The Last Son     The Last Son

 by Lint

 A sort of post-Rosetta fic. I got this idea from a black Superman shirt I
own. Thanks to Shikha for reading it piece by piece. 

 

  

 He's not used to pain. 

 The sensation itself is such a foreign concept he's not entirely sure the
pulsing in his head is exactly what he's feeling. Sleepily he reaches over
to his nightstand to knock away the alarm clock he's sure he's beaten to
get up but finds his arms unwilling to move at the pace he wishes. Trying
to turn onto his side results in discovering the rest of his body is just
as unwilling. He opens his eyes to nothing but a solid black wall staring
back as he continues the struggle to move. Gritting his teeth against the
heaviness of his body and the ache in his mind, he pushes his hands down
thinking he should be feeling the comforting warmth of his sheets instead
of the bed of muck his fingers meld themselves into. 

 He tries to scream but the only thing to escape his throat is the last
pocket of air from his lungs rising in bubbles around his face. His brain
throbs inside his skull and the pain, god the pain, travels down his spine
in a million pricking needles. Struggling against the bonds of his murky
entrapment he shifts his body side to side with newfound energy fueled by
panic, his mind unified with the single thought that he wants out. He's
never been hit with signs of claustrophobia before. He's never been in a
situation where being trapped (minus the affect of the meteor rocks) was a
problem. Meteor rocks. They must surround him. 

 Finally his hands and face break free from their bonds and his eyes focus
only a bluish brown haze in front of him. He isn't sure what the hell he
is doing underwater. Pushing the realization aside he claws at his feet,
digging as fast as his heavy arms will allow. When he's finally free his
arms flap up and down until he's high enough to start kicking with his
feet. His lungs ache for fresh air as he continues his descent upward,
eyes focusing through the haze to the rays of light shining just above. 

 Closer, he thinks, just a little closer. 

 When he breaks the surface he sucks in a gulp of air so big he nearly
chokes and falls back under. Spinning in slow circles he sees that he's
not too far from land and makes his way toward the edge of the water. Once
out he collapses to his knees stomach clenching as he gags and coughs out
the last remnants of cold brackish water from his lungs. He tries to stand
once his breathing regulates but is only met with fresh throbbing in his
temples. He lies still until it passes, kneeling uneasily before taking
another cautious step. 

 The swaying and the pain subside and he looks around trying to determine
just where exactly he is. The countryside is littered with various small
lakes and ponds and he needs a more familiar sight to determine just which
one he found himself at the bottom of. A few more cautious steps and he
thinks it's okay to walk. Hugging himself slightly as he moves he can't
remember feeling this bad without the assistance of the meteors. If he
thinks about it, he can't recall noticing the familiar green glow under
the water. He bites his lip against the ache. It feels as if the marrow in
his bones sing out in little sonnets of hurt. 

 Briefly he wonders if he still has his speed but doesn't want to waste
what little energy he has finding out. His stomach growls, complaining to
the rest of his body that it craves sustenance. Patting his jeans he
realizes that even with the small chance he would have some kind of food
hidden away in his pockets, it would be soaked through with inedible pond
water. 

 The dirt path seems to stretch forever before him, leaving him to feel
helpless like the tortoise forced to watch as the hare's tail dashed ahead
of him. It feels like hours walking along, his shoulders in a slight
hunch, feet scuffing along beneath him, before he sees the house and the
end of a curve in the path he recognizes as the Emerson's. The furthest
farm out on route 5 that still qualified as being within Smallville's town
limits. 

 He briefly considers knocking on their front door and asking to use the
telephone to call his parents, or maybe even Pete, to come out and get
him. But he quickly dismisses the idea for lack of a plausible explanation
for why he decided to take a dip in their pond fully clothed. 

 The wind kicks up a little, washing his still wet form over in a wave of
goosebumps. He sneezes. His brow creases together. So that's what it feels
like. 

 Reaching the highway he turns his head up and down the road and begins to
head back into town. He vaguely wishes for someone with a familiar face to
pull up alongside him and offer a ride. Lex seemed to have a sixth sense
when it came to him and being stranded somewhere on the side of the road. 

 It takes a good five or ten minutes before he realizes that not only has
no familiar face passed him by, no strange ones had either. That might not
have even have struck him as odd if it weren't for the absolute silence
surrounding him. Not a bird chirped or flew by, not a deer crossed the
highway, and not a dog barked somewhere in the distance. 

