some buddies to help me practice.”

                    She grinned at the idea. “Oh, I think I know someone who’d like to volunteer.” Then she glanced down and let out a soft sound of amusement – he’d been so intent on talking with her that he’d let the ball drop to the ground. “Can’t let this happen too much,” she remarked, bending over to retrieve it.

                    “Nope,” he murmured – but he didn’t really hear her words. His eyes had developed a mind of their own and tracked over her lean figure, focusing on the way her jeans stretched across her perfect rear end as she bent over. He began to smile rakishly, remembering with piercing clarity how it looked without anything covering it but hot water—

                    —and, right on cue, his eyes began to heat up. He shut them and rubbed at them in mild dismay – lately, every time he so much as flirted with such thoughts, they started burning. He recovered in time to see Lana straighten up, holding the ball and wearing a knowing smirk. “You naughty boy,” she purred, her eyes flashing. “Were you checking me out again?”

                    He chuckled half-nervously, blushing. “Guilty. I can’t help it – you’re a wonderful view from any direction.”

                    She smiled slyly, the picture of pure mischief. “In that case, I’ll give back your ball if you give me your wood,” she offered.

                    His jaw very nearly got abruptly introduced to the ground at that. He mutely handed the bat over and received the ball, wondering when she had become so bold. She looked mildly surprised at herself, but not embarrassed – she just grinned and hoisted the bat, holding it firmly.

                    That sight left him unable to do anything but grin back as they walked away from the makeshift baseball diamond together. Little woman carrying a big stick – now that was something worth remembering. And if he burned for all this, so be it.

                    They reached the barn soon enough, dropping off the ball and bat and retreating without disturbing Jonathan, who was engaged in a bit of a wrestling match with the tractor. They walked to the farmhouse, and Martha let them in with a warm smile. “So, did practice go well?” she asked her son.

                    “Actually, yeah,” he said, smiling. “I think I have it all down, Mom. Of course, there’s only so much I can do on my own, and I think I’ve reached that limit.” He shrugged a little.

                    She saw where he was going and pursed her lips a bit, nodding. “We’ll have to see what we can work out.”

                    “It wouldn’t be a problem, Mrs. Kent,” Lana said. “I’d be happy to help, and I’m sure Pete and Chloe would too. I could probably talk a couple of others into participating.”

                    Martha smiled kindly at her. “I have no doubt you could, Lana. It’s just…well, we’re not used to letting Clark do any group athletics. But I do think we’d be doing him a disservice if we said no – and I know that Jonathan doesn’t want to do that.” She glanced in the direction of the barn. “Speaking of whom, is he…?”

                    “Still fighting with the tractor?” Clark finished wryly. “Yep. You know Dad – he never gives up easily, especially when it comes to stubborn equipment.”

                    “Unfortunately, I know all too well,” Martha said, rolling her blue eyes a bit. “Well, he’d better put it aside for now, unless he wants to miss out on lemonade.”

                    “I’ll pass on the message,” Clark grinned, and headed outside, knowing that he had a decent chance of breaking up the fight.

                    Martha almost chuckled as her son left, then smiled at Lana again. “Would you care to stay around for some?”

                    Lana’s face lit up, and she nodded eagerly. “Yes, thank you – I’d love to.” She smiled dryly. “They don’t exactly serve lemonade at church.”

                    “No, they don’t,” Martha agreed. “That’s why I always serve some afterward – it makes for a sort of teatime before a Sunday roast dinner.”

                    Upon hearing that, Lana’s stomach let out a growl of approval. She glanced down at it in surprise, then blushed. “Sorry. I’ve never really had one of those.”

                    “Don’t worry about it,” Martha said with a reassuring smile. “I’m sure you’ll have something just as good at home. Of course, I’d be happy to have you over for dinner if it were ever possible.”

                    Lana felt touched to hear that. “I’d like that,” she said…then she looked down a bit, feeling sad. “But I don’t think Nell would like it at all. There’s a lot I don’t think she would like.”

                    Martha looked troubled. “I don’t mean to pry,” she began, choosing her words carefully, “but if you need to talk to someone about anything…I’m willing to listen.”

                    For a moment, the young brunette looked at the redheaded woman, considering. Truth be told, she did want to talk about this – and not just with Clark, though his support had been absolutely invaluable. She felt that she needed someone who could relate to her more from a female perspective. And really, who better than the mother of the boy who meant so much to her?

                    She nodded and let Martha guide her to a seat on the couch. “I’m frustrated with Nell,” she said without preamble. “So frustrated I almost can’t think straight. And I hate that it’s come to this, but I don’t see any way out of it.”

                    Martha remained silent, though she nodded silently in invitation to continue. Lana cleared her throat and said more hesitantly, “I’m guessing you’ve heard the nasty rumors that have been going around about me.”

                    The older woman looked even more troubled, but also sympathetic. “I’ve heard. And I don’t believe them for a moment, Lana. There’s no way you’d ever do what they claimed.” She shook her head. “Clark was furious when he first found out about them. I’ve never seen him so angry on someone else’s behalf – not even when he defended that poor girl last month.”

                    Lana nodded, remembering for a moment how enraged he had been at that pep rally gone sour. She was touched at Martha’s faith in her, not unlike Clark’s own faith…if only Nell could show the same. But then she probably wouldn’t be having this conversation. She inhaled deeply, then said, “Well, when I told Nell that it wasn’t true, that I haven’t gone anywhere near Whitney ever since I broke up with him…she didn’t believe me.”

                    At that, Martha didn’t just look troubled – she looked downright appalled. Lana sighed. “I wish I were making this up – but I’m not. And she didn’t believe me when I told her how Clark saved me from Tina, either. She hardly even listened to me when I got upset at her for making up lies about my mother. And whenever I try to explain why I broke up with Whitney, she won’t even let me talk!” She stopped for a moment, trying to calm herself, but it was a futile effort – the words came out anyway, full of pain and upset. “She’s just so biased and closed-minded, and I’m getting sick of it really fast! I don’t think I can stand it any longer – I just…”

                    She broke off, covering her eyes and trying badly not to cry – she hated to look weak. But her eyes were moist, and she was sure she felt a tear slip free anyway. Oh, what was the use? What was the point of trying to be anything more than that hurt little girl who—

                    A gentle pair of arms slipped around her, and she gave a little squeaking sound of surprise. Then she leaned into Martha’s hug, accepting the silent support…and feeling very warm inside, not unlike how she felt whenever Clark hugged her. It was hardly a surprise…who else could have taught him such tenderness?

                    She smiled a bit and moved away, wiping at her eyes – she already felt better. Martha smiled gently at her, showing nothing but sympathy and empathy. “I’m always willing to listen, Lana,” she reiterated softly.

                    Lana nodded, feeling very grateful for that, and whispered, “Thank you.”

                    The older woman nodded back – and then the door swung open, revealing her son and husband. “What’s this I hear about lemonade, sweetheart?” Jonathan asked with a wide grin. “Oh – hello, Lana.”

                    Lana grinned back. “Hi, Mr. Kent. Did you give up on wrestling the tractor?”

                    Jonathan snorted softly. “Not a chance. I’m just taking a break between rounds.”

                    “At this rate, Dad, the fight’s never going to end,” Clark teased him lightly, his grin making his eyes sparkle. His father made a noncommittal sound in response, his mother rising from the couch to fetch the drink in question. The farm boy walked over to his not-truly-secret love and looked at her tenderly, asking without words if she was okay. Her own expression softened, and she nodded slightly. He smiled, glad, and escorted her towards the table as his mom made sure the lemonade was perfect.

                    Riiiing! The sound of the phone startled them as they sipped from their cups. Jonathan shook his head, wondering who could be calling, and walked over, answering it. “Kent residence.” He blinked in surprise. “Hello, Chloe…yes, he’s right here.” He handed the phone to his son.

                    “What’s up, Chloe?” Clark asked; Lana watched as he listened. “No, I haven’t seen anything in the paper…” He listened again…and his face suddenly went pale. “What?” he whispered, his voice barely audible; his hand shook a bit, and he barely kept himself from dropping his drink. “You’re sure?” He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “Oh, God…yeah, okay. I will.” He hung up, looking horribly shocked.

                    Lana walked forward and touched his arm gently. “What is it?” she asked softly.

                    He looked at her, swallowed hard, and said in a voice that was barely steady:

                    “Someone was murdered last night.”

                    * * * * *

                    Though school was out until tomorrow, Clark and Lana could still get inside – after all, he was a member of the Torch staff. They walked through the building, their steps brisk. They’d barely spoken since leaving the farm – they didn’t think they could manage to say anything until they had gotten the whole picture and could deal with it.

                    Chloe met them just outside the Torch office, which was still on the second floor. Frankly, she was actually grateful for one aspect of Lex Luthor’s presence around town, though she hadn’t yet met the man – he’d funded full repairs after the late Walt Arnold had burned the place and almost killed her. Were it not for him, she might have had to completely relocate the paper for quite a while. “Hey,” she said, her expression both grim and apologetic. “I’m sorry about this, Clark – but I figured you needed to know about it.”

                    “Probably,” Clark allowed, not holding it against her. He let Lana follow Chloe inside first, then walked after them. “You didn’t say that much on the phone, just that someone was murdered.”

                    “That’s because I thought it’d be better to give you all the details right here,” Chloe nodded, walking to her computer. “I got all this from a contact in the sheriff’s office – an officer I talked out of giving me a speeding ticket. The guy who was murdered was found early this morning.”

                    “The officer sent us the details from the initial report,” Pete provided grimly, coming around Chloe with some faxed photographs. “And the thing is, it’s somebody we know.” He handed Clark and Lana the pictures. “It’s Jeremy Creek.”

                    Clark stared in paralyzed shock at one picture. It was indeed Jeremy – or rather, it had been. He’d been found lying on the floor of his house, stripped down to his boxers…and his chest had been painted with an all-too-familiar sign, a big red S.

                    Lana covered her mouth, feeling sickened and horrified at the sight. Clark grimaced, equally sickened, and swallowed hard, looking away from the picture lest he lose control of himself. Dear God…not this mess again. It had been bad enough when Jeremy, driven mad by his electrical powers, had come back to Smallville and sought vengeance upon his former jock tormentors…now he had once again become a victim, and this time, no-one could save him.

                    Clark inhaled through his nose, managing to keep his stomach from crawling up his throat, and asked in a would-be calm voice, “How did he die?”

                    Chloe pursed her lips together. “Well…that’s the thing. At first, the police figured that the killer had cut him open somewhere.” She nodded towards the picture. “That isn’t paint on his chest.”

                    Oh, yuck. That just made it even worse. Clark took another moment to compose himself – Lana remained silent, not trusting herself to be able to speak. “But?”

                    “But,” Pete picked up, looking a bit green, “there wasn’t enough blood out for that, or so the guy says. There’s only the S – and it’s too regular. No cuts found yet.”

                    Chloe nodded grimly. “Look at his face.”

                    It was a risk for their stomachs, but Clark and Lana looked…and they saw what Chloe meant. Jeremy’s face was frozen in an unmistakable expression, his dead eyes wide and mouth open, his skin almost paler than the rest of his body. It was an expression of fear.

                    No…not just fear. Terror. Absolute, gut-wrenching terror.

                    “Whoever or whatever killed him,” Chloe said, her voice very soft, “they didn’t do it by physically harming him. The evidence suggests that he was literally scared to death.” She shook her head a little. “I don’t know how, but it fits.”

                    Clark had to put the pictures down – his hands were beginning to clench into fists, and he had enough presence of mind to not want to tear anything. He turned away, trying to calm himself, but it was no use. Now that the initial shock had worn off, anger was rapidly seeping in – just as it had when he’d first heard those horrible smears against Lana. It was more than horrible enough that Jeremy had been murdered – the killer had also made a mockery of him, of his past torment and pain. There was no way it could be a coincidence – whoever had done this knew what had happened to the kid twelve years ago, and they had used it to mark his pointless death. It made Clark want to hunt down the monster and pound him into pulp—

                    —and then he groaned, rubbing at his eyes. They’d started burning again. It wasn’t the first time they had done so due to anger – when he’d heard of the rumors involving Lana, he had been furious that anyone would be so cruel as to start them, and his eyes had begun to heat up much as they did whenever his hormones threatened to get the better of him. Unfortunately, there wasn’t even a pleasant association as there had been when he’d seen her in the shower – there had only been pain and anger and frustration in degrees he’d never felt before.

                    It was happening again now, and he tried to bite down on it. He felt Lana’s hand touching his arm – that definitely helped. After a long moment, he looked at her gratefully, then cleared his throat and turned to his two buddies. “Do the police have any leads?”

                    “Nope,” Pete sighed. “That’s another weird thing about this. They checked Jeremy for fingerprints or DNA evidence, but so far, they haven’t found any.” He shrugged. “I dunno what to tell you, man.”

                    Clark nodded slightly, taking this in. It looked like the killer was meteor-infected – perhaps he or she had the power to appear as something that would terrify the victim to death. But why the lack of any identifying evidence? Even Tina Greer had left fingerprints, and she had been able to appear as anyone she wanted.

                    Lana looked at him, knowing that he must be mulling this over. She couldn’t help but do the same – this was definitely a mystery. An especially tragic one for sure, given how Clark had managed to save Jeremy from himself – he had to be horribly upset about that, and she didn’t blame him one bit.

                    Why would anyone do this? What was the point? Was the killer one of Jeremy’s former tormentors, seeking revenge on him for putting the other ex-jocks into comas? And if so, how had they managed to scare him to death and not leave any marks aside from that hideous S?

                    At this point, it didn’t make any real sense to them. But neither of them was going to let it stay that way, and nor would Chloe or Pete. There were a lot of things in Smallville that didn’t immediately make sense, but that wasn’t the same as never making sense at all. They would figure this out – and, Clark and Lana vowed, whoever had killed Jeremy would be locked away forever.

                    Knock-knock. “Lana?”

                    They looked towards the door in surprise – they hadn’t expected anyone else to come around. Lana was especially surprised, but not at all unpleasantly. “Megan,” she said, smiling a little. It was Megan Calder, one of the few members of the cheerleading squad to remain friends with her after her departure.

                    “Can I come in?” Megan asked Chloe, who nodded – she saw no reason to deny the girl entrance. Megan walked over to Lana, and Clark noted – not for the first time, and likely not the last – how short his secret girlfriend really was. Megan was fairly tall for a girl, five foot eight at a guess, and made her ex-squadmate’s petite nature stand out even more – at least, he thought so. It was only expected that he’d be noticeably taller than her, but other girls being so really drove the point home.

                    He shook off the idle thoughts, which had been more for distraction from the murder than anything else, and watched silently. Megan’s green eyes looked troubled, and she idly brushed a lock of long blackish-brown hair away from her smooth face. “How are you holding up?” she asked Lana.

