The farmhouse was eerily quiet with Bruce and Lois gone. Clark felt uneasy, like a thief or other intruder, like he wasn’t supposed to be there at all. Alfred did his best to cheer Clark up, but as the hours passed between when Lois had left and when he could expect to have her back in his arms, he grew listless. Still, he tried to be as sociable and friendly as he could to the old man.
Despite what lingering mistrust Clark and Bruce reserved for each other, Clark rather liked the aging butler. For the hundredth time, Clark sent up a silent prayer of thanks that he hadn’t succeeded in killing Alfred on either one of his assignments.
Yet, for all the conversation Alfred attempted to strike up with him, Clark was restless and on edge. He ate the tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches Alfred made for lunch out of politeness, and choked down the – delicious, even if he had no appetite – rare roast beef and vegetables the man cooked for dinner only through sheer effort. His gut was telling him that something was very, very wrong, though he didn’t have a clue as to what it could possibly be.
He whittled away what hours he could trying to keep himself busy. The weather, though cold – was bright and clear, and warmer than it had been in weeks. Clark found a list of “To Do” items around the farm that Lucius had begun but had clearly never finished, as evidenced by the fact that he found all the items he needed to complete the list within the barn. Clark wasn’t a handyman by any stretch of the imagination, but, after reading through The Idiot’s Guide To Home Repairs, he felt confident enough to try and tackle the list. Before long, he’d replaced the leaky bathroom faucet, retiled the bathroom floor, sheet rocked and painted the basement, fixed the squeaky staircase leading to the second floor, and fixed the loose shingles on the barn roof. No one had asked him to do such chores, but he felt compelled to do something in exchange for Lucius allowing them all to hide out at his house. It was true that Clark had never met the man – only seen the pictures of him with his family hanging in the house – but he was grateful for the farmhouse haven where he’d been allowed to escape Lex’s efforts to find him, as well as the place where he and Lois had been able to explore their blossoming relationship in depth.
So, it was with thankfulness in his heart that Clark set himself to his tasks. But once he was finished with the list, he felt no better. In fact, his dread had only grown worse. He flew up into the sky, breaking through the Earth’s atmosphere to hang motionless in that space between the world he knew and the vast, cold, impersonal universe. He stayed for as long as he could, until his lungs were on fire for want of a fresh breath of air. But while he was up there, he let his mind wander. He found himself praying, in a fashion, for forgiveness for his tortured, misguided past and all the murders he’d committed in Lex’s name. He wasn’t entirely sure if he believed in a higher power or not, but he supposed it could well be that some unearthly force out there might hear his thoughts and grant his absolution. Not that he deserved it, he knew. But he was making an honest attempt to turn his life around, thanks to Lois. Shouldn’t that alone earn him at least a little slack?
For Lois, I would do anything, his mind whispered in a contented sigh. I’ll never understand why she loves me, but I will do anything to make certain I’m worthy of her love.
Then he was dropping from the sky, too fast for any mortal person to hope to see, breathing in deeply and assuaging his burning lungs with sweet, fresh, cool air. By then, it was dinner time, and he made a sham of enjoying the meal. If he fooled Alfred or not, he wasn’t sure. The old man never let on if he suspected that Clark’s heart and stomach weren’t in the right place to delight in the food.
“It’s nearly time for the debate,” Alfred said a little while later, pulling Clark away from the book he was distractedly trying – and failing – to read.
“Oh. Thanks, Alfred,” he said, shutting the book without marking his place in it. It was a futile gesture anyway. He’d retained nothing of which his eyes had glossed over.
He set the book aside and grabbed the TV remote, which was next to him as he lay sprawled on the couch. He sat up, making room for the kind butler, and turned on the television. Alfred nodded his thanks, then sat down on the opposite side of the couch.
“Coffee?” the man asked.
Clark shook his head. “No, but thanks for the offer. I’m a bit too worked up to drink anything.”
“It’s just a simple debate,” Alfred gently reminded him.
But Clark frowned and shook his head again. “I know. But I can’t help feeling like something isn’t right. I had the same gut feeling the night Bruce captured me when I went to Wayne Manor. I’m worried, Alfred.”
“Master Bruce has taken every precaution. He’s got more than a few of his own security guards manning the debate. He’s as safe as he can get.”
“Not safe enough,” Clark muttered.