 He once read that the most terrifying thing in the universe was nothing. 

 And besides the sound of his waterlogged shoes squishing against the
asphalt... 

 Nothing is all he can see or hear.  

 Instinct leads him back home. He thinks it must have taken at least an
hour to make the walk all the way. His clothes downgraded themselves from
soaked to damp during the journey but he still can't wait to be able to
change into some fresh dry ones. He had plenty of time to think of what he
would tell his parents. He already knew his dad is going to jump to the
absolute worst conclusion he can think of, and probably chastise him for
something he isn't even aware of, let alone had any control over. And mom
will just look at him with that wide-eyed expression of hers before
vocalizing her worry. 

 Upon reaching the front gate all the dread of the upcoming conversation
drained from him only to be replaced by the dismay that his family might
not be there for it. 

 The barn lay in a massive pile of broken and smoldering wood, the once
red paint now melted and charred black. 

 "Mom!" He shouts. "Dad!" 

 No reply. Only his echo and then the deafening silence. 

 He tries to focus his eyes into x-ray mode to see if there are any bodies
under the pile but can't. He runs as fast as he can to the pile, tossing
away planks not as easily as he expects he could. The wood is still hot
enough to the point it singes at his hands. 

 What is going on? He thinks in vain. Why can't he run? Why can't he see
through the wood? Why does his head still hurt? There are no meteor rocks
on the farm. His dad had made sure of that the day they found out what
they did to him. What is the deal? 

 No answers seem to offer themselves up and he moves away from what used
to be his sanctuary. The only consolation he can find at the moment is the
fact that he can't smell the unforgettable stench of burning flesh. A
fleeting wish that he never knew it at all. 

 Looking toward the house it seems to have faired, at least structurally,
better than the barn. Though by looking at the eight-foot hole punched
through the living room it isn't by much. 

 "Mom!" He calls again. "Dad!" 

 Silence. 

 He scans the horizon looking for any signs of life but is not surprised
when he comes up empty. One look at the silo and he thinks of the leaning
tower is Pisa. The truck, oddly enough, sits untouched next to the shed.
Frustrated, he runs his hand through his hair and closes his eyes longing
for any resemblance of memory. The five W's swimming around his thoughts
seem to want to devour it. Who, what, where, why and when. Sighing he
makes his way toward the house calling out for his parents every few
seconds. He treads carefully onto the porch avoiding holes and broken
beams. The couch isn't in the living room. By the looks of it, it seems
like it was tossed out the window. Half the banister is ripped from the
stairs and pictures litter the entire hallway floor. 

 Jagged splinters pose idle threats as they jut out from cracked support
beams. He runs his hand cautiously along the walls, keeps light on his
toes so as not to suddenly fall through the floor. In what used to be the
kitchen he leans against the counter littered with dust and debris. He
pinches the bridge of his nose with the renewed pulsing in his head, and
lets his eyes drift shut. He feels his fingers travel along the countertop
across the dust, dipping, swirling, and arching. Feels the invisible
strings pulling at them. When he looks at what he's done his stomach drops
down an already shaky trail to his feet. What stares back at him, written
is his native tongue, is the sign for power. 

 His first thought is to wipe it away. Make it disappear. Pretend it isn't
there. But his fingers retrace the lines, waiting, wanting to make more.
Clark turns his head away and quickly wipes the counter clean. He knows
what it read. He's just not sure he wants to know what it means. 

 A quick glance through the upstairs room reveals nothing but the change
of clothes he's been looking forward to. Oddly enough the second story
remained untouched in terms of destruction. His parent's room is just (he
assumes this anyway) as it had been this morning. Same with his room, same
with the bathroom. He sits on the edge of his bed as he slips on his
jacket and tries to think of a game plan. There had to be someone out
there somewhere. Despite the absolute emptiness he feels it cannot
possibly be complete. 

 On the way out of his room he catches his reflection in his mirror. The
person looking back at him is someone he barely recognizes. Eyes
blackened, bloodshot, and baggy. Skin pale almost to the point of
transparency, plastic wrapped around his cheekbones. He stares down at his
hands, sees bruises he hadn't noticed before, cracked skin. He keeps
thinking meteor rocks but doesn't feel the sickness everywhere. Just dull
annoying ache. He places a quavering hand upon the glass. 

 Not me, he thinks. That's not me. 