                    The shorter brunette shrugged, her expression mild – but her eyes couldn’t hide the pain. “Not very well,” she admitted. “I just can’t get over how anyone could be so petty.”

                    Megan grimaced, nodding. “This is exactly what your mom wished she’d stood up against,” she said softly. “People being treated so horribly, getting mocked and bullied…”

                    “Yeah,” Lana whispered. “And it’s no better than seeing it happen to other people, like Abby…or the Scarecrow victims.” She glanced at Clark, who nodded (and winced) slightly in acknowledgment. Had Jeremy not been a victim of that kind of cruelty, he might not have become a victim of the meteors…and now this.

                    Megan looked at Lana with a very tender, sympathetic expression, her hand gently slipping onto her friend’s shoulder. “I know those rumors are lies, Lana,” she said softly. “And I’m not the only one on the squad who does. I know that Haley and Delia aren’t buying them either, and I’m pretty sure Chrissy isn’t.” She smiled gently. “Not all of us are as superficial as Felice.”

                    Lana smiled back, nodding a little. “I know you’re not, Megan. And I’m glad you’re not.” Then she sighed, admitting softly, “I just wish more people were so sensible.”

                    “Their loss,” said Megan firmly, slipping her arms around Lana. The two friends hugged warmly, and Clark found himself smiling. He’d already known that he wasn’t the only person to reject the rumors as the lies they were, but it was deeply reassuring to see someone else demonstrate it so openly.

                    Lana felt just as reassured, and she sighed softly as Megan held her in the long-familiar embrace. Her old friend was right – if other people chose to believe Dawn’s disgusting rumors over her own testimony, it was their loss. She didn’t owe them anything.

                    She was so done with trying to please everyone. After all, hadn’t that been what allowed Nell to keep her and Clark apart for so long?

                    * * * * *

                    It was amazing, really, how long he’d been apart from her.

                    Clark adjusted the lenses on his telescope as he peered through it, focusing on the blue house across the fields. He had no trouble finding what he was looking for – or rather, who. She was in her bedroom, running a brush through her long and lustrous locks as she stood before her mirror, her body fitted perfectly into a light blue blouse and denim khakis. He smiled as he watched, admiring her. She could leave that hair utterly tangled and she would still be the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on.

                    For a long while, this had been the only way he could see her. Thanks to that meteor rock necklace, he hadn’t stood a chance of getting near her without becoming sick and weak – and that had left no chance of a real conversation with her, though he had wished desperately that it were otherwise. Watching her through the telescope had been the best he could do to soothe that ache of longing. Even now, after they had broken down several of the barriers between them, he couldn’t help but enjoy it.

                    She put her brush down, evidently satisfied, and glanced towards the window, smiling softly. He felt his heart skip a beat – surely not. He couldn’t possibly be that lucky—

                    Her expression turned sly, her smile widening, and she did a little pirouette, showing herself off for him. He couldn’t help but grin at that, swallowing as his heart started beating faster as if to make up for pausing. Apparently he was that lucky – she knew that he’d been watching her all this time, and she wasn’t complaining, just as she hadn’t complained when he’d seen her in the shower—

                    He blinked his eyes hard as he felt a sudden warning spike of heat, as if his own body were chiding him for enjoying that sight. He rubbed at them a little, then resumed peering through the telescope. She was walking out of her room, and his gaze was drawn to the bounce and sway of her hips, artful and enticing and—

                    The heat surged even more, eliciting a gasp of pain and dismay; he ripped his eyes away from the telescope and clutched at them, trying desperately to get himself under control – but he might as well have tried to stop a meteor from crashing to the ground. The image of Lana walking away, her rear end bouncing gently, shifted so that she was bending over to retrieve his baseball, her khakis stretching tightly…and then she’d straightened up, and her clothes seemed to melt away as warm water cascaded over her, turning her hair even darker and making her golden flesh gleam—

                    —and the heat seared into his hands, making him cry out in shock. Rational thought was beyond him; out of pure reflex, he tore them away, staring out the loft window – and the heat shot forth, sizzling through the air, and his vision became a wash of golden-red light; it was impossible to make anything out clearly—

                    As suddenly as it had come, the fire stopped. He was left gasping, rubbing at his eyes as his hormones began to die down – and then he heard a thump outside. Blinking in confusion, he walked cautiously to the window and peered out.

                    His vision focused, and his eyes widened – he saw several feathers drifting down, following what was left of the passing bird they had come from.

                    He clapped his hand over his eyes, heaving a seismic groan. Good grief. He had to get this bizarre heat vision thing under control – or next time, it might not be a mere bird that got barbecued.

                    * * * * *

                    She was seriously starting to wish that she could get those damn rumors under control – they’d already burned her too much.

                    Lana had made it through the first classes of the day, and now she was on her way to meet Clark at lunch. He’d seemed worried and distracted about something earlier, and though logic would suggest that he was still dwelling on Jeremy’s murder, some instinct told her that something else was bugging him. She hoped that he’d be willing to talk about it – whatever it was, she wanted to help him in any way she could.

                    She’d gotten some looks from other students as she’d gone along – she’d tried not to notice, but they hadn’t exactly been subtle about it. It made her more angry than upset by now – how dare they believe smears started by a known liar over her oft-repeated and succinct testimony? If they really wanted to be that stupid, why couldn’t they keep their messed-up opinions to themselves?!

                    She stopped by the lockers and sighed, rubbing at her eyes. This wasn’t doing her any good. Megan was right – she didn’t owe those people any attention. They could only hurt her if she let them get to her, and she was sick of letting herself be swayed by the bad thoughts of others. Unfortunately, it was easier said than done – she couldn’t exactly turn her feelings on or off at will.

                    She sensed the presence behind her a second before a deep, arrogant voice purred, “Hello, good-looking.”

                    Oh, no. It was all she could do not to sigh in annoyance and disgust as she opened her eyes again. She didn’t turn to look, nor did she speak – maybe if she avoided any form of communication, he’d give up and go away. She began walking again.

                    “Where are you going, baby?” he asked, clearly following her. “Don’t you want some attention?”

                    Not from you, damn it. She stopped again, sighing openly – trying to ignore him obviously wasn’t working. “I’m not in the mood, Whitney,” she said, feeling a little disgusted that she even used his name. “Just leave me alone, please.”

                    “Awww, don’t be like that,” he said, a leer in his voice. His hand fell upon her shoulder, and she all but recoiled instantly. “You weren’t like that a couple of weeks back—”

                    She pulled away as she turned to face him, her eyes hard and her face set in a no-nonsense expression. “For the umpteenth time, that wasn’t me,” she said firmly. “I haven’t been to your house since I ended things with you, and I have no other reason to go there. It was Tina pretending to be me.”

                    Whitney scoffed, not believing her for a moment. “Yeah, right,” he said. “You saw that crazy b*tch in the barn with Kent, remember? You finally realized that the farm boy was into the freakish.” His expression darkened. “It’s sick that he ever wanted to touch you.”

                    “No, Whitney,” she said, keeping her voice even – but it wasn’t easy. “What’s sick is that you keep believing an obvious lie. There are people who know perfectly well where I went that day, including Nell.” Which made it all the more hurtful and unbelievable that the woman had swallowed the rumors – did she really think that Lana would’ve had time to do…that before heading out to her parents’ shared grave? “It’s no secret that Tina could change herself to look like anyone. Is it really so hard to believe that the girl who wanted to take over my life would move in on you?”

                    The king of the jocks snorted. “It’s impossible to believe,” he insisted. “You know damn well what happened that night – you saw her with Kent yourself, and you came to me because you finally got a clue.” He suddenly smiled, and she found it worse than the dark look – because his was not a bright smile as she had deluded herself into believing before. “So why don’t you drop the act, and what say we pick up where we left off? You gotta be hungry, baby.”

                    Actually, she had just lost her appetite – her stomach was trying to crawl up her esophagus in sheer disgust. With that disgust came growing horror – he clearly wasn’t going to take no for an answer. How in God’s name was she going to get rid of—

                    And then a light bulb snapped on in her head – a simple idea that was bound to be devastatingly effective. Oh, sure, it was also bound to be painful, even brutal – but frankly, she just couldn’t make herself care about that. She was sick of this ******* trying to cling onto her like a toy he didn’t want to share, just as she was sick of her aunt trying to control her choices and force her to be a living lie.

                    So she inhaled, gathering her nerve, then gave him a sweet smile that even a blind man could have seen was fake. “You’re right, Whitney,” she said softly, letting her voice drop to a huskier register. “I am pretty hungry, now that you mention it.”

                    His dark smile became a leering grin of triumph. “I knew it,” he said, his own voice dropping. “You were just acting, weren’t you?”

                    “Of course I was,” she whispered, fluttering her eyes a bit; inwardly, she was gagging repeatedly and noisily. “But I’m done playing now.” She glanced around, then suggested, “Why don’t we take this somewhere else?”

                    His teeth gleamed, looking very white and rather sharp. “I know just the place, baby,” he leered, and took her arm. She avoided wincing – barely – and let him lead her away. Not really to her surprise, the place in question was the boys’ locker room; he pushed one of the swinging double doors open and “guided” her inside, then vanished after her.

                    The door hadn’t even stopped swinging before a sharp crunch rang out, a distinct noise of impact. It was quickly followed by an equally sharp gasp, barely audible but obviously agonized, then a heavy thump as something – or rather, someone – collapsed to the hard floor.

                    Lana emerged a moment later, rubbing at her arm and surprised at how…good she felt. She turned to look back at Whitney, who was lying on his side, his face twisted up in intense pain as he clutched at the area between his legs. “I wasn’t playing around,” she said, her voice hard and firm, “and I’m not joking. I don’t want anything to do with you. Stay the hell away from me, or you’ll get a lot worse than that.” She all but spat the last word, then turned and walked briskly away, heading directly for the cafeteria.

                    Her anger faded in the wake of vindictive satisfaction – and for once, she didn’t chide herself about feeling it. He’d gotten exactly what he’d deserved – and hopefully, it was exactly what he needed to realize that she wasn’t his anything at all. Pain really was a good motivator.

                    “Lana!” She blinked in surprise – Clark had come looking for her instead of waiting in the cafeteria. “Are you okay?” he asked, his concern evident.

                    Her surprise increased. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

                    He grimaced a bit. “I got a tip from Pete that Whitney was looking for you,” he said, “and it didn’t sound like he just wanted to talk.”

                    The pieces clicked together, and she smiled warmly. “It’s okay, Clark,” she said softly, touching his arm. “I’ve already taken care of Whitney.”

                    He raised his eyebrows in interest even as concern was replaced with relief. “How so?”

                    She grinned darkly, her eyes flashing. “Let’s just say that I turned his would-be pleasure into pure pain.”

                    His brow furrowed at her words – then his eyes widened as he got it. He stared at her for a long moment, his expression stunned and otherwise unreadable—

                    and burst out laughing. He tried not to, he really did – but even his hand clamping over his mouth couldn’t stop the bubbling laughter. She stared back at him, then felt herself begin to giggle at the sight – she couldn’t help it either. He just looked too full of mirth, and she just felt too amused – before she knew it, she was chortling as heartily as he. They leaned against the wall and just let themselves laugh it out, feeling absurdly pleased that the king of the jocks had received his just desserts.

                    A few minutes later, they managed to settle down, though their eyes still twinkled with mirth. “You know,” she said, smiling at him, “I’m feeling awfully hungry right now.”

                    He lifted his eyebrows. “Really? In that case, why don’t I take you to lunch?” He grinned, and she giggled slightly as she nodded. Off they walked, feeling considerably better than they had just a short while ago.

                    Alas, it wouldn’t last the night.

                    * * * * *

                    “Ah, Clark – right on time.”

                    Lex walked forward with that greeting, smiling rather mischievously. Clark glanced around the study of the Luthor Mansion, noticing that they weren’t alone – another one of Lex’s servants was standing nearby, holding what looked like a tape measure. “Time for what, exactly?” he asked.

                    Lex chuckled and gestured to the servant, who walked forward. “I suppose my call was a little vague,” he remarked. “All I really said was that it had to do with the Halloween party.”

                    Like any other American town, Smallville held traditional Halloween festivities, trick-or-treating among them. This year, Lex had worked to take things a little further – he’d convinced Principal Kwan to allow for a full-blown costume party on the grounds of Smallville High, with all the students invited. It had helped that he’d stated upfront that he had no intention of allowing any alcohol to be sneaked in. Frankly, though, Lex was convinced that Clark’s support for his idea had been the deciding factor – after all, the farm boy had saved Kwan’s life just a few weeks back, and even if he never took any credit for it, he deserved some kind of repayment.

                    Clark nodded, his brow furrowing – he had a suspicion as to why Lex had brought the party up. “And you need me here because…?”

                    “Because,” Lex said, now flat-out grinning like a kid pulling a brilliant prank, “we need to take your measurements.”

                    The servant promptly started doing just that, drawing the tape measure over Clark’s shoulders. “What?” the farm boy exclaimed – though his suspicion had just been proved true, he couldn’t help his disbelief. “For a costume?”

                    “Why else?” Lex quipped. “It’s not like you need a coffin yet.”

                    Clark gave him a look as the servant measured one of his arms. “Lex, I’m really not that big on costumes.”

                    “Why not?” the billionaire inquired. “Have you ever worn one before?”

                    Well, no, he hadn’t. He’d never really been able to do anything like that growing up – no little league, no playgroups, no caroling or trick-or-treating. He’d never worn a Halloween costume before. He’d never even bobbed for apples. He felt rather sad about that, truthfully…and he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to do such things.

                    Lex saw his silent reaction and sighed a little, feeling bad for him. “I thought not. Well, no time like the present to get into the tradition.”

                    “I suppose,” Clark admitted, letting the servant measure his height. “But if I do, what could I go as?”

                    Lex shrugged amiably. “Anything. But I definitely think you ought to let us know before you leave – that way, it can be ready for you in two days. I’ll spare no expense.”

                    Clark fidgeted a little. “I couldn’t ask you to—”

                    “You don’t need to,” Lex forestalled him with a wave of one hand. “It’s the least I can do, after what you’ve done for me. Besides,” and he smirked a bit, “why should I have a lot of money if it isn’t going to be put to any good use?”

                    Clark couldn’t argue the point, so he didn’t try to. He nodded a little, finding himself starting to smile. “Okay. But I still don’t know what my costume should be.”

                    The servant finished measuring him and moved away, and Lex took the opportunity to properly join his younger friend. “Well, if you want my advice, you should go as something that suits you. Something…” He paused, considering. “…dashing and heroic.”

                    Clark glanced down shyly. “How does that suit me?”