Alfred turned to him, tight lines of worry showing around his eyes. “Truth be told, I’m not thrilled he’s there tonight either. But Lex Luthor does not know Master Bruce has been in contact with you. He has no reason to go after him.”
“You’re wrong, Alfred,” Clark said, his stomach roiling. “He’s already got a grudge against Bruce. He sent me to kill him – and you – twice. While he may not be stupid enough to try something at the debate, there’s no guarantee. As the years have gone by, Lex has gotten more and more unstable. Having me there as his personal assassin only helped to distort his mind and inflate his own sense of invulnerability.”
“You really think he’ll attempt something tonight?” Alfred asked, chewing his lower lip.
Clark sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know. And it’s the not knowing that has my nerves on edge.”
He busied himself with finding the correct channel to watch the debate, but he could not stop the black cloud of despair and apprehension from hanging over his head. He tried to focus on the television screen. The MCs were already talking, but Clark tuned them out as the camera made a sweeping pan over the gathered crowd, every one of their faces showing excitement for the debate, which was mere moments away. A cheer went up as the candidates took to the stage, but just before the camera cut away from the crowd, Clark caught a glimpse of Nigel St. John, Lex’s trusted old friend and underling, whose hands were, perhaps, even bloodier than Clark’s.
Clark felt his stomach bottom out as he stood. Alfred scrambled to his feet in alarm, peering at Clark’s face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nigel,” Clark said through gritted teeth. “Lex is up to something.”
Before Alfred could respond in any way, Clark was off. The living room door slammed shut in his wake, pulled closed by the slipstream Clark left behind. As soon as he’d cleared the porch, Clark shot up into the sky and tore through the darkness, racing the wind and mocking the stars with his speed. Faster and faster he flew, urging himself to move with a speed greater than he’d ever attempted before. He felt the air’s resistance against his body, like he was flying through layers of plastic wrap, all of it trying to hold him back. He forced another burst of speed, and felt the air around him tear asunder. A second later, he heard the fading remains of a sonic boom in the far to his rear, but he had already put a considerable distance behind him when it sounded.
He flew in a straight, unwavering course to where the debate was being held. As he grew closer, he stretched out with his senses, searching for any clue as to if there was an imminent danger for him to ward off. But the crowd in the outdoor arena was too large and too noisy for Clark to get much more than a disjointed, jumbled mess of sound that was more confusing and disorienting than anything else. He scanned the ocean of faces, trying to guess as to where the camera had been pointed when he’d glimpsed Nigel, but there were too many cameras to narrow down his search, and it was entirely possible that Nigel had already moved his position.
He’ll want to be close enough to the front, but not so crowded in as to be left without an escape, Clark reasoned, his mind automatically slipping back to the thoughts that had been foremost in his mind during his earliest days as an assassin.
Swiftly, he pinpointed a few key areas where he would have wanted to be, if he were the one doing the killing. But, before he could check them thoroughly, a crack sounded out.
Gunshot! his brain screamed.
“Bruce!” he bellowed, instinctively altering his course to shield the billionaire.
He was half a second too late. The bullet struck Bruce in his left shoulder. As if in slow motion, blood exploded from the wound, arcing and splattering in a red mist, while the front of Bruce’s pristine white Oxford shirt grew red with a rapidly spreading stain. Bits of bone were mingled in the spray of red – the bullet appeared to have struck Bruce in the shoulder near his collarbone – a potentially fatal strike, but at least it hadn’t been the man’s heart.
Bruce cried out in pain and shock as the bullet tore through his flesh. Clark saw the billionaire’s left arm immediately go limp, even before Bruce’s knees gave out and he crashed to the stage floor. Clark slipped into his X-ray vision. Bruce’s artery had been nicked, but had, thankfully, not been severed. Still, with each beat of the man’s heart, blood spurted from the wound, making a puddle on the stage.
In the next heartbeat, Clark was kneeling by Bruce’s side, ripping off a section of the billionaire’s expensive, custom tailored suit, pressing the navy-blue fabric to the wound. Even if he couldn’t completely stop the flow of blood, it had to be at least a little helpful, he reasoned. He had to try everything and anything to save Bruce’s life.
“It’s okay, Bruce. I’ve got you,” he told the man as he quickly worked to stem the flow of blood. Then, looking to the guards, “Find the shooter!”