 His fist shatters the unwanted visage, glass splitting the skin between
his knuckles. Pulling back his hand he marvels at the blood protruding
from wound, pain crawling up his wrist and arm. The slow angering thought
that he isn't going to be able to stop whatever's out there. Not when he
is so weak. 

 So human. 

 His brow creases in confusion. It's not a description he associates with
himself. It hasn't been for quite sometime. He isn't sure where the
thought formed itself. He clears his mind and tries to return to the task
at hand. 

 One last look at the disarrayed image before he heads to the bathroom for
a bandage and a couple of aspirin for good measure. 

 He walks the entire perimeter of the farm checking and rechecking all the
possible spots his parents might have hidden themselves. Some place he
isn't aware of. He's already trying to sum up his enemy. When he has to
fight someone, rarely does he have time to think things through. He acts
on instinct and luck and the knowledge that he isn't going to be hurt.
Quick glance at his crudely wrapped hand. That isn't going to work this
time. 

 The aspirin seems to be working on the headache, and being out in the sun
feels almost recharging in a way. The fields are still freshly tilled
waiting for seeds to be planted. That's what he should be doing out here.
Helping his dad with a new crop. Not walking through everything he knows
and loves as they reveal themselves gone and broken. 

 Incidentally he finds the cows still out in the pasture. Some fried, some
gutted, some just simply dead. He walks around them shaking his head.
Everything... All gone dead. He heads back to the house. He'll take the
truck and head into town trying to find, well, anybody. As he walks his
mind works quickly against the enemy. Thinking of its attributes. Strong,
quick, and brutal. Everything already obvious. He thinks he can see
something underneath it all but can't quite wrap a coherent thought around
it. But over time he knows it will form into something. 

 Something, he thinks. Is always better than nothing.  

 While the completely overwhelming feeling that everything is absolutely
wrong hangs in the air like thick fog. Nothing could prepare him for the
bodies. 

 Oh. 

 God. 

 The bodies. 

 He parks the truck in the first space he spots and makes his way slowly
toward them. Littered across the sidewalks and streets of downtown as if
they were simple bits of trash tossed aside. Blood. So much blood. It
stains the concrete in vast pools, puddles, or slowly drying patches. So
many faces stare blank and lifeless. He knows them. Passing by each one in
daily routine, not knowing names exactly but by sight, by job, by common
ground. All lay bruised, battered, and beaten. Some in whole, in half, or
in pieces. Eyes and forms cold. 

 As he walks he can hear them whispering. Begging for their lives. He
keeps his gaze locked forward, taking in the sight of his once lively town
reduced to no more than a rotting skeleton failing to decompose. Not
wanting to peer into someone's final moment of agony. So much death making
him wish he were blind. 

 Welcome to Smallville. 

 Population: 0. 

 The sun beats down, mid-afternoon heat gearing up for its warming grace,
causing the smell to waft and grow. He now can recognize the unwanted
knowledge of burning flesh. It turns his stomach so much he falls helpless
to his knees retching out what little there is in his stomach. All the
destruction. All the people. All his powers and abilities useless to
prevent any of it. 

 Wiping his mouth with his sleeve he leans back still resting on his
knees, keeping his breathing shallow. He can feel the hope of finding
someone alive fade away with each passing second. The fact chills him to
the bone. He closes his eyes briefly, the warming affect of the sun
seeming to make his tired aching body feel the slightest bit better.
Curious about just what effect it seems to have, he unwraps his hand to
examine the cut only to find it already closed. The skin pink and puffy
and looking like it had days to heal. He stretches his fingers. No pain
either. Shaking his head he puts his good hand on the street to push
himself up, and watches as his other moves of its own accord. Fingers skim
across a puddle of blood, dipping into it, warm and sticky. The revulsion
in his stomach churning up again but remaining subdued. 

 Seconds later, written in the blood of someone he may or may not know, is
the symbol for will.  

 The first thing he notices about the Talon is that the bottom two letters
are missing from the sign. Looking up at it curiously he wonders how it
could have happened. The thought is fleeting because he knows it applies
to just about everything surrounding him. There's a car lying upside down,
just in front of the doorway, directly below the sign. It's front end
crushed as if it'd been dropped straight on the grill. Quick look at the
sign again. 

 Or thrown, he thinks. 

 One of the doors hangs from a single hinge and the other simply isn't
there. He peeks his head inside, not bothering with a hello, and quickly
scans the layout before making his way in. More people. More death. It
starts to scare him that the sight is becoming less and less surprising. 