                    Lex shook his head, chuckling. “You just don’t get it, do you, Clark? Saving Lana’s life, twice now, not to mention the lives of Principal Kwan and your friend the reporter, and exposing the crimes of Walt Arnold and Tina Greer, and never taking any real credit for it – that is heroism, period. And the dashing part – well, you definitely have a reputation for being a gentleman. I’d say that counts, given how rare chivalry is these days.” He rubbed his chin a little. “And if I were you, I’d go with something that doesn’t involve plaid. Preferably something dark, yet stylish.”

                    Clark furrowed his brow, considering those words…and then he smiled. “I think I see what you’re getting at,” he said. “Why not?”

                    Why not indeed? The choice made, he left soon after, finding that he was actually looking forward to this. He wondered what Lana might wear to the party – all he knew for certain was that it would not be a fairy princess outfit, let alone anything pink. No doubt whatever she chose, she would make it look good…

                    He stopped that train of thought before it could fully leave the station, though – he didn’t dare risk his eyes turning into flamethrowers again. He hadn’t had a chance to tell Lana about this bizarre problem yet, and he wasn’t sure how to tell his parents about it. Worst-case scenario, his dad would exhibit his paranoid streak again and forbid him to go to the party unless he could get it under control in time.

                    As much as these powers scared Clark, he was sick of being punished for having them. Whether he liked them or not, they were very much a part of his life – and as much as he wanted to be normal, he doubted it would ever happen. The best he could do was keep them under the radar, only use them when he needed to. He just hoped that he could indeed prevent them from ruining an occasion like the party…or baseball practice.

                    The thought kept scratching at him for the rest of the evening, even during dinner. As he finished clearing off his plate, his parents shared a look – and then Jonathan cleared his throat. “Something on your mind, son?”

                    Clark started a little, then looked up at them with a sheepish expression. “Am I really that obvious?”

                    “You don’t hide your feelings very well,” Martha admitted. “Is something bothering you?”

                    She was being delicate about it, as only she could be, and Clark couldn’t help but admire that. He sighed a little, knowing that there was no time like the present to tell them. “Actually, yes,” he said. “But it’s not really Jeremy’s murder.” He pressed his lips together, then admitted, “My eyes are acting up again.”

                    They looked at him in concern. “How so, son?” Jonathan asked cautiously.

                    Clark inhaled, rising to his feet, and paced a bit. “Well, for a while now, they’ve been feeling hot at times,” he admitted. “But I thought it was just some kind of weird reaction, like a headache. It didn’t get dangerous until today.” He turned to face them. “Heat came pouring out of them, and I accidentally fried a passing bird.”

                    His parents stood up in shock at that. “Fried?” Jonathan said, his voice rising as if in anger. “Clark, why didn’t you tell us about this sooner?”

                    “I didn’t know how,” Clark said, not surprised but a little hurt. “I’ve spent a good part of the day just trying to come to grips with this.” Then he looked down, his cheeks heating up. “Besides…I think I know what it’s tied to.”

                    Martha looked at him in concern. “What, sweetheart?”

                    He inhaled again, then looked up at them. “My hormones.”

                    With just those two words, it became clear to the Kents why he hadn’t told them sooner. He was embarrassed about it – and who could blame him? “Oh,” said Jonathan softly, feeling bad. “I’m sorry, Clark.”

                    Clark nodded, looking away a bit. “The thing is, now I don’t think it’s only tied to those. I mean, it was before…but when I heard about the rumors aimed at hurting Lana, I got so angry, and it happened.” He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “And it happened again yesterday, when I realized that whoever murdered Jeremy had mocked what he went through twelve years ago. But it only came out of my eyes this morning…” He blushed again, trying not to think too much about what had set him off.

                    Martha nodded slowly. “So it happens when you…think about girls?”

                    He shook his head firmly. “No. It happens when I think about Lana.”

                    His parents shared another look, and he noticed. “I know what you’re thinking, Dad,” he said, holding up a hand. “I shouldn’t go to that party Wednesday in case I hurt anyone.” His face became determined. “That’s why I want to get this heat vision thing under control before then.”

                    Jonathan raised his eyebrows. “Well…any ideas?”

                    Clark shrugged. “Not really. I just wish I could find the off switch for it.”

                    His father nodded slightly. “Well, if you want to find the off switch, you have to work the on switch first,” he pointed out.

                    Clark frowned, considering…and then he got it. “Target practice?”

                    “Pretty much,” Jonathan confirmed. “But rule number one – always practice away from the barn.”

                    Clark snorted a bit. “Is that an old Kent family tradition?”

                    “Nope, it’s a new Kent family tradition,” Jonathan replied, smiling wryly. “Only about five seconds old.”

                    Clark grinned, almost laughing. Then he nodded his thanks and moved to put his plate away. He glanced out the window and saw that, luckily, it was still light enough outside that he could get in some practice. If he was going to that party, he needed to get this down cold.
                    Last edited by superman_lives_on; 01-24-2011, 03:48 PM.

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                    • #25
                      The Chronicles of Smallville: Hallowed

                      * * * * *

                      A couple of minutes later, Clark stood at his makeshift baseball diamond, a scarecrow set into the dirt in front of him. Beyond it lay nothing but fields and trees. Perfect.

                      Just looking at the scarecrow made him think of Jeremy, of how the poor kid had not only been murdered but also mocked. That brought on the anger – and this time, he let it happen. He wanted to summon the fire, to sent it shooting out at his target.

                      Sure enough, his eyes started burning – and he egged the feeling on, urging himself to feel angry. He recalled how he’d felt when those rumors had cropped up thanks to Dawn Stiles’ foul gossip mill, how for one irrational moment he’d wanted to rip her blonde hairs out one by one—

                      —and a blast of pure heat shot from his eyes, charring a hole in the scarecrow’s old straw hat. It wasn’t a long, continuous blast like the one he’d let out this morning, but it was a good start. He focused on it again, his eyes still burning, and thought of something else that made him angry – the realization of what Whitney had almost done to Lana just today. Though he hadn’t had the chance to talk to her about this yet, she had admitted how scared she’d felt when the king of the jocks had tried to mark her in a way that would never have left her—

                      Right on cue, the fire blasted out of him, blowing the scarecrow’s head to charred bits. He sucked in a breath, idly noticing the damaged hat flopping to the ground…and he prepared to let himself cut loose. Now he recalled the images that had made him feel, for lack of a better word, lust. Lana bending over to retrieve the baseball, her jeans stretching across her bottom…Lana rising from the dunk tank, wearing nothing beneath her wet T-shirt and shorts…Lana standing in the shower at school, nothing on her body but warm water…

                      The fire flowed from his eyes like the hot water from the shower nozzle, through more powerfully – more like water from a hose cranked up to hammer at its target. It took some seconds to play out, and when it finally cut off, he rubbed at his eyes a bit – and stared mutely. The scarecrow was gone. Nothing was left of it but a charred post and various bits scattered around.

                      He walked to the remains that were still aflame and stomped them out easily. Next time he tried this, he would have to bring a bucket of cold water, just in case it got out of control. Sighing a bit, he glanced at the horizon – the sun had set, and the clouds were no longer lit. Time to go in, then.

                      It was a rather cold night as he walked towards the house. Cold had never bothered him before – he could feel it if he let himself, but it never felt painful or anything. Neither did heat, for that matter – when his heat vision had seared into his hands that morning, he’d been shocked, not hurt. He puffed out a breath, watching as it misted through the air in front of him. He couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

                      As he walked on, though, he found himself shivering. Surprised, he dug his hands deep into the pockets of his sand-brown jacket, pulling the front closed. It didn’t help – the cold was eating at him, and he had to clench his teeth together to keep them from chattering.

                      He walked a little faster, wanting to get inside, to reach the warmth and comfort of home…but somehow, the lights he saw from it seemed miles away. He stopped for a moment, frowned, and closed his eyes tightly. When he opened them again, he saw that the house wasn’t far at all…and yet, he felt as if it were.

                      He started walking again, going a bit faster yet…but the cold didn’t leave him. On the contrary, it only became more intense, seeping into him like tiny rivulets of icy water, robbing him of warmth and making it hard to even breathe properly…

                      He stopped again, noting that he was almost at the porch of the house, and put a hand to his chest. He took a deep breath, trying to focus on the simple action…but the cold made it difficult. What was happening? Had his more prolonged use of heat vision drained his body of heat?

                      He closed his eyes, concentrating on trying to find the source of the cold…and suddenly, he felt it clenching his gut. This was no mere physical ailment, he realized…this was something internal. He felt wrong somehow, weird…queasy…

                      …and in an instant, he understood what was really happening. He’d felt this way once before – on September 11th. Somehow, his instincts had warned him of the coming attack – even though he hadn’t been able to do a thing about it, he’d been aware of it before anyone outside of New York City had.

                      Now it was happening again – somewhere, something terrible was happening, or about to happen. But even this felt different – whereas the terrorist attack had been a screaming, hurtling sensation in his gut, this was more of a creeping terror, a steadily-increasing surety that something was wrong with the very world around him. Whatever was happening tonight, it was even more insidious than September 11th had been.

                      He focused on the instinct, trying to find out more. If there was anything he could do about this impending atrocity, he wanted to do it immediately. He couldn’t just stand by and let more innocent people suffer, no matter how little control he might have. He had to do something. He had to intervene—

                      —and suddenly, his gut lurched violently. The phantom cold wasn’t a sourceless thing – it was coming from a specific direction. His eyes snapped open as he whirled to face the right way, and without a thought, he charged forward, blurring into super-speed. He shot through the fields, down the streets and past the buildings until he reached what his instinct told him was the source – a house in the suburban area of town.

                      He stood just outside it, focusing his vision, and the walls peeled away – and then he shot to the front door. There was a man inside, half-naked and shivering on the floor, clawing at the air, mouth open in a silent scream.

                      Clark knocked hard on the door, almost smashing through it in his haste, but the man didn’t react. Grimacing, he tried the knob – it was unlocked. He threw it open and hurried inside. The room he entered was comfortable and homey, much like the Kent Farm itself – but he hardly noticed.

                      The man lay on the floor, his eyes wide and staring, his face terrified, his skin pale. Clark made to hurry to him – and that was when the horrid stench hit his nostrils. He staggered back, almost doubling over in sheer revulsion – the stench was like nothing he’d ever smelled before. Spoiled fruit, rotten meat, fresh manure, raw sewage – none of those things compared. Not even when combined did they compare. It was beyond repugnant, and it was so pervasive, so intrusive, that he couldn’t breathe—

                      Something slammed against his chest, and he all but cried out in shock as he flew backward, propelled by a blow with more force than he’d ever felt. He hurtled clear through the door and crashed into the street, cracking the asphalt beneath and around him. For several long moments, he just lay there, stunned and bewildered…what the hell had that been?

                      Then he shook his head almost violently and pushed himself back to his feet, gasping a bit as he straightened up. He shook his head again, then gritted his teeth and hurried back towards the house, holding his nose as he walked through. The stench was still there, and it was all he could do not to gag.

                      Inside, the man lay frighteningly still on the floor, his chest painted with a big red S. His eyes were open, his face frozen in horror…and there was not the slightest hint of him breathing.

                      No…please, God, no…

                      Clark’s x-ray vision snapped on, peering into the man’s body…and found no sign of life. His heart and stomach clenched, and he released his nose, not caring if he felt disgusted by the stench. What was the point?

                      He’d been too late. Another innocent man was dead…and it was his fault.

                      * * * * *

                      “It wasn’t your fault, Clark.”

                      Martha had kept telling him that for the past few minutes, but she didn’t think she was getting through to him. He sat numbly at the table, his eyes not really focused on anything. Over and over, his mind played the image of that man lying dead in his own home, marked in a grotesque mockery of past torment…a man he’d failed to help in time.

                      Jonathan sighed sadly. His son really had a knack for beating himself up over things he couldn’t control, but this was an especially sad case. A man had been murdered practically in front of him, and he hadn’t been able to do a thing about it. “She’s right, son,” he said firmly but gently. “You did everything you could.”

                      For a moment, Clark didn’t respond at all. Then he murmured, almost inaudible, “I should’ve gotten there sooner.”

                      “How?” Martha asked patiently. “You couldn’t have known what was going to happen.”

                      Clark sniffed softly, almost snorting. “But I did know,” he said quietly, not looking at either of them. “I felt it about to happen. But I didn’t get there soon enough. I should’ve been faster.”

                      “Hey,” said Jonathan firmly. “None of that, now. You went as fast as you could. From what you’ve said, whoever or whatever killed the poor man ambushed you. You couldn’t have seen that coming.”

                      Yeah, right. Clark shook his head listlessly. I should have seen it coming. “It doesn’t matter,” he said aloud, still quiet. “He’s dead, and it’s my fault. Period.”

                      “It’s not your fault,” his parents insisted in unison. They looked at other in a brief moment of surprise, then looked back to him. To their even greater surprise, the incident didn’t seem to have any effect on him.

                      Good Lord…he really had it bad this time. “It isn’t, Clark,” Jonathan continued, trying to reach him. “You didn’t kill him, you tried to save him.”

                      Clark stood up from the table, his movements downright lethargic, and still did not look at either of them. “I failed to save him,” he said dully, no inflection to his voice at all. “I failed to reach him in time. It’s my fault he died.”

                      Jonathan rose, extending a hand to his son’s shoulder. “Clark—”

                      Clark turned firmly away, almost jerking, and walked aimlessly through the living room. What was the point of trying to go anywhere? What was the point of trying to do anything? All he ever did was get people killed. “I don’t know why I thought I could help him,” he said, tone still dull. “I don’t know how I thought I could make a difference.” He pressed listlessly against a chair. “I never make a difference. I never help. I just forgot that for a moment.”

                      His parents didn’t like the sound of that at all. In fact, it didn’t sound like him at all – even Clark, with all his self-inflicted guilt, never displayed such certainty that his efforts were hopeless. “That’s not true,” said Martha firmly, walking toward him.

                      Her words never reached him. Why should they? Why should any comforting lies reach him now? They would be useless. “All I bring is pain,” he murmured, still not looking at anything…why should he? “All I do is kill. I tried to believe otherwise.” His head shook listlessly again. “So stupid, so blind. It was all for nothing.”

                      A horrible feeling, colder than glacial ice, pierced Martha’s heart. She glanced at Jonathan – and judging by the look on his face, he felt it too. He took several quick steps forward, coming close to their listless son. “Clark!” he said, voice sharp with concern. “Snap out of it!”

