Part Five Part Six:----------
“Are you sure?” Clark asked once Michel had finally been able to tell him what he'd seen in the tent. They'd left Miss Lane at City Hall on the pretense of “exploring another possible lead.” It was probably sort of true. Now, they were back in the Kents' kitchen, and Clark had gone back to looking pale.
Michel nodded. “I may not be too familiar with your country's environmental policies,” he said, “but I doubt your government takes pesticides that seriously.”
Clark snorted. “Last I checked, it doesn't. Poor Wayne,” he murmured. “We've got to get him out of there.”
“How?” Michel asked, feeling completely out of his depth.
Clark stared intently at Michel for a moment. “You still have your powers, right?”
The hairs on the back of Michel's neck began to rise. “What are you thinking, Clark?” he asked, warily.
Clark shrugged and leaned back in the kitchen chair. “Just that if I were still Superman, I'd fly in, get Wayne, and fly back out. Of course, I can't, right now.” He leaned forward on the table, his eyes locking with Michel's. “But you could.”
For several seconds, Michel stared at Clark, his heart slamming faster and faster against his chest until he felt queasy. “You want me,” he said slowly, “to fly into a camp of armed soldiers to rescue the man who found a rock that can hurt Superman.”
“It doesn't have to be a big deal,” Clark said. “You can just zip in, grab Wayne, and zip out. They probably won't even realize you're there until it's too late.”
Michel's gaze dropped to the table. “No,” he said quietly.
“No?!” Clark echoed in surprise. “Michel, they wouldn't be able to hurt you—”
“I said no.” He gave Clark an apologetic look. “You don't know what you're asking of me, Clark. Perhaps we can find some other way to help Mr. Irig, but I am not waltzing right into an American military camp!”
“Technically,” Clark pointed out, “if it is who I think it is, they're not actually part of the military anymore; just a rogue faction.”
“Ah, so they don't actually answer to your government. How reassuring,” Michel commented dryly.
Clark put a hand on Michel's shoulder. “Look, I know it sounds scary, but it's our best bet.”
“Well, I would like to discuss our second-best bet,” Michel shot back, gently removing the hand.
Clark glared. “Our second-best bet is to call the police and let them deal with a madman who might open fire on cops and civilians. As much as I like Sheriff Harris, she just isn't prepared to deal with this kind of situation.”
“And you think I am?!” Michel retorted.
“You're invulnerable!” Clark shouted, slamming a fist down on the table with a force that made it shake.
“My parents aren't,” replied Michel.
Clark folded his arms. “Your parents aren't even here,” he argued, “and it's not as if Trask and his men are going to recognize you on sight and realize there's two of us.”
“They might,” Michel said softly, slumping in his chair.
“They won't!” Clark insisted. “Look, I can lend you one of my suits...”
Michel shook his head. “Clark...I can't. I'm sorry. Perhaps we can think of some other way, but right now, I just cannot do what you're asking.”
“I thought the 'French Coward' was just a myth!” Clark snapped.
At that comment, Michel rose to his feet, his face burning. He leaned across the table and looked Clark square in the eye. “You can think what you like,” he said quietly, and stormed out of the house.
**********
Clark sat gaping as the door slammed behind Michel. For a second, he thought the man might change his mind and come back, but the crack of a sonic boom put that notion to rest. Immediately, Clark shot to his feet and ran out onto the porch.
“Michel!” he called out. “Michel, come back!”
There was no sign of him. Nothing moved, save for a light breeze that stirred the grass. Above, there wasn't a single speck in the sky, or even a passing cloud.
“I'm sorry!” Clark yelled up to the sky. “Michel!”
He stared up at the empty blueness, the shut his eyes. Feeling a little silly, he tried to concentrate really hard on reaching Michel's mind with his own. <Michel,> he thought as intensely as he could. <Michel, please come back.>
He didn't feel anything. There was no mental tug, no replying voice in his head. Still, he tried again, even pressing his fingers to the sides of his head for good measure. <Michel, I'm sorry! Please come back! Michel!>
A noise from behind startled him, and he whipped around to find his mother standing in the open doorway, holding a shoebox full of random knickknacks in one hand and a deck of cards in the other. She stared at him, curiously. “Clark? What happened?”
“Michel left,” he said, dejectedly.
His mother's eyes widened and she stepped out onto the porch, tossing the cards into the shoebox and shifting it so that she had a hand free. “What? Why?”
Clark took a deep breath and let it out. “Wayne's being held prisoner,” he told her. At her gasp, he continued, “Michel saw him being interrogated by soldiers, in one of the tents on the property. There was also a crate with what could be my ship in it. By the sound of things, we're dealing with Bureau 39.”
His mother blanched.
“I asked Michel to rescue him, but he wouldn't do it. I...said some things,” Clark admitted. “Now, he's gone.”
“Oh, Honey.” His mother reached up with her free arm and wrapped him in a semi-hug.
“My powers are gone, Michel's gone, and Trask has Wayne,” Clark lamented. “Do you want to tell me how this could get any worse?”
Just then, his dad came running up from the barn. “We have a situation,” he said, slightly out of breath. “That toolbox with the rock in it is missing!”
TBC...