 The cappuccino machine lays smashed and broken in two in the middle of
the floor. Table and chairs overturned and tossed about in no order, some
even embedded into the walls. Bits of porcelain lay like broken snow in
various clumps throughout the shop. He can smell coffee in nearly
everything. Fine powder coating like dust. He focuses his eyes
experimentally, testing his weakness, fighting through the drain. The
x-ray field of vision comes in spurts, a TV failing for a proper signal.
He sees more people behind the counter and some in the backroom. Trying to
escape no doubt. He accidentally kicks the remains of a ceiling fan and
sends it skidding into a stack of trays miraculously untouched next to a
toppled over garbage can. He looks closely at the people, seeing past
their faded twisted forms, faces he knew personally. It stabs his heart
like a red-hot poker. He was friends with some, acquaintances with others,
some merely sharing classes at school. 

 He looks to see if anyone of them could be Pete, Chloe, or Lana. Quick
circle around the spaces where the tables once sat and finds no one
fitting his friend's description. He doesn't think Pete or Chloe would be
in here yet, still too early by his watch, though time doesn't matter much
at this point. Chloe he hopes, is at home, or at the Torch office
blissfully unaware. Or that Pete is on a date out of town, also being none
the wiser. They are both foolish thoughts. Hope, he thinks, can be either
salvation or damnation. Right now he's leaning toward the latter. 

 He knows Lana is here somewhere. He doesn't bother to try and think
otherwise. Saturday is her main shift; she runs it all day. He can feel
the hair on his arms stand on end. Imagining looking into Lana Lang's cold
dead eyes is a thought so black no light can possibly escape. He's just
waiting to fall into the void. 

 Once he rounds the counter he sees her. And for the briefest moment feels
such relief. She lay face down, and for the most part is intact. She could
still be alive. Just unconscious. Maybe a concussion. Maybe even
pretending. He chooses to latch onto to that false relief for as long as
he can, because his eyes see that her body is too still. That her back
does not rise and fall with rhythmic breathing. 

 Her hair lies in a cascade down her back. Still smooth and flawless.
Shiny black and perfect. The red-hot poker stabs his heart a little
deeper, the hook twisting and causing it to burst and bleed down his
chest. His hand is on her shoulder and she is so cold. His breath catches
in his throat when he rolls her over and stares into dark vacant eyes. 

 She is not bruised. 

 She is not bloody. 

 Her neck once decorated with a piece of his planet, a piece of himself,
now twisted at an impossible angle. 

 She is in one piece to torture his deteriorating mind. 

 Gently, he runs his fingers across her cheek. Over lips he only dared to
kiss under the influence of substances beyond his control. Across a smooth
forehead he does kiss in this final moment. 

 Lana Lang is dead. 

 He feels the hope drain so easily from him. No one is left alive. He
knows that now. Feels it in every agonizing second of understanding the
fact. Tears stream down his face, each droplet of water like burning lava.
Singing, sizzling, scarring. The scream escapes his throat, his head
tilting upward to damn the world for letting this happen. Pain, rage, and
loss pouring from a no longer painful skull shattering remaining glass. 

 The heat blasts from his eyes, instantly setting the ceiling aflame. 

 He carries Lana's body outside and makes his way back to the truck. 

 He does not turn his head back as the Talon burns to the ground.  

 He buries her next to her parents. His gradually returning strength makes
the digging process go by a little faster, but not easier. He can feel
them all returning. The heat vision, the x-rays, the speed. Halfway
through the hole he removed the bandage from his hand to find the cut
fully healed. The bitter thought of too little, too late pulsing inside
his mind. 

 He finds a rock flat enough to serve as a headstone and places it over
her grave. Mustering what strength he has he punches her initials into the
stone. 

 It feels like hours standing there. 

 Lana. 

 The girl he always imagined as his great love. The emotion to remain
forever unspoken. To remain forever unfulfilled. 

 He breaks his eyes away from the fresh dirt and walks back toward the
truck. 

 He wonders how many more he will find before it all comes to a close. 

 It kills him that he knows the answer.  