                      Clark’s head whipped toward him abruptly, his face filled with despair and self-loathing, his eyes glassy. “Why?” he hissed, still no inflection in his voice. “Why should I deny the truth? All I ever do is kill people. All their blood is on my hands. The meteor shower, the victims of the infected, the man whom I murdered toni—”

                      “Bullsh*t!” Jonathan snapped, unable to stop himself. He immediately bit his tongue, trying to calm himself—

                      —and Clark blinked, as if surprised. His expression of despair wavered for a moment…then he looked away as it reasserted itself. But his father wasn’t about to let it settle back in. “Son,” he said quietly and firmly, “look at me.”

                      For a moment, Clark hesitated…then his glassy green eyes rose to meet Jonathan’s clear blues. “Listen,” said his father in that same gentle tone. “You are not responsible for this. You did not kill that man or get him killed. Nor did you kill anyone in the meteor shower. None of it was under your control. All you can do is stand against what you can change.”

                      Cold, flat despair became cold, frustrated anger. How dare this man speak lies so? How dare he—

                      Wait a minute! Clark suddenly thought, his eyes widening as a bolt of rationality shot through his mind. What am I thinking?! This is my dad here! He’s not lying to me!

                      The cold despair and anger fractured beneath his comprehension. These feelings weren’t his own at all! There was no way he’d get this self-loathing! Yes, another man had been murdered in a mocking fashion – yes, he hadn’t been able to save the guy. But that didn’t mean he had been the one to wield the murder weapon! How could he possibly think that?!

                      His stomach abruptly twisted, his throat becoming flooded with a horrible stench – the very same stench that had incapacitated him at the house. He covered his mouth, his eyes bulging in revulsion – and then he vanished in a blur, hurrying upstairs. His parents looked after him as a wind rustled in the wake of his passing…and then came the distinct and thoroughly unsavory sounds of someone getting sick.

                      They shared a grimace of sympathy and waited for him to come back down. They heard the toilet flush, then the sink run as he washed his mouth out…then he came walking back down, rubbing at his eyes. “Son?” Jonathan asked softly.

                      Clark emitted a soft groan, then looked up at him with a weak smile. “I’m okay, Dad,” he replied just as softly. “I’m okay now.” He looked at Martha and sighed contritely. “I’m sorry for freaking you guys out.”

                      She smiled softly back, though her eyes still showed concern. “What happened?”

                      He cleared his throat, considering how best to explain it. “Um…you know that smell I mentioned? That horrible stench?” He shuddered a bit. “I think some of it got into me. Whatever it was, I think it was messing with my head…filling me with despair.” He grimaced. “I couldn’t think straight at all. It was like my mind was stuck in a loop.”

                      And that way lay madness, he was sure. He couldn’t help but shudder again, and his parents shuddered a bit too. “That sounds pretty horrible,” Jonathan said softly, putting a hand on his shoulder.

                      Clark nodded, thinking through the events of the night. “It was. And now that I think about it…something else was there, something I didn’t really notice. There was…this aura of despair and terror, floating in that room like an invisible fog.” He shook his head again. “Not to mention the way that the murderer ambushed me – when he knocked me back out into the street, it actually hurt.”

                      He sighed and looked between his parents. “I’m really starting to wonder what kind of killer we’re dealing with. I don’t know if the meteor rocks can give someone that kind of power.” He shrugged. “But I guess anything’s possible around here.”

                      His parents shared another disturbed look. “The police need to know about this,” Martha said quietly.

                      “They ought to by now,” Clark admitted. “I found a phone in the house – I was able to leave an anonymous tip before the despair completely took over.” He shook himself a little, then looked at them grimly. “Whoever this is, he’s now a serial killer. And if he tries to strike again…”

                      His hands clenched into fists, his jaw setting tightly. “I’ll be ready for him.”

                      * * * * *

                      By school the next day, the news of the serial killer had spread around town. As horrible as the single murder of Jeremy Creek had been, this was far worse – not least because, as it turned out, the second victim had been mentioned in the news before. And worse still, his name held a particular significance for Clark and Lana.

                      The second victim was James Alexander, whom Laura Potter had witnessed being bullied during her time at Smallville High and regretted not helping. Like Jeremy, he had been picked on for no reason other than that he wasn’t one of the local gods. And, as it turned out, also like Jeremy…

                      “He was the Scarecrow in his freshman year,” Chloe sighed, looking at Clark and Lana sadly. “In October 1974, he was the unlucky guy those jockstrap jackasses strung up in a field during Homecoming. All that bullying in the cafeteria was just the follow-up.”

                      Clark shook his head, feeling disgusted. Whoever the killer was, he knew of his victims’ past torment – and he’d marked them with it as a sadistic calling card. “God, this is sick,” he whispered.

                      Lana looked up at him with pure sympathy in her eyes, then asked Chloe, “Did the police find anything else at the scene?”

                      “Actually, yeah,” the reporter admitted. “Whoever tipped them off, it meant that they got there a lot sooner.” She grimaced. “All of them reported a horrible smell at the scene, though they couldn’t quite identify the source. And the first ones there said that there was some kind of residue around the victim.”

                      Pete handed Clark and Lana some papers, faxes of the latest report, and they looked through them. A sample had been taken of the residue in question, and it had been compared to mucus – but it wasn’t quite identical. Though the police had initially thought it might be the source of the mysterious stench, it hadn’t been.

                      This definitely made things stranger. Why would the killer leave such traces behind? Assuming he’d gotten into the house through the front door, how had he escaped without Clark even seeing him? And for that matter, how had he possessed the strength to knock Clark completely out of the house and into the street? What was really going on here?

                      The questions kept gnawing at him the rest of the day, and by the time lunch arrived, they had eaten away at his appetite. He wandered rather slowly towards the cafeteria, hoping that he could get enough time alone with Lana to tell her about his heat vision…and, if he was fortunate, enough time to gather some friends to help him practice baseball. Lord knew that his football career had fizzled out pretty easily—

                      Whitney Fordman stepped in front of him, cold blue eyes searing into his. “Kent,” he all but spat. “You off to murder someone else?”

                      What the hell? Clark all but groaned seismically – he did not need this. “Please get out of my way, Whitney,” he said quietly. “I’m not in the mood to trade insults.” Granted, he never was in the mood for that.

                      Unfortunately, the jockstrap jackass – oh, good grief, he was starting to think like Chloe – seemed very much in the mood for that. “Not gonna answer my question, freak-lover?” he sneered. “Can’t say I’m surprised. You always were a stupid little chicken.”

                      If he was trying to goad Clark, he’d have to do better than that. “Do I really need to repeat myself?” he said calmly, patiently. “Because if I do, I will.” He started to walk around Whitney.

                      The jock king blocked him again. “You can’t even own up to what you did,” he said venomously. “First you steal my girl, then you murder my coach, then you roll around in the hay with a bank-robbing b*tch, and now you’re killing other Scarecrows so you don’t have to cry at night.” His tone became very mocking with those last words.

                      Clark stared at him in disbelief. “You think – no, wait, I’m having trouble even thinking about it,” he said, shaking his head. “You seriously believe that I murdered Coach Walt?”

                      “Don’t play innocent, farm boy!” Whitney spat. “You killed him, period – and somehow you’ve brainwashed Lana into staying with you, even though she saw you with that freak.” He scowled, his eyes flashing with cold fire. “I always knew she was just a dumb b—”

                      Thwack! He made a sound rather like “Hurk!” as his cruel, untrue words were cut off – Clark had just snapped his fingers right into the *******’s throat. As Whitney clutched at it, coughing, the farm boy stared daggers into his eyes, his voice coming out low and quiet and harder than steel: “Don’t. Ever. Insult. Lana.”

                      For a long moment, the jock couldn’t break that piercing gaze – and he could have sworn that those green eyes burned with golden fire. “You don’t have any power over me, Whitney,” Clark said in that same dangerously quiet tone. “And you don’t have any right to speak ill of my friends and family. If anyone’s a gutless coward, it’s you – and any one of your followers.” He leaned in, his voice lowering even further: “So much as look at my friends the wrong way, and I’ll make you wish that Lana had just ripped your shriveled gonads off.”

                      With that, he walked right past Whitney, who stared mutely after him, still rubbing his throat. It had never occurred to him that the farm boy would cut him off so decisively, let alone throw down the gauntlet like that. This definitely changed the game.

                      For the rest of the day, Clark and his friends were unmolested by the jocks or their disciples. Unfortunately, the anger didn’t fully leave him – it kept burning in the back of his mind, reminding him of how spineless and brain-dead Whitney had proved himself to be. Even as he stood at his makeshift home plate after school, it wouldn’t leave him.

                      “Clark?” Lana came walking up to him, concern on her lovely face and in her equally lovely voice. “What’s wrong?”

                      He’d told her, Pete and Chloe at lunch about what had happened with Whitney, and all of them had showed only sympathy for him and disgust towards the foulmouthed jackass. Pete in particular had wondered how he’d ever been stupid enough to think Whitney might be basically okay, and Lana had vowed to let Megan know of this. If the rumor mill tried to spin things and paint them as the bad guys, they’d need every way of spreading the truth in counterattack that they could get.

                      So her question couldn’t be about that, at least not directly. Chances were that she was wondering what was on his mind as of late. Good thing that he’d asked her to come out here so that he could explain.

                      He took a deep breath, preparing himself, then faced her gently. “It’s not really wrong as such,” he admitted, “but something has been bugging me – among the other things bugging me. This has actually been going on for a while.”

                      She nodded silently, encouragement to take his time and explain properly. He inhaled again, then said, “Remember how I told you about my x-ray vision? How it started acting up after Tina threw me into that shop? Well, it turns out there’s another weird thing about my eyes…they can heat up.”

                      She blinked, surprised. “What?”

                      He nodded, looking a little sheepish as he remembered the specific incidents. “It first happened at that pep rally, right after you came out of the dunk tank. My eyes suddenly started burning, and I had to rub at them to make it go away. Then it happened again when I saw you in the shower. Lately, it’s been happening every time I so much as think about you in that way.” He tried not to let his blush roam over his face, but it evaded his grip and did so anyway. “And yesterday, when I was in the loft, so much heat built up in my eyes that it actually came out.”

                      She looked fairly alarmed at that. “You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?” she asked, touching his arm.

                      “No, I didn’t,” he assured her. “But I can’t say the same for the bird that was flying by.” He grimaced. “Last night, just before the light was gone, I tried practicing to get it under control so nothing like that would happen.” He shrugged. “I’ve only had some success.”

                      She nodded, her brow furrowing in that pretty way only she could manage. Then she smiled a bit. “So your eyes get hot whenever you think about me?” she asked softly.

                      He swallowed a bit at that smile – it never failed to turn his knees into jelly. “Well, yeah,” he admitted. “But lately, they’ve also flared up when I get really angry.” He grimaced. “Like when I heard of Dawn’s rumors about you…and then again when I realized what the killer had done to Jeremy. It happened just today when I was chewing out Whitney – I’m just glad I kept it under control there.” He shuddered at the thought of what could’ve happened.

                      “Yikes,” she murmured. Then she recovered her smile. “Don’t think about those things so much, Clark,” she said quietly, stepping closer. “Think of how it originally started.” Her hands slid neatly over his chest, and she felt him gulp. “Think of how this set you off.”

                      Her voice was a purr now, smooth yet husky, quiet and liquid. “Think only of this,” she whispered…and she leaned up, pressing her soft, warm, wet lips to his jaw. His eyes closed, and he couldn’t stop a soft moan from escaping him. She hummed in reply and started kissing his skin softly…yet hungrily. He could all but taste the yearning in her lips, in her tongue, as they moved over him…

                      …and the fire welled up inside, flowing into his eyes. He squeezed them shut on reflex…but then he turned his head, opening them and focusing on the charred post that was the only thing left of the scarecrow he’d set up last night. The heat flowed from his eyes like a river of gold, painting over the blackened wood as he aimed it carefully.

                      Lana kept up her gentle, teasing kisses on his jaw for several long moments…then she pulled away, keeping her head below his, and opened her eyes. She watched in awe as the heat flowed from his, barely-visible waves of golden-red light cutting through the cold autumn air and searing smoothly into the wood. Soon, though, they became even less visible, now looking less like fire and more like the heat waves rising from asphalt in the summer…and then they died away, Clark’s eyes no longer glowing.

                      He blinked, staring at the nearly-gone post in amazement…then he heaved a soft breath, then another. He bowed his head slightly, feeling…indescribable. What had just happened would remain with him forever, no doubt fueling his dreams. After a moment, he looked at Lana and smiled softly. She smiled back and leaned against him, letting him slip his arms around her.

                      No words were spoken. None were necessary.

                      * * * * *

                      Night was approaching fast, and even with a warm mug of coffee in his hand, Ethan Miller couldn’t help a case of the shivers.

                      He knew that he shouldn’t feel so nervous, especially given his job as one of Smallville’s deputy sheriffs. He owed it to the people he served to remain calm and focused on his duties. For that matter, he owed it to himself to be brave, to not let himself be so easily fazed.

                      But this case of the serial killer, whose two victims thus far had been victims of cruelty in the past, had already gotten under his skin. It hit far too close to home, and he counted himself lucky that he was off-duty at the moment. He didn’t know if he could handle more of this without some time at home to pull himself together.

                      The Scarecrow Killer, as he’d begun to think of the faceless monster behind these murders, had brought up some very dark memories for him…memories that he would rather have stayed buried. Memories of being bullied in school, especially high school, and of how he’d had to fight his way into a position where he could keep an eye on the main tormentors…the jocks. Even then, they had been the biggest bastards around.

                      Sadly, some things never changed. He ought to know…because he had been one of their “special” victims. In his freshman year, he had been the Scarecrow.

                      Very few people knew about it. Even Jonathan Kent, his long-time friend, didn’t know his secret. It was a shameful thing that he kept to himself…and it was the basis of his determination to fight against such very real evil, to protect people from it.

                      But now, two people had died because of it – two people whose pain he shared all too well. God rest their souls – they hadn’t deserved to go out like that. He’d seen their faces – he’d recognized the absolute terror in them. It was the sort of terror he’d suffered when the jocks had chosen him on that fateful day in October 1973.

                      Frankly, he was amazed that they’d cut him down from that stake afterward. It wasn’t that he thought them capable of murder necessarily, or even just manslaughter – but he seriously doubted that it had been a sign of consideration for his well-being. After that, he’d decided to keep a close watch on them – and so he’d followed Jonathan and joined the team. He’d been fairly good at the sport, if he said so himself – but nowhere near as good as his friend.

                      He smiled a little, rubbing at his mustache. High school hadn’t been all bad, really – not with Jonathan Kent as a best friend. Besides, somebody had to keep their other good friend, Jack Jennings, in line. That guy’s idea of enjoying a football game was to spend it under the bleachers with the sheriff’s daughters – granted, not both of them at once, but still. It was no wonder that the rascal had ended up going into politics, leaving Jonathan and Ethan to do their part in helping Smallville directly. He still remembered how—

                      The lights went out. All of them. At the same time.