One of the guards spoke rapidly into his walkie talkie. It appeared he was requesting medical help. But Clark wasn’t willing to wait. He gently and carefully lifted Bruce in his arms, then he rose into the sky, while the audience screamed and pointed at the flying man, making a beeline for the nearest hospital.
“Looks like you’re flying with me anyway,” he joked, looking down at Bruce.
Bruce gave him a weak laugh. “Is this where you say ‘I told you so?’” he tossed back with a cough.
Clark shook his head. “No. I’ll leave that to Lois. She can out-argue me any time. She’ll do the perfect job in telling you that you should have listened to me.” He grinned to let the man know he was only half-serious.
As soon as a hospital came into view, Clark angled down and flew right through the emergency room doors, alighting on the floor only once he was inside. He immediately called for aid.
“Help! He’s been shot!”
A doctor and three nurses came running, one of them pushing a gurney. Clark gently laid Bruce down on it, then took the man’s good hand in a gesture of support and strength. The other arm, he noted with a sick feeling in his stomach, had already gone cold and purple, and Clark only hoped Bruce would retain the limb and have function to it restored.
“Take care of him,” he warned the medical staff. Then, to Bruce, “I have to go and make sure Lex doesn’t get away with this. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Then, before anyone could react, he was gone again. In a flash, he was back at the staging ground for the debate. Less than three minutes had gone by since he’d arrived - too late – to save Bruce. People were still in a panic and the guards were having a difficult time keeping the rioting crowd in check while they searched for Nigel. But Clark’s sharp eyes spotted the man trying to weasel his way out of an emergency exit off to the left. He swooped over, grabbed Nigel by the front of his shirt, and flew him over to one of the guards on the stage.
“Here’s your shooter,” he boldly told the guard, pulling the gun from Nigel’s waistband and crushing the barrel enough so that it would never fire again.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed other members of the security detail ushering the candidates off stage. He zipped over to them and planted his body directly in front of Lex.
“Not so fast, ‘brother,’” he taunted. He took Lex by the arm and half-dragged him back over to center stage. The microphones were still live, so Clark grabbed one off its stand. Grabbing a handful of Lex’s black jacket in his free hand, Clark floated them a good five feet off the stage, so he could get everyone’s attention, while the guards all murmured to each other uncertainly, none of them willing to risk hitting Lex by firing at the inhuman threat flying above them.
“Excuse me, everyone! May I have your attention, please?” he asked into the microphone, not much hope in his heart that anyone would pay him any mind. But, to his eternal surprise, people stopped in their tracks and looked in awe and terror at the flying man before them. “There’s no need to panic. The man who shot Bruce Wayne is in custody. You’re all safe now.”
A surprised and disbelieving murmur rolled through the crowd like the distant sound of thunder. But people listened and stilled their once erratic, panicky movements. Clark felt confident enough to keep speaking.
“The shooter is a man by the name of Nigel St. John,” Clark continued in a clear, steady, bold voice. He wondered at the fact that he was not nervous to address the thousands upon thousands of onlookers. “He works for this man before you. Lex Luthor.”
“He’s a madman!” Lex cried, loudly enough for the microphone to pick up his voice.
Clark floated them both down to the stage, now that all eyes were on him and he didn’t need to resort to theatrics to grab people’s attention.
“Lex hired Nigel to make the hit on Bruce tonight,” Clark asserted confidently.
“What proof do you have?” Lex taunted. “Without proof, all you are is a flying freak of nature. An alien, incapable of relating to humans!” He craned his neck out to make his voice better heard in the microphone. “Who will the people believe, alien? Some weirdo who happens to appear just when Bruce Wayne was shot? Or me? A man who has always provided reliable goods and services to them, who’s dedicated billions to charities and scientific research into things like curing cancer.”
A grumble swept through the crowd, and Clark knew he was losing ground with them.
“Maybe you are the one who shot Bruce Wayne!” Lex accused evenly.
The crowd didn’t seem to know how to react to them. Most stood in silence, others nodded to themselves, others growled in contempt of Clark.
“I know his words seem to make sense,” Clark addressed the crowd. “But I know what I’m talking about. My name…was once Kal Luthor, Lex’s adopted younger brother. He faked my death, gave me a new identity, and hid me away from the world. He had me…commit numerous crimes on his behalf. Believe me when I say ordering a hit on Bruce Wayne tonight is consistent with the kind of man Lex is.”