 There are no cars in the parking lot. Whether that is a good or bad thing
remains open for debate. The main building itself looks mostly intact. He
imagines only the outside is untouched. As he walks up the main steps he
listens intently, sniffs the air, and makes his way inside. The hallway is
clear. Nothing dead. Nothing broken. The unnerving quiet pumping like a
cruel heartbeat. He checks the office and finds it empty, as it should be,
it being Saturday and all. He walks slowly through the first floor, taking
his time, peeking into each classroom. He could use his speed. He knows he
can. But part of him is afraid to use his physical abilities. After
burning down the Talon without really intending to he doesn't think it
wise. He walks around as if he's normal. It may be pretend. But it feels
like he needs it. 

 A quick double check of everything with an x-ray scan, working far better
than it had two hours ago, he sees that he missed someone in one of the
science labs. He doubles back and finds the body unrecognizable. He's
pretty sure he didn't know whoever it was. He didn't have biology in this
classroom. Sighing he makes his way back into the hall. 

 On the stairway one of the steps creaks as he walks on it, the sound
echoing through the cavernous hallways. He pauses and presses all his
weight onto the step again, listening to the echo, letting the sound wash
over him. For a moment it feels like company. Someone at the other end
saying hello. He keeps it up until the novelty wears off. 

 There is no one there. 

 He is all alone. 

 He doesn't bother checking all the classrooms manually on the second
floor. There is only one he's really expecting to find. Another scan of
the upper rooms reveals two more bodies. One in the bathroom at the far
end of the floor, and the other right where he knew it would be. 

 The smell of acrid flesh hits him long before he reaches the door. He
pauses a few steps from the doorway, taking shallow breaths and wondering
if he should even bother. He knows it's her in there. The day of the week
never mattered if there was work to be done. It doesn't make it hurt any
less. The more he thinks, the less reason he finds to confirm her death.
He knows it's her. Knows it in his rapidly recovered bones. He turns away
but finds his legs frozen in their spot. Like his body knows something the
rest of him doesn't. 

 Steeling himself, he makes his way inside. The scent of charred flesh is
rivaled, though not overwhelmed, by scorched wood and paper. The once
dominant wall of weird now nothing more than a pile of ash. Paper that
isn't burned covers the floor along with overturned chairs and computers.
He finds it odd that the rest of the school is basically untouched, but
the damage starts in here. Memories of so much time spent in this room
flood his mind and the steel inside of him nearly crumbles to powder. 

 Chloe, what's left of her, lay curled into a ball in the corner just
under the window. Her faceless skull tilts backward, mouth open in the
mockery of a smile. His hand shakes uncontrollably as he reaches for her.
Skin that once felt so smooth under his touch now non-existent. Cells
fused and sizzled against blackened bone. He thinks of their chaotic
friendship. Being at opposite sides of the spectrum almost constantly.
Arguing. Laughing. Teasing. Almost dating. 

 Tears slip down his face. More fire against his skin. He doesn't know
what to do. He can't think of anywhere to take her. He doesn't know where
her mother lives and can only assume her father is out there somewhere
dead. His fingers hover above the bones, not wanting to touch but feeling
to need to so badly. With Lana there had been something left. Something to
say good-bye to. Chloe is just a shadow of a body. Turned inside out. The
part you're supposed to love but never see. He stands and backs out of the
room. He figures she would have wanted to be surrounded by the things she
loved. Even if they are just as gone as she is.  

 Once he pushes the door open he immediately recognizes Pete's battered
beaten body lying in a heap on the bathroom floor. Kneeling next to his
friend he can hear the shaky shallow breaths wracking his already fragile
frame. 

 "Pete," he says softly, trying not to let the relief that at least one
person is still alive, show through his voice. 

 A groan slips from Pete's bloody lips and he turns his head painstakingly
slow in Clark's direction. Gaze trying to focus through swollen purple
eyes. Clark sees the recognition in them, before they widen, and he tries
to edge away. 

 "Pete," Clark says again, gently grasping his friend by the shoulders.
"It's me. It's Clark." 

 Pete still tries to move away, legs kicking weakly against the tile,
before his body collapses failing to grasp anymore energy. 

 "What happened to everyone?" He asks. "Who did this to you?" 

 Pete tries to reply the only sound emerging from his throat is the
gurgling of blood. 

 "Nevermind," Clark says quickly, seeing that speaking only causes more
pain. "It's not important now. We have to get you some help okay? I mean
the hospital is still there right? I'll go find someone and bring them
here and they'll fix you up and you`ll be fine. Okay? You're going to be
just fine." 

 Pete shakes his head slowly; eyes pinching shut in a wince from such
simple movement. Clark feels his heart rampage inside his chest. Punching
and pounding and crying out. He knows his friend doesn't want to die. 