                      He scowled, putting his mug down, and rose to get a flashlight. “Damn circuit breaker,” he muttered. That thing was always going on the fritz, especially when he needed the power most.

                      He found the flashlight easily enough and clicked it on – but nothing happened. “What the hell?” he muttered. He shook it a little. Nothing. No light.

                      Now that just didn’t make any sense. He’d just put a couple of new batteries in the thing. Why wasn’t it…

                      His thoughts trailed off as a cold, sinister feeling crept over him…an uncanny sensation that he was being watched. He froze in place, listening. For a moment, all he could hear was an eerie howl from the wind…

                      …and then he heard the soft shuffling of feet on his hardwood floor. He grabbed his gun and whirled around, flicking the safety off—

                      —and saw nothing but his kitchen table. There was nobody there. He was alone.

                      …except that he wasn’t. The certainty sank into his heart like a knife, colder than ice, and made his gut clench. Someone was in the house with him…or something. And he might not be able to see them yet…but some horrible intuition warned that they could see him.

                      Several miles away and several minutes earlier, at the Kent Farm, Clark stood just outside the barn, watching the horizon. The sun was sinking, and he had a sneaking suspicion that if the killer attacked again, it would be tonight. If he got any sort of warning through his intuition, he wanted to be ready.

                      For a long minute, though, nothing seemed to happen. The sun crept lower, almost gone now, but its light still painted the clouds and sky in beautiful reds and golds. He wished that Lana was there to see it with him…of course, she would easily outshine any sunset just by being there. He smiled at the thought.

                      “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

                      Jonathan had joined him, and he’d been so intent on the sunset and his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed. “Yeah,” he whispered, not looking away lest he miss it. “I just wish that two other people could be around to see it.”

                      His father sighed sadly. “I know, son,” he said, patting Clark’s shoulder. “I wish that too.”

                      They watched together as the source of light and warmth for nearly everything on Earth smoothly vanished below the horizon with a final twinkle of light, the clouds still lit in red and gold even as the blue of the sky grew steadily darker. After another minute, the light had almost gone completely, and Jonathan clapped Clark on the shoulder. “C’mon, dinner’s just about ready.”

                      “Okay,” said Clark softly, smiling a bit. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe there wouldn’t be another attack yet. He turned to walk towards the house…

                      …and a horribly familiar phantom cold swept over him, into him, making him gasp. Oh, no. He should’ve known better than to tempt fate like that.

                      “Clark?” said his father, concerned. “Are you alright?”

                      “No,” he whispered, closing his eyes and focusing on the cold. “It’s happening, Dad. The killer’s about to attack.” He turned around aimlessly, tracking the source—

                      —then his eyes snapped back open, and he sped away before Jonathan’s startled eyes.

                      Ethan’s own eyes widened as he realized where the soft sound of movement was coming from…right behind him. He whirled around as quickly as he could manage, gun at the ready—

                      —and stared in disbelief. “Well, lookee here,” sneered one of the intruders – there were three of them, standing very close together, all young men, all wearing casual clothes…all jocks. But not just any jocks – the ones who had come after him.

                      No – this was absurd. It couldn’t be them! He hoisted the gun, aiming at the one in the middle, their leader. “Who are you?” he demanded angrily—

                      —or tried to. The words caught in his throat and barely managed to get out…and when they did, they were whimpering and fearful: “W-w-who ar-are y-you?” His hand shook, and he would’ve stared at it in shock if he’d been able to look away from the impossible sight.

                      “Check it out, boys,” said the leader of the jocks, his spiky hair so bleached-blond that it was almost white. “Looks like we got ourselves this year’s Scarecrow.”

                      The other two chuckled nastily, and they began to move toward him – a spike of fear made his hand shake even more, and he tried desperately to hold it steady, to aim at their legs or shoulders, even just to fire off a warning shot…

                      …and their faces began to bubble. They bulged and rippled like melting wax, their sneers becoming even uglier and colder, even less human…he stared in shock, his mouth gaping…

                      …and the bubbling faces contorted horribly, obscenely, stretching impossibly, losing their structure and shape, giving way to something hiding underneath…their very bodies writhed and contorted, forming shapes that might have been found in the sculptures of a madman…

                      …and things burst forth, whipping out of the bodies – long, huge, writhing limbs, tentacles, pure black in the dark room – the lead jock dissolved as something emerged from the body, its limbs distending and multiplying rapidly—

                      A scream of purest horror tore from his throat – his arms flew back, the gun flying out of his hand – the Thing surged toward him, black tentacles whipping at his face, his chest, sharp barbs tearing at his shirt – he fell back, screaming again – but he couldn’t scream, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t close his eyes—

                      Eyes. Red, fiery, burning, searing, all over the black mass, all opening and staring at him, glaring, hating – eyes everywhere – he tried to scream, but his mouth just hung open—

                      Mouths. Gaping maws, filled with sharp black fangs and teeth, opening all over, dripping with venom and saliva – all hissing, all gurgling, all hating – all hungry – the Thing loomed over him, bending lower, lower, lower – huge tentacles thrashed all around, red eyes glared all over, slavering mouths gaped everywhere – it was hungry, it was going to eat him, it was so black and hungry and it was going to eat him oh God no please

                      CRASH!!!

                      The door smashed open with a noise like thunder, and Clark shot through like a comet, slamming into the Thing faster than a speeding bullet, his body holding more power than a locomotive. It reeled to one side, screaming in frustration, and he drove himself against it, shoving it away from its victim—

                      —but the Thing barely moved at all. It whipped its head toward him, fiery red eyes searing into his gaze, filling his vision, blazing with furious recognition—

                      He glared right back at it, then wound up his fist, certain that he was in super-speed, and threw it forward – but the Thing blocked the punch, its scrabbling dirt-brown hand raking at him, sharp dark claws at the ends of the human-like digits – he leaned his head back, avoiding it, and drove his other fist at it—

                      —but the Thing blocked that punch too. It was as ferociously strong as it was utterly hideous, a form as tall as he was but far too slender and knotted-looking to be human, covered in torn blackish fabric from its scrabbling feet to its thin neck – its head was covered with an old burlap sack, but was clearly misshapen, too wide and ridged to belong to a man. The fiery red eyes glared at him from slits in the fabric, a mouth full of long and sharp yellow-black teeth gaping from a slit below and snapping at his face, a foul stench that he recognized all too well flooding out with every heave of its breath—

                      Were it not for the wide-brimmed blackish-brown straw hat on top, he might not have recognized the Thing for what it appeared to be. It was a Scarecrow – a living and hideous parody of the horrible torment that so many freshmen at Smallville High had endured, including Clark himself. He gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the terrible odor coming from its mouth, and twisted his body in an effort to throw it off balance—

                      —but the Scarecrow wasn’t having any of that. It locked its sharp-clawed hands around his arms, wrenched him to one side in berserk rage so that he lost his own balance, then lifted him into the air with a strength no human could manage and whirled around in a near-complete circle, sending him hurtling back through the door and his legs smashing through the side wall.

                      Clark felt frustration and fury of his own surging through him even as he flew backwards, heading towards the street again. Like hell was he going to let this Thing murder another innocent man! He angled his feet in an effort to land on them, to be able to speed right back in—

                      The Scarecrow turned back to its victim, dismissing the very existence of the insect that had tried to bite it, and opened its jaws wide—

                      WHAM! It got a very rude surprise in the form of a p*ssed-off Clark Kent ramming it head-on again, sending it stumbling away from the prone Ethan. A gurgling snarl of pure rage exploded from it, and it slashed at him with its blackish claws—

                      But two could play that game. Clark caught its arms just as it had done to him, his green eyes meeting its blazing red slits without fear, and whirled around, slinging it away. That throw should’ve sent it clear across town, but it only tumbled to the floor, hissing and snarling impotently.

                      He seized the opportunity to get a better look at it. His x-ray vision flashed on in see-through mode, peeling away the layers of its dark fabric…and found nothing. To his utter shock, all he could see beneath was blackness. He blinked and switched to the true x-ray, everything going into shades of blue and white outlines – and saw the same thing. Pitch darkness throbbed inside the Scarecrow as it regained its feet, glaring at him—

                      He snapped his vision off and clenched his fists, letting the rage surge into his eyes. To hell with no killing – this Thing, whatever it really was, had absolutely no human qualities at all. As God was his witness, he was going to blast it right off the face of the Earth!

                      It crouched as if to spring upon him, its claws flashing – and then it lunged, but not forward. It hurtled to the side, almost flashing as it went, and vanished into thin air! One instant, it was there – the next, it was simply gone.

                      Clark cursed under his breath, letting the heat vision die away before it could be unleashed. After letting his frustration sear the air for a moment, he turned to the prone form of Ethan Miller, whose shirt had been ripped off but whose chest was untainted by any trace of red. Please, God, let him have been in time. “Sir?” he said softly, leaning over Ethan. “Can you hear me? Are you alright?”

                      Ethan did not reply. His body was still, his eyes wide and staring…motionless. Clark clenched his hands into fists – no, please, not again—

                      The man gasped, the sound long and low and tortured. Clark’s heart skipped a beat as relief swept over him – Ethan was panting, pale and sweaty, but he was alive. “Deputy,” he said gently. “It’s Clark Kent. Are you okay?”

                      Ethan inhaled, then blinked his eyes, focusing on his savior. “Clark?” he murmured. “Dear God…what happened? What was that thing?”

                      Clark sighed. “I don’t know, sir,” he admitted. “Whatever it was, it got away. But it didn’t get you.” He smiled a little. “I’ll call an ambulance. You’re going to be fine.”

                      So much for his efforts being useless. He’d managed to save someone tonight – that was proof of purpose to his life. He just hoped that the man could fully recover from this.

                      * * * * *

                      “Mostly it’s just shock, and it seems to be steadily fading,” said Dr. MacIntyre, his deep voice steady. Though the black man’s short beard was graying, he was in good shape for his age. He, too, was an old friend of Jonathan’s, and he was speaking with the Kents as they stood outside Ethan’s room early the next morning. “There are signs of mild bruising to his back, but those won’t be an issue.”

                      Clark was hardly surprised to hear that, considering where the man had been when he’d come crashing through. “So he’s going to be okay?” he asked hopefully.

                      “I’d say yes,” the doctor agreed. “Thanks to you, it sounds like.”

                      Clark looked down with a modest smile, as usual. Jonathan chuckled and clapped his son’s shoulder. “Nothing to be shy about, Clark,” he said. “I’m sure Ethan will say the same when he gets out of here.”

                      “I bet,” said Dr. MacIntyre with a warm smile of his own. “Believe me, I don’t usually risk breaching doctor-patient confidentiality – but to be honest, Jonathan, we’re the closest thing to family Ethan has. I have no doubt he’s grateful to know that the next generation is looking out for him as well.”

                      Martha smiled as well at her son, who shrugged modestly. “I’m just glad he’ll be okay,” he said softly. “When do you think we can see him, Doc?”

                      The doctor shrugged. “When visiting hours start, I’d say. He’ll probably be awake by then.”

                      The Kents nodded, then looked through the window once more before walking off – Clark had school to get to in a couple of hours, and Martha and Jonathan had work to do. They shared rather disturbed looks, and he thought he knew why. After a minute of walking, Jonathan spoke up: “So you figure this thing is attacking Scarecrow victims?”

                      Clark grimaced, knowing what his father was really asking. “Looks like it. That’s the only link between Jeremy and James Alexander.”

                      Jonathan stopped walking, sighed and looked back, seeming sad. “All this time,” he murmured. “I never knew…but it would explain a few things for sure.” He looked down, and Clark thought his eyes seemed…moist. “Why didn’t he ever tell me?” he whispered.

                      Clark and Martha traded a concerned look. “I guess he felt ashamed of it,” Clark offered. “I can’t say I blame him. It’s not the kind of thing someone would feel comfortable talking about.”

                      Jonathan shook his head. “I suppose not, but…not telling me? He knows he can trust me.”

                      “I don’t think that’s the issue, sweetheart,” said Martha softly. “I think Ethan simply never came to terms with it. How can you tell anyone else about being psychologically abused like that if you don’t even know how to deal with it on your own first?”

                      “Exactly,” said Clark just as softly. “It’s not an easy burden to deal with. Why burden others with it until you know how to handle it yourself?”

                      Jonathan shook his head again, making a soft sound. “You talk like you know that firsthand,” he remarked.

                      Clark winced a little, but only looked away for a second. He inhaled, then said quietly, “That’s because I do know it firsthand, Dad.”

                      For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Clark’s parents just stared at him as a horrible penny dropped. “No,” Jonathan breathed finally, shaking his head, appalled. “Son…you don’t mean…”

                      Clark nodded sadly. “Whitney and his buddies got me that Saturday. He had Lana’s meteor rock necklace, so I couldn’t even fight back.” He sighed, remembering that horrible evening and night that had almost ended in pure tragedy. “Jeremy came by to see me, while he was still under the influence of his powers. After he left to get vengeance, Lex came to my rescue. Later, he somehow figured out that Whitney was behind it and told Lana.” He shrugged a little. “That’s one of the reasons she broke up with him.”

                      Martha looked at him with an absolutely heartrending expression. “Oh, baby,” she whispered, stroking his face. “I can’t imagine…”

                      He put his hand over hers, smiling slightly. “I’m okay now, Mom,” he said gently. “Better, really. Whitney didn’t get off scot-free, after all.” He looked down for a moment, then admitted, “I would’ve just let bygones be bygones, but he decided not to be the better man…and he paid for it.”

                      She nodded understandingly. “No wonder Lana was so adamant that she’s had nothing to do with him for a while,” she mused. “And she hasn’t worn her necklace since?”

                      Clark shook his head. “I gave it back to her, but she just couldn’t bear to wear it anymore. She loaned it to Whitney for luck in the Homecoming game, but after what he did with it…” He shrugged again. “There were just too many bad memories attached.”

                      Which was true enough, but not the whole truth. He didn’t know how to tell his parents that Lana knew the meteor rocks were poisonous to him, let alone that she knew he had saved her from Greg – or that she knew of his x-ray vision and now heat vision. His father would definitely freak out completely – there was no need for that.

                      Jonathan closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, then sighed. “Well, I suppose it’s in the past,” he admitted.

                      Clark nodded, then looked grim. “But thanks to that Scarecrow-Thing, the past is directly affecting the future. Whatever it is, it’s not human. When I x-rayed it, all I saw was blackness – like its insides couldn’t reflect any light.” He shook his head. “I don’t think we’re dealing with a meteor-infectee at all.”