“Lies! Unsubstantiated lies!” Lex spat.
“He’s not lying!” That was Lois, who’d fought her way to the front of the audience. She clambered up the staircase to the stage and stood just to Clark’s left, on the side opposite from where he held Lex. She stayed back, assessing the situation as Clark silently and subtly shook his head no.
“This is ridiculous! Guards! Get them!” Lex barked.
But even the security detail that Lex had hired were wary of the man they’d just seen fly above the stage. They looked from one to another uncertainly, shaking their heads and muttering to themselves. Not one of them rushed forward to help.
“Lex Luthor is a psychopath,” Clark continued, his eyes pleading with the crowd to listen to him. “This is not a man you want running and ruining this great country. He cares only for his own self interests. Soon, thanks to Lois Lane and Bruce Wayne, his deeds will be exposed for all the world to see. I’ve been working closely with them for half a year now, of my own free will, to prove to the world, once and for all, that Lex Luthor is a criminal mastermind.”
He’d felt compelled to lie to the world, making it seem like all those months he’d been locked away under the Metropolis city streets in the old abandoned fallout shelter had been by choice. He didn’t want Bruce to come under fire for falsely imprisoning a man, even if that man had been a ruthless, remorseless assassin at the time. And he certainly did not want Lois to be in the crosshairs of any investigations.
“It’s over, Lex,” Clark said in a lower, but deathly firm, voice that the microphone only just barely picked up. “You’ve lost. It’s over. Your reign of terror. Your empire. Your bid to become one of the most powerful people in the world.”
“Are you going to kill me?” Lex spat out, taunting him with a snort of disbelief, challenging him before the entire world as the cameras kept rolling.
In his mind’s eye, Clark saw that night, so long ago, when Lex had pulled the Kryptonite collar out from a box. Once again, he saw the sneer and superiority in Lex’s features, the way the man had enjoyed every moment of Clark’s pain. He remembered how much Lex had loved having such incredible power, the way he’d relished crippling the most powerful man in the world. He remembered how mentally crushing it was to become Lex’s slave.
Clark took a long time to answer, enjoying the flickers of heavily masked uncertainty that raced across Lex’ features, despite his show of bravado.
“No, Lex,” Clark finally answered.
“Coward,” Lex shot back. Clark recognized the tone. Lex was trying to get into his mind, and Clark was not going to allow that.
In his head, he heard himself begging Bruce and Lois for the chance to kill Lex. He heard his arguments for how only an agonizing death befit the multitudinous crimes Lex had committed. He felt the righteous rage building in his heart and it was an effort to tamp it down and retain his composure. If Lex only knew how much hate was in Clark’s heart, he would know he’d won, regardless of if Clark snapped his miserable neck or not.
“For a long time, I fantasized about taking your life,” Clark admitted in a whisper. “It seemed only right and fair. But someone recently made me see that killing you only lowers me to your level. So, no, I’m not going to give you the release of death. You’ll be very much alive to watch as you lose everything you ever held dear.”
“I always knew you were weak,” Lex snapped.
Weak.
Pathetic.
Useless.
Burden.
All the old terms Lex had hurled at him over the years came back to assault Clark’s mind. He gritted his teeth against screaming out against them and fought to master his emotions.
Clark shook his head. “No, Lex. I’m stronger than I ever was, even in your worst nightmares.”
“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Lex growled lowly, twisting in Clark’s grasp so that he could look him in the eyes. He moved his face directly into Clark’s, challenging him, unflinching in the presence of the super powers he knew lurked beneath Clark’s calm, but stern, appearance. “You’ve just made a serious mistake.”
How many times had Lex come close to ending Clark’s life over the years? How many times had he exposed him to Kryptonite, leaving Clark in writhing agony, torturing him over the tiniest perceived slights or failures? How many times had Clark been left gasping for breath, too weak to stand or even sit, when his punishment was over? How many nightmares had he suffered as a direct result?
“No, Lex,” Clark said, his voice as unyielding as granite, “you are the one who made the mistake. You tried to take my life from me, in every way imaginable. But you don’t have any power over me anymore.”
“Oh? Don’t I?” Lex taunted, his eyes lighting up at some internal joke that only he knew the punchline to. “I said I should have killed you long ago. But tonight will work just fine.”