 "I'll get them," Clark promises. "Whoever did this to you, to Chloe, to
Lana. I'll find them. I'll show them what happens when they hurt the
people I care about." 

 Pete struggles to speak again; mouth opening and closing like a goldfish.
Clark cradles his head into his lap, Pete too weak to try and push him
away. He finds just enough strength to move his hand to Clark's chest.
Pointing his finger directly in the middle and jabbing twice before
falling back down. Clark doesn't understand the gesture. He thinks it
could be a silent farewell. Could be a sign of agreement with his promise.
Pete can't explain himself. He doesn't have much time left. Clark can feel
his heart slowing and whispers soothing empty words of assurance until his
chest stops moving. 

 He is aware of the fresh tears sliding down his cheeks but this time he
can't feel them. He has blood on his hands. 

 The kind that will never wash off.  

 A sea of red yellow gold greets him as he approaches the mansion. Lex
told him once that it had been imported brick by brick from Scotland. He
never knew whether to believe him or not. What he does believe is that a
building supposedly made of brick shouldn't be burning so easily. He walks
through the mangled iron gates, bowed outward and arched like warped
harps. Past the driveway the lawn crunches underneath his feet, the fire
sucking nearly all the moisture from the air. If Lex is still in the house
he doesn't think he'll risk looking for him. He doesn't want to find
people anymore. He's come to the conclusion that no one is left standing. 

 He sits in the dry grass and watches as his best friend's house slowly
fades away. As he sits and thinks the unsettling thought that there is no
enemy to be found and defeated emerges into the forefront of his mind.
There is no one. There is nothing. He's been an alien all his life. It
takes the literal interpretation of isolation to truly make him feel like
one. 

 His eyes begin to itch and he rubs at them casually. He isn't sure where
to go from here. Maybe the Sheriff's station. He can look for a radio or a
working phone. If that doesn't work he can head for Metropolis and alert
the authorities. He never had time to think about it before, but shouldn't
someone have alerted them when this all started happening? Wouldn't
someone in the outside world notice something like a town just magically
dropping off the face of the Earth? Smallville certainly isn't the biggest
city in Kansas, but it's not that hidden. 

 He rubs at his eyes again. He can imagine helicopters flying overhead
loaded with the police, or even so far as the Army. He can see himself
being interrogated for hours being asked the same questions he's been
repeating in his head ever since he opened his eyes. Who are you? What
happened here? Can you tell us what they looked like? Why are you still
alive? What makes you so special? 

 The itching becomes uncontrollable before a burst of heat irrupts from
his eyes, his head tilting and bobbing. Writing. The heat fades and he
covers his head in his hands pushing himself away from the grass before
getting engulfed in flames. Once he hits concrete his takes his hands away
to view what he's done. 

 Burning and smoking in the dried out grass, is the symbol for victory.  

 He ends up back at the farm for lack of a better place to go. Parking the
truck next to the rubble of the barn he gets out and scans the wreckage
for signs of his parents. With his strength and vision back he wants to
double back on everything he'd searched before. But he thinks he already
knows that they're not here. Angrily he pulls up boards, concrete, and
pieces of equipment from the pile and tosses them as far as he can. He
punches through the rubble, hands splitting through wood and steel. Pain
never registering on his nerves. He keeps at it until he forms himself a
nice little hole. 

 Everything and everyone he's ever loved is dead and gone. He wishes he
could join them. He screams until his throat gives before shuffling out of
the hole. He picks up the truck and thinks of tossing it on the house. Or
throwing it across the field, or maybe even breaking it in two. Beads of
sweat form on his forehead, the strain of indecision shining through. He
drops the truck and falls to the ground breathing heavily. Frustration and
desolation wrestle across his emotions before the ear splitting squeal
overtakes his entire mind. 

 Uselessly covering his ears he staggers to his feet, the noise guiding
him toward the feed cellar to where the key no doubt lay. He slips down
the stairs landing face first in dirt. He's not used to pain and the
screeching is nothing short of agony. Crawling on his hands and knees he
hurries to the key half buried in damp Earth. As soon as his hand makes
contact the wail ceases and he drops onto his stomach in relief. 

 Too much death. 

 Too much emptiness. 

 Too much pain. 