                      His parents shared yet another disturbed look. “Are you saying this creature…is alien?” asked Jonathan.

                      “In a nutshell, yes,” said Clark firmly. “Nothing else seems to fit. I don’t know when it got here, or how long it’s been around, or even why it’s attacking these people…but I know that no human being could look like that or move like that.” His eyes and voice were grave and hard. “And when it comes back, I need to be ready. It knows I’m on to it, and I doubt it’ll have any reservations about hurting others to get to me.”

                      As much as that scared Jonathan and Martha, they knew now that this creature was beyond the capacity of the police to deal with. Clark was the only one who stood a chance of ending its reign of terror. “Alright, son,” said his father after a moment. “You keep your eyes and ears peeled for any sign of it.”

                      Clark nodded. “That’s the plan. I figure it won’t show up until the sun’s set – it’s only come out at night so far. For whatever reason, it didn’t show up on Sunday, as far as we can tell.” He shrugged. “And it’s going after Scarecrow victims…which means I’m a likely target already, never mind that I flat-out fought it off last night. And what’s more, I think I know where it’ll strike…someplace where it can hurt a lot of people to get to me.”

                      He looked at them with serious eyes, and all three of them said as one, “The Halloween party.”
                      Last edited by superman_lives_on; 12-11-2010, 03:05 PM.

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                      • #26
                        The Chronicles of Smallville: Hallowed

                        * * * * *

                        The party was due to begin that very evening, shortly before sunset. How ironic fate could be, Clark mused as he stood in the loft, adjusting the costume Lex had delivered as promised. He wondered what Lana would be going as – she’d already agreed to be his date to the party, though hopefully they could avoid arousing too much suspicion.

                        His choice of costume might prove to be of help in that regard, as it included a thick black mask whose ties hung past the back of his neck. In fact, it was very nearly all-black – from the toes of the polished black boots that reached up to just below his knees, to the tight yet soft black pants that fit into them, to the long black shirt that opened up near his throat and was fastened by a strong black belt, to the black leather gloves he wore upon his strong hands, to the wide-brimmed black hat sitting on his head and held by long black strings. Even the wide, flowing cape he wore from his broad shoulders to the middle of his boots was black – on the back, anyway; in the front, it was a deep and vivid red. The front of the belt and the rim of the hat and the shoulders of the cape were decorated with rather regal designs that looked to be made of gold, though he hoped they weren’t.

                        He tossed the cape back, listening as it swished and billowed through the cold, still air of the loft, then smiled and reached to his belt, drawing the silvery sword – specifically, a foil – that Lex had included with the costume. He’d insisted that every hero needed one. The black bullwhip stuck into the other side of the belt was simply in keeping with the character he now embodied. He couldn’t help but grin at his reflection as he held the sword out, flicking it a couple of times – then he stuck it back into his belt and turned on his heel, his cape billowing dramatically as he left the barn.

                        Outside, his mother was waiting with one of their horses, a fit dark-skinned beast who was used to galloping. She grinned widely as he stood before her, unable to help posing. “What do you think?” he asked.

                        She laughed warmly. “In this case, Lex and I completely agree,” she said. “It suits you perfectly.”

                        He chuckled and looked at himself a bit. “Yeah, I think it’s pretty good. The cape especially – I like how it swishes.” He rubbed at his face a bit. “Not too sure about the mask, though. At least it fits.”

                        She nodded, then handed him the horse’s reins as he moved to climb into the saddle. “I’m sure Lana will be impressed,” she said warmly, almost knowingly. “Now get out there, Clark – never keep a lady waiting.”

                        “I certainly won’t,” he agreed, grinning down at her as he settled firmly in. “But for tonight, I’m not Clark Kent.” He tipped his hat to her, a husky and vaguely Spanish timbre creeping into his voice: “I’m Señor Zorro, at your service, señora.”

                        She laughed again and stepped back as the horse whinnied in seeming agreement. The gallant and dashing figure astride the beast coaxed him into movement, and off they trotted down the path to the Potter house. They reached it soon enough, and Zorro patted his steed gently before he slung himself down and strode towards the front door. He knocked lightly but firmly three times and waited.

                        Nell opened the door, blinked in surprise a few times…and then smiled. “Whitney,” she said, delighted. “What a wonderful costume you’ve chosen.”

                        Zorro’s gentle bluish eyes blinked for an instant, but that was all the surprise he allowed himself to show. He smiled without showing his white teeth and gave a gallant bow. “Bueñas tardes to you as well, Señorita Potter,” he said without any sarcasm, his voice a very deep and husky purr. “I come seeking the favor of a fair maiden here.”

                        She laughed and bowed in return, playing along. “But of course, Señor,” she said, not managing the accent quite as well. “I’ll let her know. Please, come in.”

                        He nodded and stepped inside as she moved toward the stairs. “Lana!” she called. “There’s a young gentleman who comes seeking your favor.”

                        “Coming,” Lana’s dulcet voice called back down, and Zorro’s heart skipped a beat. He stood just past the front door in nervous, delighted anticipation, wondering what his fair lady had chosen to wear for this evening…

                        …and then, there she was, walking down the stairs…and his jaw was rather abruptly introduced to Nell’s floor. She was always a vision to him, but tonight, she was especially stunning. She wore a billowing dress of the same vivid red as the inside of his cape, outlined at the hems in black, and low-heeled red shoes; her arms were left bare, and her long and thick near-black hair was bound up on her head with a lush red flower, some curls falling past the back of her neck. Thus, a good portion of her smooth, tanned and toned skin was exposed, including her face – she wore no makeup beyond red lipstick and some thin black eyeliner. Around her neck, she wore a silvery chain with a simple plain cross as a pendant, gleaming in the bright light.

                        In short, it was all he could do to remember the role he was playing…then again, her choice of costume went so well with it that there was no way he could believe it was a coincidence. No doubt Lex had taken her measurements as well – and he’d probably recommended the particular dress. He swallowed, then recovered enough to smile at her, still carefully not showing his teeth lest her aunt recognize his family’s trademark, and bow deeply. “Bueñas tardes, Señorita Lana,” he said huskily.

                        She smiled widely, her heart skipping a beat or two, and bowed in return. “Bueñas tardes to you too, Señor Zorro,” she purred, offering him one delicate hand. He took it gently, bowed over it, and brushed his lips lightly onto her skin, a feather-light kiss that made her heart flutter even more. She actually felt disappointed when he moved his head back up, though he did not release her hand…nor did he hold it any more or less than gently.

                        “Well,” said Nell after a moment, beaming, “you two go on and have fun. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of it at the party.”

                        “Thanks, Nell,” said Lana softly, feeling immensely glad that, for once, things were going smoothly. Alas…if only she and Clark didn’t have to resort to measures like this for that to happen. She put that thought aside for now and smiled up at her hero. “Shall we?”

                        “I believe we shall,” he agreed in that same husky voice, and gently led her out the door towards his steed. The beast whinnied again, as if he was impatient to get moving again, and Zorro helped his lady climb into the front of the wide saddle. He climbed up behind her, made sure that she had a firm hold, and nudged the horse into movement. Nell watched from the door as they headed off through the field at a smooth trot, chuckled warmly, and turned to head back inside. She was glad that Lana had come to her senses about Whitney.

                        Once they were a safe distance away, Lana looked back and up at her escort, grinning. “Lex told me that you’d gone with his idea,” she admitted. “He recommended that I go as a flamenco dancer.”

                        “I thought that’s what this dress was for,” Clark murmured, speaking in his normal but still deep voice. “I like the color scheme.”

                        “Me too,” she nodded. “Red and black. They go together so well, really.”

                        “Definitely,” he agreed. Then he grinned and dropped his voice back into that husky register: “So, my lady, shall we truly ride?”

                        “Yes, we shall,” she said, and held on tight. With that, Zorro coaxed the horse into a faster pace, soon reaching a full gallop as they headed for Smallville High. Lana shrieked and laughed in delight as they raced through the twilit fields, one of her escort’s black-gloved hands firmly on her waist while the other held the reins.

                        It was, put simply, exhilarating in a way no other ride she’d taken had ever been. Out here, alone with no-one but her knight in shining armor and his noble steed, hurtling through and past the peaceful fields and down the streets, she felt more than thrilled, more than happy. She felt free.

                        All too soon, they were nearing the school, and Clark slowed the horse, not wanting to risk hurting anyone. They headed for the football stadium, where the party itself was taking place, and found a few of Lex’s men waiting for them. “Welcome, Mr. Kent, Miss Lang,” said one of them, a tall and muscular brown-haired man with a booming baritone voice – Clark recognized him as Mr. Raines, Lex’s head of security. “Mr. Luthor instructed us to look after your horse.”

                        “Thank you,” said Lana as she came down from the horse, while Clark nodded politely. “Has Lex made his grand entrance yet?”

                        “Not yet,” Raines said with a small smile. “But he wants you two to go right in. He says you won’t want to miss it.”

                        “I’m sure we won’t,” Clark agreed, and tipped his hat to the guards as he and Lana walked past and into the stadium. The party was pretty much in full swing – students were milling around in various costumes, engaging in various Halloween activities from bobbing for apples to getting their fortunes told, sipping at pumpkin-orange punch from plastic cups, eating cupcakes with orange and black frosting, and overall just having good clean fun. The pair looked around, trying to decide what to do first…and all the while, Clark kept a wary eye on the horizon. The sun was close to setting.

                        “Clark! Lana!” Pete’s voice called to them from out of the crowd. “Over here!”

                        They turned to see him and Chloe, and hurried to meet them. Pete was hardly recognizable beneath the bestial – but not too frightening – mask he wore, let alone the hairy brown suit. Chloe was more restrained, ironically, having gone with a light blue dress worn over a white shirt, a long white apron in the front, and a long brunette wig tied into an elegant braid in the back.

                        It didn’t take either Clark or Lana long at all to figure it out. “Wow!” Lana exclaimed in a delighted laugh. “Nice choice, you guys!”

                        “Thanks,” said Pete from under the mask. “I think you beat us, though.”

                        “I hate to admit it, but he’s right,” said Chloe, pretending to be grudging – but her sea-green eyes twinkled with humor. “El Zorro, huh? And a flamenco dancer? I guess there are some advantages to having a rich friend that aren’t immediately obvious.”

                        “I guess,” said Clark mildly, smiling sheepishly. “Have you seen him around?”

                        “Not yet,” said Pete. “I just hope he doesn’t show us up.”

                        Clark chuckled and patted his shoulder. “Buddy, I don’t think anybody could show you up tonight.”

                        Pete seemed to brighten at that, and the four headed for a nearby table, taking some punch and cupcakes while they waited for Lex’s grand entrance. Not too far away, they noticed Whitney Fordman in his own costume – not nearly as imaginative, for he was dressed up as a football king, his helmet more like a golden crown. He didn’t even look towards them – he was too busy chatting with some blonde girl they didn’t immediately recognize. Several yards away, Dawn Stiles prowled around in a black spider costume, her hair bound up in a web design, a silvery pendant of some kind hanging around her neck.

                        Clark glanced at the horizon – the sun was just beginning to slip below it. His heart began to pound nervously—

                        —and then a girl screamed.

                        He whirled around, barely avoiding spilling his drink or dropping his cupcake, and saw the source of the girl’s seeming fear – a vampire had appeared at the doors. Not a regal figure with slicked-back black hair and a white shirt under a black tux, either – no, this was a creature dressed purely in black, his head bald and his skin ashen, his hands ending in black claws, his eyes blood-red and his mouth opening to show sharp white fangs—

                        Wait a minute. A bald head?

                        Clark burst out laughing, chiding himself for getting scared so easily; beside him, Lana did the same, a hand on her red-clad chest. Lex had definitely gotten off to a good start.

                        The tall and “sinister” figure swept his black cloak around himself as he headed for a stage, well aware of the growing number of eyes on him. He reached a microphone, grinned, and bowed before speaking. “Welcome, students of Smallville High!” he called, his unmistakable voice booming around the stadium. “How do you like the party so far?”

                        The students answered in a session of rousing cheers and applause. “That’s great!” Lex said, still grinning. “I’m sure you’ve all gotten into the spirit of tonight already, so I won’t keep you more than a moment. All I want to say is that I hope this will be the first of many such celebrations and good times to come.” He raised his hands gallantly as more cheers answered him. “Happy Halloween!”

                        With that, he swept off the stage, the students applauding some more until they finally resumed their full activities. He headed towards Clark and company, having easily spotted them from the stage, and grinned. “Bueñas tardes, Señors y Señoritas,” he said with a gallant bow. “I trust you’re having fun so far?”

                        “Definitely,” Clark agreed, beaming. “Nice job, Lex. You actually scared me for a moment.”

                        “That’s kind of the idea, Clark,” the billionaire-turned-vampire quipped. He bowed briefly to Lana, who returned the gesture, then turned to Pete and Chloe. “Let me guess…the infamous Chloe Sullivan. I’ve heard so much about you.”

                        “And I about you, Mr. Luthor,” Chloe said, shaking his offered hand. “That’s a nifty piece of work there. I’m guessing it’s based more off the Nosferatu version of Dracula, right?”

                        “Correctamundo,” Lex said, delighted. “I find that the classics are of greater value – perhaps because they were simply better made.”

                        “I tend to agree,” Chloe nodded. “Hence the theme Pete and I went with.”

                        “So I see,” Lex nodded back. “I thought that might be you, Mr. Ross – but of course I couldn’t be sure.”

                        “Yeah, well, things aren’t always what they seem, Mr. Luthor,” said Pete, shaking Lex’s hand rather stiffly. Though none of them could see his face (except for Clark), they sensed that he wasn’t thrilled even now.

                        Clark sighed a little – then a sudden realization struck him, and his gaze shot to the horizon. The sun was almost gone! Good grief – he’d let himself get distracted with the fun stuff happening here, and now it was almost time!

                        He ate the rest of his cupcake, trying not to look hurried, while Lex continued chatting with Chloe and Pete. Lana noticed his nervousness and touched his arm gently, looking at him with concern. He finished eating the treat and downed his punch, then wiped gently at his mouth after swallowing. He met her eyes and nodded very slightly.

                        She returned it, feeling a sickly dread encircling her heart. He’d told her today what he’d discovered about the Scarecrow Killer, and what he believed its next move would be. Now the sun was just about vanished, and the football stadium was full of people engaged in eating, drinking and making merry Halloween-style.

                        Clark put a hand on her arm, the other on the hilt of his sword, and watched as the sun disappeared completely. It was showtime.

                        Less than a minute later, the lights in the stadium all went out, all at the same instant. The sounds of merriment died just as abruptly, screams of shock and confusion and fear arising in their place. Lana cuddled close to Clark out of pure instinct, and he held her gently but firmly against him as he went to work.