At first, the words didn’t really register with Clark. They felt too empty, too out-of-habit for them to really mean anything to him. It wasn’t until Lex tore himself from Clark’s distracted grip and stuck his hand into his pocket that Clark realized the gravity of the situation. He tried to react, but he was still stuck in his painful memories and was already too late. Lex whipped out a thin, pencil-like object from the inner breast pocket of his coat and flicked a button on the side. Instantly, a sharp, slender rod of Kryptonite coated metal shot out from within. Fully extended, the weapon was nearly a foot long.
As soon as the Kryptonite was exposed, Clark felt the too-familiar sickening effects of the stone. His entire body felt aflame, his head pounded, his muscles grew weak, and he felt nauseous. With his reflexes seized in pain, he could not stop what came next.
Grinning like the Devil himself, Lex took a half step forward and used that momentum to stab the razor-sharp point of the metal rod into Clark’s abdomen. A scream ripped from Clark’s throat, loud enough to practically shake the foundation of the arena the debate was supposed to have taken place in. An evil light danced in Lex’s eyes as he twisted the rod. Clark felt every tear as Lex shredded his intestines. Then Lex withdrew the rod before stabbing him again, this time puncturing Clark’s stomach. He screamed again as the acids housed within his stomach gushed out, burning his body with invisible flames, in a way that was almost more intense than the pain from the Kryptonite. Clark felt blood rushing into his abdomen as he started to bleed out. A trickle of blood bubbled up in his throat and dribbled out between his lips.
“Clark!” Lois screamed in terror and anger.
“Enjoy Hell,” Lex whispered in Clark’s ear as he twisted the Kryptonite coated metal hard enough to break off a good four-inch-long section, leaving it embedded in Clark’s guts.
“Drop the weapon!” a man’s voice called out.
Clark’s vision had narrowed to pinpricks of haze, but he was vaguely aware of the fact that the voice belonged to a uniformed police officer. From the tone of his command, it was evident that the man was not one of the ones on Lex’s payroll. Then he crashed to the floor, sprawled on his side. With a grunt of effort, he rolled to his back, to alleviate the pressure on his wound.
“Drop the weapon now!” he repeated.
Lois was at Clark’s side now. He could see the fearful tears in her eyes. She gave his wound a panicked look, her hands shaking and hovering above the bloody holes in his body. A pool of blood began to spread beneath Clark’s body; he could feel its warmth as his body started to go cold. He was in shock as much as he was losing his tenuous grip on life.
“Lois,” he gasped in a whisper, lacking the strength to make his voice heard any better than that.
“Get away from him!” he heard Lex sneer, trying to pull Lois away.
“Back away!” the cop yelled.
Clark saw the rest of the metal rod in Lex’s hand and the look of rage on his “brother’s” face. Lex raised the rod, ready to strike once more with the jagged, broken end of it. Clark closed his eyes, waiting for the terminal blow. But it never came. A shot rang out and Lex gave a strangled cry before slumping to the ground. If he was dead, Clark wasn’t sure. He felt only relief that Lex had been stopped.
“Lois,” he rasped again.
In the background, he heard someone calling for the paramedics.
“I’m here,” Lois told him, taking his hand in hers.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “For everything. I tried so hard…”
“Ssh,” she shushed him, fighting back her tears, though a few made it past her defenses and slipped down her cheeks. “Save your strength. Help is on the way. Just hold on, Clark.”
“Trying…”
She switched her hands then, taking his hand in her left and using her right to gently, lovingly cup his cheek in the way he always did to her.
“Please, fight,” she whispered, choking on her emotions.
“Expose…Lex. Even if…dead,” Clark croaked. “Must…bring justice.”
“I will, I promise.” She kissed his hand and he felt the wetness from her tears on his skin.
“Never…forget. I…love…you,” he gasped as his vision faded and his pulse weakened.
“I love you too,” she sobbed, as realization dawned in her features. For just a moment, she pressed her lips to his in a kiss.
Clark felt his breathing slow and become shallower. A tiredness settled over him. It became too hard to keep his eyes open, so he let them shut. He tried to listen to the comforting sound of Lois’ heartbeat, but his powers were gone, thanks to the radioactive stone lodged within him. He could only hear Lois’ unchecked sobbing and he tried to will his love to seep into her and take away her pain.
Then, before he could repeat his declaration of his undying love, the world slipped away.
***
(Continued below)