 He wants it all to stop. To wake from the nightmare that became his life.
He wants to rise from the ash and walk up the stairs to see his parents
waiting for him. To walk down the middle of Main street and see downtown
teeming with life. To walk into the Talon and see Lana, Pete, and Chloe
all sharing a laugh over cups of coffee. He laughs bitterly. What would
have once seemed so normal now seems only a dream. 

 Pushing himself back up he moves to place the key in the ship, but
briefly wonders what it was doing so close to it in the first place. Too
late to pull it away, the key jumps from his hand spinning into proper
alignment, before slipping into its rightful place. As the ship buzzes to
life he notices a design scribbled into the dirt. Funny, when he lay on
the ground he didn't remember his fingers moving, but guesses the detail
isn't particularly important. 

 The design is recognizable beyond the knowledge of his native language.
It runs deep in his being. His blood. What lies etched in Earth next to
his ship is the family crest of the House of El. 

 Still staring at the crest he hears the protective shell retract itself
revealing the cradle he once lay in. Moving his gaze to the familiar and
still unnerving message, he frowns at the words. At the intent. Being
raised all your life to be a good person, then suddenly being told that
none of it mattered, that a world that gave you up, sent you here for
their purposes, will never ever sit well with him. His frown grows deeper
when he realizes that he's reading the message in the first place. It
never shows itself without the heart. After the first, and what he thought
to be the only time, of seeing it. He and his father put both the key and
the heart in locked boxes and buried them on opposite ends of the farm. He
doesn't remember retrieving either of them, let alone putting them back
into the ship. 

 He moves to pull it out when the ship engulfs itself in light. As it
begins to hover he backs slowly away, its power source whirring to
maximum. He's almost to the stairs when a beam of light shoots straight
through his chest, lifting him clear off the ground. He's felt this
before. But this time there are no words. No message. No knowledge. 

 Just blinding light filling him with white-hot rage.  

 He's not used to pain. 

 The physical manifestation of it being such a foreign concept he's not
entirely sure it's what he's feeling. His eyes open to a setting sun
sinking below a dreary sky. The fading light stabs at his eyes like
needles, fresh pain attacking a fragile mind. Rolling onto his back he
keeps his eyes closed. Muscles sore and bones raw. He can't quite remember
what happened. 

 Flashes of destruction and death. 

 The sun finally dips below the horizon and he opens his eyes again, the
soft twilight not feeling as harsh. Turning himself over to his stomach he
feels his hands dip into soft wet mud and he looks to see himself at the
edge of an unknown body of water. 

 Wait. 

 He remembers this. Waking up before. Weak and tired and hurting.
Surrounded by water. Mind a haze and no idea what was going on. 

 He feels the itch form itself deep within his chest. An intense heat he
can't scratch away. He claws at his skin trying to quell it but it only
burns deeper. Blindly he throws himself into the water, the cool calming
sensation washing over him in instant relief. He floats under a few
minutes, enjoying the serenity. 

 Flashes of the key and the heart and the ship. 

 Gathering his bearings he makes his way back to the surface, treading
water and moving toward land. He stays hunched down and on his knees, his
hands pushing themselves into the mud. Fingers working without thought.
When they're finished he stares at four symbols. 

 Power. 

 Will. 

 Victory. 

 The family crest of the House of El. 

 He remembers everything. 

 The rage, the pain, the faces. 

 So many people begging for their lives. 

 He remembers waking up afterward. Face down in a pond on the edge of
town. Wandering around clueless as ever. Looking for someone to fight, to
blame. Never once seeing the underlying truth in a world of lies. 

 He peers back over the edge of the water. His invisible enemy revealing
itself in his reflection. 

 The guilt and anger crashes like a wave. Mangling his conscious into
unparalleled anguish. 

 "They are a flawed race," a whisper teases in his mind. 

 He bites his lips so hard he tastes blood. Part of him agrees. Gives in.
There are no more ties to his human side. He's wiped them out like wheat
before the sickle. He still wants to fight. Needs to. This is not who he
is. This is not what he was raised for. But he is so tired. So weak. So
human. There is no choice in what he must do. He feels it in an aching
mind, sore muscles, and tired bones. 

 What his father sent him for. 

 What the ship guided him to. 

 Kal-El. Last son of Old Krypton. 

 Clark Kent. First son of new. 

 He once read that the most terrifying thing in the universe was nothing. 

 But now it seems that even nothing, has something to fear.   
 If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Lint

 Also, why not join  Level Three, the Smallville all-fic list?
 
 Back

 Level Three Records Room