                        It might have suddenly gone dark, but that was no impediment to him. His x-ray vision flashed on at full capacity, the darkened stadium becoming a moving picture in shades of blue, the people all white skeletons and clearly visible. He scanned the place, searching for his target, his vicious and cunning enemy—

                        There! At the edge of the stadium, near the passage leading back towards the locker room and the rest of the school, he saw the unmistakable pitch-blackness beneath the outline of the Scarecrow’s inhumanly slender body. Its too-wide head whipped around, looking directly towards him – it knew that he’d seen it. For a long moment, they just stared at each other across the field—

                        Then it did something that Clark hadn’t quite expected. It whirled around and dashed into the passage, vanishing more swiftly than the wind itself. He cursed under his breath and bent down. “Lana,” he whispered urgently, “stay with these three. Help them get people out through the main doors. It’s gone into the school, so don’t let anyone go that way.”

                        “Okay,” she whispered back. “But what about you?”

                        “Don’t worry about me,” he said softly, and kissed the top of her head. “I’ll see you soon.” With that, he broke away from her, his heart heavy with reluctance to leave her side, and turned towards the passage. He slipped past people, got into an open space, and took off after the Scarecrow at super-speed.

                        This time, he wasn’t letting the monster get away.

                        * * * * *

                        Clark blurred into the school, his x-ray vision showing him the outlines of the darkened walls, and paused at an intersection of hallways, trying to listen for his enemy. He heard nothing and tried smelling for it – the Scarecrow didn’t exactly use mouthwash, after all. He caught a faint whiff of that horrid stench, turned around in an effort to pinpoint the direction, and blurred down another hallway—

                        WHAM!

                        A vicious blow came out of nowhere, catching him right in the back and knocking him off his feet. He crashed to the floor, grimacing as actual pain lanced through him for a moment, then rolled around and leaped back to his feet. His x-ray vision had gone off in his surprise, and he began to switch it back on—

                        WHUMP! The Scarecrow lunged at him from behind, taking him off guard again, and he cried out in frustration as he struggled to regain his balance. It answered with a snarling, hissing noise that was almost a mocking laugh, and he gritted his teeth in sudden fury. He drove his black-clad elbow back at the Thing, striking its knotted chest, and it let out another hideous noise, though this one was more angry.

                        He wrenched free, surprised that the fabric of his costume wasn’t ripping, and whirled to face the creature. To his surprise, a couple of lights came on, and there it stood in front of him. Its horrible red eyes blazed within its burlap-covered carapace of a head; its scrabbling dirt-brown fingers and toes were too long to be truly human, never mind the blackish claws they ended in; and its starched hat seemed to be glued to its head…or worse, stitched to it.

                        He stared at it, and it stared back. Then it made that almost-laugh again, snapped its fingers a couple of times – and then it did something he’d never expected.

                        It spoke.

                        “Impressive display, little human,” it rasped, its voice a hideous, slavering, gurgling noise, like a human voice that had been so distorted by unholy means that it was hardly understandable anymore. “I think not.”

                        Clark swallowed a sudden surge of nervousness – not actual fear, no, but he was definitely disconcerted. He hadn’t expected this Thing to talk. “Like I care what you think,” he retorted sharply. “You’ve killed two innocent men, and you almost killed a third last night.”

                        The creature gave a bubbling, ragged parody of a laugh, and he had to fight down an urge to shiver. “Innocence,” it sneered, its long and sharp teeth dripping poisonous saliva as it spoke. “Such a pitiful little illusion…and yet, so expected from the insignificant.”

                        Clark’s hands balled into fists that could shatter solid walls. “You think people are insignificant?” he spat. “Tell that to their families, their friends! They’ll shout you down so loudly that you’ll go deaf!”

                        “Nonsense,” the Scarecrow growled, red eyes flaring. “I am no more troubled by your chittering cries than you are by the whining of an insect. You are merely an annoyance – no more, no less. You are nothing, human.”

                        He scowled at it, feeling his rage building. “If we’re nothing, then how come you killed them?” he demanded. “Why even bother, huh? Surely something that doesn’t care about humans has better things to do with its time!”

                        “Time,” it sneered. “Another illusion, such as innocence. There is no time, no change. All things are set. Everything is already decided. Such it was for the Fates of my playthings – so it is now for yours.” It dug at its chest, tore at the fabric, and ripped it open—

                        —and it was all Clark could do not to cry out in revulsion. Its skin was a mottled mess of dirt-brown and sickly yellow, its chest not just thin but seemingly devoid of all muscles – only bones showed beneath, jagged and grotesque parodies of human bones. And right in the center, gouged into that hideously mangled corpse-flesh, was a blood-red S.

                        “You see now, human, though you grasp desperately at any other explanation,” the creature gloated. “This is my power. You are naught but a petty irritation, a short-lived delay from my pleasure…and ascension.”

                        He wasn’t sure what exactly that meant, but he knew it couldn’t be anything good. He covered his mouth for a moment, swallowing…its horrid, fetid stench was filling the air, making it hard for him to even breathe. “What ascension?” he choked out.

                        “My full return to this world,” the Scarecrow growled in a self-satisfied tone. It released the sides of its torn black fabric, letting them hang loosely to either side of that horrible chest. “Two have fallen to my power – and when Fate claims you, I shall be restored. For you see, human – your world is a lie. Nothing that you do will ever be of the slightest importance. Free will, choice, consequence.” It let out a disgusted sound. “There are no such things. All is predetermined by forces you can never compre—”

                        WHUMP!
                        Clark didn’t even bother with being subtle – he just punched the Thing right in its thin neck, cutting it off mid-ramble. “Comprehend this,” he told it sternly, meeting its eyes unflinchingly as it coughed. “You talk too much without saying anything.” He sniffed out a breath, wafting at the air. “And you need to brush your teeth.”

                        It ground those ugly teeth together and glared at him, red eyes blazing more violently within their sockets. It seemed to recognize that further talk wouldn’t help it, though – so instead, it crouched, preparing to spring. He tensed up, trying to be ready for whatever it might try.

                        This time, it didn’t lunge to one side and escape – it lunged directly at him. He ducked, however, and it sailed right over him – and he whirled around, keeping his eyes on it, as it landed on the floor with a hiss of frustration. He rose to his feet, clenching his fists, and took a step towards it—

                        —but the Scarecrow was unthinkably fast. It whirled around and sent a punch sailing at him – he barely had time to move his head. He caught the stiff blow on his cheek and reeled away in a drunken spiral, his feet going crazy as he tried to keep his balance. He planted them firmly, steadied himself, and spun towards the creature—

                        —just in time to see it lunging at him again. Unable to duck away, he tried to catch it – and it knocked him right over, its jaws snapping and spitting. He twisted his face away, not wanting any of that venomous drool to get in his eyes, and shoved as hard as he could against it.

                        It didn’t move away. It raked at his cheek with those gnarled blackish claws, and he cried out in pain as his hot blood was drawn. It emitted a hissing, snickering sound and bent down, as if to lap up the blood—

                        —and all but shrieked in surprise and outrage as he thrust his whole body to one side, rolling it right onto the hard floor. Before it could get back up, he forced himself into a more upright position, drew his fist back, and slammed it into the creature’s head.

                        Crack! The burlap sack tore as the carapace within ruptured, and some horrible sort of ichor spilled forth – something black and oozing, like oil but thicker and more fetid. The Scarecrow let out a piercing, wavering scream of pain, the horrendous noise raking at Clark’s eardrums and forcing him to grab at them, crying out in pain of his own—

                        He realized what it had done an instant too late – it slammed a fist into his chest and sent him hurtling back, skidding over the floor. He slammed his feet down, digging into the hard material, and heard a screeching from his boots before he managed to stop. He looked down at them, seeing a hint of burns – but other than that, incredibly, his costume was still in one piece.

                        He glared up at the Scarecrow as it also regained its feet – but its movements were slower and a bit wobbly. Its head was still ruptured in one spot, spilling terrible black ooze, and its eyes of red fire seemed almost dazed. It shook all over, as if trying to clear its head…then shook some more, grinding its teeth together as it snarled with rage. It smacked one deformed hand against the wound, clawing at its own skin, then pulled it away.

                        To his rather sickened astonishment, the black ooze still in the wound solidified, sealing it up – and the ichor in the Scarecrow’s right hand began to bubble and throb, almost as if it had an unnatural life of its own. Its arm shook, then abruptly stiffened, standing out completely straight from its torso – and the black ooze sunk into the hand. As he watched, unable to do anything else, its claws extended, becoming sharper as they lengthened – and now he saw that they held a metallic gleam. Its forearm crackled and throbbed all over, starting to wrench back and forth—

                        —and with a sudden Crack, its elbow split open, disgorging a jagged spur of black bone that grew for several inches. The rest of its forearm became completely stiff, even its extended claws, and it rolled its improvised weapon around on an inhuman joint, its glowing red eyes never leaving his.

                        Holy crap. It had just formed a pitchfork from its own arm. What on Earth was this hideous thing?

                        Clark shook himself a bit, deciding that it didn’t matter – whatever the Scarecrow really was, it had no intention of letting him live, and God only knew what it would do after it had taken him out. If it wanted to kill him, it would have to fight him – and he was determined to fend it off.

                        So he whipped his hand toward his belt, grabbed the hilt of his sword, and drew it out with a singing rasp of steel. The Scarecrow stared at him, then gave a ragged, slavering laugh and lunged through the air, its pitchfork-claws aimed right at his face—

                        —and he jumped back, swinging the sword forward. It caught the claws, and sparks actually flew as metal clashed with metal, vibrations shaking through his arm and into his body – but the maneuver worked. The claws didn’t touch his skin.

                        The Scarecrow snarled explosively, thoroughly irritated with the refusal of this insect to give in to the inevitable, and drew its pitchfork-arm back so it could slash at him. He saw the blow coming and whipped his sword around, catching it as well – more sparks flew, the steel singing as it blocked the claws again, and the creature hissed in fury. Again, it drew its arm back, far too quickly for any mere mortal – but this time, Clark darted to one side even as he parried the blow, rather inexpertly but well enough to keep his skin untouched.

                        He tried to shove the pitchfork-arm back, but the Thing still had strength enough to resist him. It swung its weapon right at his head, and he ducked, though his hat got knocked off – then he lunged forward, headbutting the Scarecrow right in its emaciated belly. It gasped in genuine shock, unable to shriek as it stumbled back, and he came back up – and his eyes now blazed as ferociously as its own. Easily using his own fury and frustration as fuel, he shot a blast of heat at the monster—

                        —and its own head whipped up, its jaw distending impossibly wide. The golden-red ball of heat shot right into its mouth, and it slammed its jaw shut again, swallowing as it absorbed the wild energy. Then it snarled, its red eyes blazing even more. “Do not think for one moment that your tricks can harm me, human!” it all but bellowed. “You are nothing!”

                        Clark stared in disbelief for all of a second, then gritted his teeth and hoisted his sword, trying not to give in to a sudden surge of despair. If his most dangerous power was useless against it, what hope did he have?

                        No – he couldn’t think like that. He couldn’t let this monster get to him, not again. He had to kill it, period. His entire home depended on that.

                        A sudden idea struck him, and he made ready to wield his sword again – the Scarecrow just laughed and charged forward – and he threw the sword right into its hideous face. It stopped in its tracks, stumbling as it cried out in surprise, the sword clattering to the floor—

                        —and Clark rushed forward like the wind, driving his fist into the creature’s thin neck. It jerked back at the blow, its head whiplashing – then suffered another blow, and another, and another still. He punched it over and over, ramming it until he distinctly heard the cracking of carapace and bone alike – then he grabbed its head with both of his huge hands, wrenched it one way and another, then pulled straight up.

                        The head ripped off the neck, squirting black ichor, and he immediately threw it into the darkened hallway. The body stood stiffly before him, not moving an inch…then it toppled backwards, slamming onto the floor, and seemed to explode into black shadows. A moment later, there was nothing. The creature was gone.

                        For several long moments, he just stood there, breathing slowly and evenly as he let the adrenaline die down. Then he began to smile. It was over – just like that. The Scarecrow Killer was defeated. Smallville was safe—

                        CLAAARK!!!

                        Lana’s scream of terror brought him whirling around, his heart stopping for a long moment. “LANA!” he cried, and ripped his mask off as he sped towards the entrance to the stadium—

                        —and emerged into a scene straight out of Hell. The night sky had turned blood-red, the clouds boiling with furious power, and the stadium was in flames. The stands spewed black smoke in several large spots, smaller ones sending out licking tongues of fire, and the field itself was covered with—

                        Oh, God. Oh, no. Oh, please, God, no.

                        The field was covered with bodies. Everywhere he looked, trying to escape the sight, it simply repeated itself. All of the party attendees lay dead, their costumes ripped and spattered with blood, wisps of smoke curling around them—

                        He covered his mouth, trying desperately not to throw up—

                        CLARK!!!

                        There she was! She was hurt – one arm didn’t seem to be working right, and her dress was all ripped up, but she was alive! He began to move towards her, trying to sprint, not caring if he broke out into super-speed in front of her—

                        —and the meteor came screaming out of the sky, a blazing ball of rock and fire and death. He never got a chance to scream, and she never had a chance to avoid it – it smashed into the ground, and the world exploded against him.

                        He blacked out, and when his eyes opened, he couldn’t see right for a long minute…it was just too blurry. He hurt all over…he couldn’t even move, really…

                        Then, suddenly, an all-too-familiar agony seared through him, and though it was far worse, it seemed to clear his vision right up. He looked desperately up, sensing that it was coming from above him—

                        —and his heart stopped in disbelief. Lana? She was still alive? She was standing over him

                        —and clutching a meteor rock in one hand. His eyes widened – what the hell?

                        “You caused all of this,” she said, her voice absolutely cold and remote – he’d never heard it like that before. “You brought everything down on us.”

                        She wasn’t wearing her dress anymore – despite the agony of the meteor rock, he could see that she was dressed in pure black, a heavy coat and sharp boots that vanished underneath it – and her hair was bound up in the tightest bun he’d ever seen. And it, too, was black…and she seemed pale somehow. Even her lips were different – dark, only the barest hint of red in them…

                        …and her eyes showed no emotion whatsoever, no sign of their usual warm spark. They were hard, cold eyes…dead eyes.

                        “You killed all of these people,” she said, no inflection at all in her ice-cold voice, no expression whatsoever on her face. “You killed so many just by living.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You killed my parents.”

                        He couldn’t speak…couldn’t even groan. He couldn’t protest at all, couldn’t beg for mercy.

                        Why should he? What was the point? He deserved no mercy for what he had done.

                        “This is all your fault,” she continued, holding the glowing green rock steadily over him. “You killed everyone. Because of you, none of them will ever come back.”

                        She was right. He had killed everyone. It was all his fault. Because of him, none of them would ever come back.

                        She bent over him, bringing the rock closer. “You have destroyed so many lives just by existing,” she said, her voice lowering to a hiss. “And now, you will suffer as they all did. You will die in agony, just as you deserve.”

                        Yes. It was what he deserved. He had destroyed so many lives just by existing.

                        “…Clark…”

                        And now, he would suffer as they all did.

                        “…Clark?”

                        He would die in agony, just as he—

                        “Clark! Where are you?!”

                        Lana?


                        Suddenly, his eyes flew wide open, and his hand shot towards the blazing meteor rock – the agony did not intensify as he grabbed it, nor did his muscles scream as he pushed himself up, shoved it away from him—

                        —because it was a lie. None of this was real. The Scarecrow had tapped into his absolute worst fears in an attempt to destroy him, just as it had done with Jeremy Creek and James Alexander, just as it had almost done with Ethan Miller.

                        The false Lana hissed even more, her eyes erupting into red fire, while the voice of the true Lana kept calling for him: “Clark! Can you hear me?!”

                        “LANA!” he yelled, unable to help himself—

                        —and the illusion shattered like so much glass before a sonic blast. The Scarecrow’s pitchfork-claws strained against his hand, but it couldn’t force him back down. In fact, its arm was shaking as he rose to his feet, his teeth clenched and his eyes locked on its own as rage built up within him again. He stood just before the passage that led back to the stadium, and he could hear people moving around outside—

                        “Clark!” Lana’s voice was getting louder as she came closer.

                        “Lana, stay back!” he called. “It’s still in here!”

                        The Scarecrow screamed, the horrendous noise raking at his eardrums again, and he almost lost his grip on its claws – but not quite. Gritting his teeth, he shoved his hand forward, got a better grip, and yanked.

                        The pitchfork-arm tore right off the rest of the arm, spilling more black ichor, and the creature’s scream faltered under the shock of a fresh wound. Then it sucked in a ragged breath and began to scream again—

                        “SHUT UP!!!” Clark bellowed, swinging the clawed end of the arm at the Thing’s head; it smacked solidly into the burlap-covered carapace, and the Scarecrow staggered away, too stunned to make any more noise. “SHUT!!! UP!!!” He smashed it again, and again, and then again for good measure – and each time, the monster reeled, its head cracking and spilling more black ooze.

                        Scowling in disgust and fury, he hoisted the pitchfork-arm, aimed it right at the blood-red S that mocked the torment of its victims, and drove the severed limb right through the creature’s chest. It stood rigid, unable to make a sound – and he stepped forward, grabbed hold of it, and shoved it back, sending it sprawling.

                        He heard a gasp of astonishment from the wide doorway, and he turned to see Lana staring at the bizarre creature, her eyes wide and her mouth open. He stepped forward and cupped her cheek with his hand, turning her head gently so that she was looking at him. Her expression relaxed, and she smiled at him, her eyes shining with relief—

                        —and then the Scarecrow laughed.

                        They turned to see it standing upright – it was clearly horribly wounded and not quite in one piece, but it was still alive somehow. Its red eyes blazed madly as it glared at them. “Mortals!” it sneered. “What do you think that you can possibly accomplish? You are nothing! You are only insects for me to crush! You cannot stop me!”

                        But its words fell on deaf ears. Lana was in no mood to believe the claims of a murderous and inhuman stranger over her own tenets, and Clark was sick and tired of putting up with this Thing’s crap. It was delusional if it truly thought that he’d just bow down before it now.

                        He turned fully towards it, keeping Lana shielded from it, and fixed his eyes on its own. “You think it’s fun to hurt people?” he demanded. “You think you can just invade our homes and do whatever you like? Well, I have news for you – you’re wrong, *sshole!” His hands clenched into fists. “You’re nothing but a coward and a murderer, and now you’re going to pay for it!”

                        The rage boiled inside him, and he let it – he wanted all the force he could put into this hopefully final attack. His eyes blazed golden-red as the images of its victims swam before them, as the realization of what it had done and tried to do sank fully into place…and he aimed his gaze at its chest, barely managing to see the blood-red S through the haze of heat.

                        The creature stared in shock as it realized that despite everything, it had completely failed to break him down. He stared right back at it, gritted his teeth, then called out in open defiance and scorn of this murdering monster:

                        “How about a little fire, Scarecrow?”

                        And he let fly, sending that fire shooting into its chest at full force. The Thing didn’t even have a chance to scream as the flames covered its hideous body, devouring the thin blackish-brown fabrics and chewing through the emaciated flesh and cooking the jagged bones; its hat went up like a Roman candle as the fire covered its head, sparks shooting out in bursts of power—

                        And then the body simply burst apart, the flames billowing for several long moments before they winked out.

                        …except that there was still something left. A writhing black mass, uncovered by its disguise, surged up and out, throwing out long and wide limbs—

                        Clark and Lana jolted in shock as they beheld the Thing’s true form, just as each of its victims had before it moved in for the kill. Huge tentacles swept at the air, growing as the main body rose, bulging and shifting – the remains of the Scarecrow’s head cracked and fell apart, showing a much more hideous form beneath that could only barely be called a head, a form dominated by obscenely wriggling tentacles and curving horns all in black – the red eyes blazed with mad fury as they locked upon the Thing’s would-be slayer—

                        —and more eyes opened all over the horrible mass, the same fiery red as the pair above – they all glared at the foolish and terrified mortals that the Thing would soon devour – and mouths appeared all over, gaping maws full of dripping black teeth, and began to snarl and scream – and thorn-like barbs extended from the tentacles, gleaming somehow—

                        —and weird not-light played around the Thing, purple and blue like a black light but somehow wrong, as wrong as everything else with this entity – its throbbing, tentacled body writhed obscenely as it began to lurch toward them—

                        “Lana,” Clark gasped, barely able to get the words out in his shock, “get out. Run, now.”

                        “No!” she exclaimed, darting around to stand in front of him, determinedly looking into his eyes and not at the Thing now directly behind her. “Not without you, Clark! I’d rather go down with you!”

                        He stared at her in numb shock, amazed that even now, she refused to abandon him…then he sighed a bit, nodding. There was no way he could convince her to leave him behind – and if this Thing had its way, he probably didn’t even have time to get her out with his powers.

                        “Why?” he whispered, holding her close as Death approached them.

                        She smiled softly and whispered back, “You know why.” Because I trust you, Clark, her eyes said for her. Because I believe in you. Because I have faith in you.

                        Because I love you.


                        And he did know. Even if they had never found the courage to say it aloud, he knew it deep down. And truth be told, even now, it didn’t need to be vocalized…she’d just said it. He gazed back into her eyes, replying without words: I have faith in you, Lana. I have hope for you. I have courage because of you.

                        I love you.


                        He wanted nothing more than to kiss her, than to draw her close and let her eyes be the last thing he ever saw, to let his own eyes be the last thing she ever saw rather than the form of their killer…

                        But something inside him, something borne of that very love he had held ever since he had first seen her, something carried on the words he had given her without even speaking, something wise and patient and calm, whispered a single word: No.

                        His eyes glanced downward seemingly of their own accord, and he saw the simple silvery cross hanging around her beautiful neck…and, to his surprise, it was clearly visible even in the darkened room.

                        Face it, the patient voice within him whispered. Face the Thing. Show it who holds the true power.

                        Those same words arose inside Lana, and she acted on them without even thinking, turning to face the lurching and horrible monster—

                        —and the cross flared with a sudden blue-white light.

                        The Thing shrieked, stopping in its lurching tracks, and actually drew back. Its countless obscene mouths began jabbering, forming words that neither Clark nor Lana understood.

                        But they didn’t need to. Though they weren’t entirely sure in their minds what was happening, they knew in their hearts that they had just found the Thing’s true weakness. It had gorged itself like an enormous greedy pig on the terror it had inspired in its victims, devouring their very sanity as well as their lives. But for all its blather about being unstoppable, it had failed to realize something very simple and very important:

                        Fear may be strong, but it is a passing thing that never outlives courage…and courage is born of true faith.

                        Clark and Lana stepped towards the Thing, and it reared even further away. She took off her necklace with her left hand and held it before her, clinging to his own left hand with her right. He extended his right hand and pointed, feeling the fire coming to his eyes again – but this time, neither anger nor lust inspired it. All he needed was right next to him, holding his hand…and inside him, carried in his heart and displayed through his choices and actions.

                        The blue-white light flowed from Lana’s cross, striking the Thing in the center of its writhing black mass – and at the same instant, the golden-red fire flowed from Clark’s eyes, hitting it at exactly the same point. They grew brighter and stronger with every moment, searing into this unnatural monster, this being that had no place in reality, this vile affront to all of Creation—

                        —and the Thing screamed, but it was a tinny and weak noise now, robbed of all its power. The mouths open and shut, their teeth scraping against each other and cutting into black not-flesh – the merging beams of power became brighter yet, illuminating the entire hallway, driving the horrid not-light away—

                        —and then the Thing simply EXPLODED! Its body burst and billowed into white-gold fire, nearly blinding Clark and Lana, and a shockwave rippled through the air and building, too pervasive and powerful to truly be a noise – and the fire filled the hallway before them, easily filling the space between walls, between floor and ceiling, and slowly billowed without sound—

                        —then they saw the symbol of Lana’s cross, formed in white against the center of the gold, surrounded by a star with six points—

                        —and then the fire began to collapse upon itself, vanishing as suddenly as it had appeared, as if it were being drawn through something. As it disappeared, there was a final blinding flash of white and a tremendous thundering BANG like an enormous metal gate crashing shut.

                        Then it was gone. The Thing was truly destroyed now. It was over.

                        For a long moment, Clark and Lana rubbed at their eyes, then stared at the space in the dark where it no longer was…

                        Then they saw the white mist forming, glowing as if illuminated from within. Two shapes emerged from it and approached them, becoming more distinct as they did…

                        Clark and Lana gasped in awe. They recognized the shapes. Jeremy Creek and James Alexander approached them, wearing matching soft smiles, their every movement gentle. The younger man walked to stand before Clark, while the older man approached Lana.

                        “None of this is your fault, Clark,” Jeremy said gently, his voice seeming to echo. “You’ve done everything you can to help people, including me. Don’t ever give up on that.”

                        Beside him, James smiled at the young woman who stared up at him. “You don’t have to be ashamed, Lana,” he said, his own voice gentle. “Your mother was a good person, despite her regrets. You’re very much her daughter.”

                        They stepped back, leaving Clark’s mouth open in awe and Lana’s eyes moist with tears. They didn’t say anything more…they’d already said all they had needed to. They joined hands as brothers in experience, smiled and waved to the young couple before them…and then they floated upward, vanishing through the ceiling just before the lights all came back on.

                        * * * * *

                        After the chaos of Halloween night, November 1st was considerably quieter…though the night ended on a better note than it began. As it turned out, the Scarecrow-Thing was defeated quickly enough that the party wasn’t a complete loss. Soon after the evacuations began, they reversed course, and the students got back to it. It helped, of course, that the strange power failure fixed itself.

                        Dawn Stiles went home that night feeling oddly frustrated – why, she wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the fact that the party had been too clean. Ah, well. She’d made heads turn with her costume – including this genius silver pendant she’d bought last week. It was a pentagram within a circle, and inside the five-sided center was a symbol she didn’t quite recognize, like an upside-down Y with a third bit. It had felt really cold last night – or had it been really warm? Didn’t know, didn’t care. She couldn’t wait until next Halloween to wear it again.

                        Clark Kent visited Ethan Miller at the hospital before school, feeling immensely relieved to see that the man had made a full recovery already. What he hadn’t expected, though, was the depth of the gratitude the deputy sheriff showed him – and he had no way to respond to it. “Son,” Ethan said softly, touching his arm, “I owe you my life. I already know I’m not the first to do so – and I’m certain I won’t be the last. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.”

                        Lana Lang visited the Torch about fifteen minutes before classes – she’d left her aunt’s house early, claiming she wanted to get a fresh start on the day. That was only part of the truth, though. She couldn’t bear to spend any more time than she had to with a woman who scorned her every independent thought and feeling and choice, who was convinced that Whitney Fordman was a golden god and Clark Kent was a stupid hick. She had to get away somehow, make her own life. To that end, she sat at a computer Chloe had given her permission to use, inhaled and exhaled slowly, then typed some simple words into the Search box:

                        Child emancipation.
                        Last edited by superman_lives_on; 08-01-2010, 02:23 PM.

                        Comment


                        • #27
                          Bravo, Matt! What an excellent original installment for your revised Season 1! Ah, I'm glad to see that Clark is seriously pursuing the possibility of playing baseball, and being a pitcher to boot! I'm sure that he'll enjoy that. Ick, I can't even fathom what must be in Nell's mind for her to believe in delusions and rumors over Lana's own explanations. Ha ha ha, I'm glad to see that heat vision made such an early appearance! Good thing that Clark has control of it now...otherwise, Lana might have to be dodging bursts of fire on the diving board in "Nicodemus"! Oooooh, what a wonderful coordination of costumes for Clark and Lana...I can only assume that he was wearing blue contact lenses to fool Nell, since his eyes have more of a greenish tint to them. Wow, your villain was quite insidious, truly a monster straight out of nightmares. I can only assume that it is somehow connected to the pendant that Dawn was wearing, and if that's the case, I worry about what else she might summon with it's power. And what's this, Lana investigating child emancipation? I have a feeling that a certain work-at-home lawyer might be making an appearance soon! I can't wait for the next installment!

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                          • #28
                            Ths was great, I think Nell might be insane and Whitney is a major jerk. Also loved the Scarecrow thing and the Clana. PPMS

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                            • #29
                              I just wanted to say that I absolutely love how this story is unfolding. The roller coaster ride that the writers did on the show unfortunately wore on me after a while. It's quite a breath of fresh air to see an alternate storyline develop with Lana and Clark. I always thought they had a wonderful rapport on the show. I am curious about one thing. Will you be following the arch that the show took or will you spin this story off in its own direction?

                              Comment


                              • #30
                                Originally posted by Kirk
                                I just wanted to say that I absolutely love how this story is unfolding. The roller coaster ride that the writers did on the show unfortunately wore on me after a while. It's quite a breath of fresh air to see an alternate storyline develop with Lana and Clark. I always thought they had a wonderful rapport on the show. I am curious about one thing. Will you be following the arch that the show took or will you spin this story off in its own direction?
                                Both, sort of. For a while, this will follow the show at least in general details...but at some point, it'll change completely and go in a hopefully unique direction. I do hope you're around to see it. I'm always pleased to see a new reader who enjoys the story.

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