Summary: Sometimes, life forces us to take a lot of detours before we finally find the path we are meant to take.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I make nothing. All Superman characters, plot points, and recognizable dialogue belong to DC Comics, Warner Bros., December 3rd Productions and anyone else with a stake in the Superman franchise. All Batman characters, plot points, and otherwise belong to DC Comics, Warner Bros., and anyone else with a stake in the Batman franchise. I'm just borrowing their toys for a little while.
Author's Note: Special thanks go out to Val, my super beta. And to both Val and Feli, for letting me bounce ideas off of them as needed.
***
"Clark Kent, please come to the main office."
Krista Chaddington's voice was crackly and tinny sounding over the loud speaker system. It made usually cheerful, bubbly young office secretary sound almost robotic.
"Sorry, Pete," Clark apologized. He shrugged and slung his backpack over his shoulder. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Then we can go over this stuff," he said, gesturing to his friend's math book.
Pete shook his head. "No big deal. We can get to it tomorrow. The test isn't until Friday." He stifled a yawn. "Thanks for looking over my essay though."
Clark smiled. "No problem. I guess I'll see you in the morning then," he said, hooking his jacket over one arm.
"See you then," Pete replied, closing the textbook before him and stuffing it into his schoolbag. He raised his hand in unmoving gesture of goodbye.
Clark did the same, then put his back to his friend. He grabbed the strap of his backpack and held onto it as he walked down the hall, heading to the front office. As he steadily made his way through the school, he couldn't help but wonder why he'd been called there. He knew he wasn't in any kind of trouble. He'd always worked hard to be a model student. His parents had raised him that way. And, besides, he didn't want to jeopardize his ability to play football. Though he was only a freshman at Smallville High, he had his eyes firmly fixed on college. But he was the son of farmers, not rich people. His only chance to attend the colleges he had in mind was to be able to get an athletic scholarship. If he played ball, he could feasibly be granted a full scholarship, including his room and board, as opposed to an academic scholarship, which would only pay for his studies. Of course, he wanted to do well enough to have a shot at an academic scholarship as well, in case the football thing didn't pan out.
No, he assured himself. He was most definitely not in trouble.
So what could it be? He ran down a list of potential options in his mind. He still needed to hand in the money for the class trip, that was true. But the money wasn't due for another week. His parents had promised him they would give him the check that night so he could hand it in the next morning. No, he didn't think that was the reason either. He had no overdue library books, had no outstanding lunchroom tabs, hadn't even been out sick at all that year - mostly because he never got sick, which was just one of the things that set him apart from his peers.
Well, whatever it was, he would take care of it quickly, then get started on his way home. For the past three years, since he'd turned ten years old, he'd steadily become faster and stronger. He liked his walks home, which gave him the chance to use his extraordinary speed, as he raced alongside the train tracks - careful not to do so when a train was passing by. He usually liked to time his runs, from the moment he left the crowded center of town behind and entered into the sprawling farmlands, until the moment he reached the front door of his home. He was thrilled to see his time drop lower and lower, though the manifestation of such other-worldly powers still scared him.
He smiled to himself. His speed wasn't the only thing that was increasing. His strength was as well. Perhaps he'd even test his strength out when he got home - he hadn't done that in a few days. He was getting close to being able to lift his father's combine machine. Last week, he'd nearly gotten the wheels off the ground, but his muscles had failed at the last moment. Maybe this week he would succeed. Of course, he still had no idea why he had such incredible abilities, but now that he could control them - for the most part - he kind of liked that he could do things no one else could. Although, when he was alone, he had to wonder if speed and strength were the extent of his abilities or if any other weird powers would make their presence known in time. A small part of him found the prospect interesting. The overwhelmingly large part of him was terrified at the thought.
When he got to the office, fear froze him in place.
"Mom?" he asked, catching sight of Martha. "What's going on?"
For a moment, she couldn't speak. But her reddened eyes and the soggy, scrunched up handkerchief in her hands gave evidence to the fact that she'd been crying - hard and recently. She stood from the hard wooden bench and half stumbled her way to him, engulfing him in a hug as soon as she reached him.
"Oh, Clark," she murmured in a shuddering breath.
"Mom, what's wrong?" he pressed, pulling back to study her face.
Fresh tears welled up in her eyes and she had to look away. "It's Dad," she said softly.
Clark's heart skipped a beat. "What happened? Is he okay?"
"He," she said, swallowing hard. Clark noticed her hands were shaking. "He had a heart attack. A bad one. He's in the hospital."
"Is...is he going to be all right?" He could hardly get the words out, too afraid of the answer.
Martha shook her head. "We just don't know yet. The doctors were still performing tests when I came to get you. I...I didn't want you going home to an empty house."
"Can we see him?" Clark asked.
Martha nodded. "We should be able to. But..." She hesitated, as if looking for the right words. "He's heavily sedated, Clark. The doctors said he's really weak. I just...don't be alarmed, when he isn't awake."
Clark nodded in turn. "I understand," he managed to get out, his throat going as dry as a desert in the summer. "I, uh, just need a couple of things from my locker."
"Go on," his mother encouraged.
His locker was just down the hall from the office and he was there in a matter of moments. Blindly, he grabbed the few things he needed, then shut and locked the door again. He thought he might have heard one of his fellow teammates from the football team calling him, but he wasn't completely sure. All he could hear was the sound of his pulse rushing in his ears as panic bubbled up within him.
His dad had always been so healthy and strong! How could he have suffered from a heart attack?
Clark couldn't lose him. Jonathan Kent was the best father he could have ever hoped for. He was so patient and understanding as Clark continued to grow in strength and speed. Both of his parents were. Jonathan was a hardworking, kind man, the type who'd give the shirt off his back to a stranger in need. The kind of man who hadn't even blinked at the prospect of adopting a baby he and his wife had found in a wrecked space craft in the middle of a field one May evening.
It wasn't fair, plain and simple.
He'll be okay, Clark told himself in his mind, but it was more of a reflex than something he actually believed. He couldn't believe it, until he saw his dad.
Silently, he walked with his mother out to their beat-up old truck and climbed into the passenger seat after flinging his backpack into the backseat. As though on autopilot, he buckled himself in and stared blankly at the road before them as his mother pulled away from the school and onto the road.
"Mom?" he finally forced himself to say, prying his tongue loose from where it felt cemented to the roof of his mouth.
"Hmm?" she responded, checking both ways at a stop sign.
"Are...are you okay?" he asked.
A tender look came over his mother's face. "Yeah, honey," she said softly. "I'm afraid, but we'll be okay, no matter what happens."
"But Dad..." he started to protest, but couldn't finish. "I'm scared, Mom," he said instead.
"I know," she said, her voice nearly a whisper. "But your father is a strong man. He'll fight, I know it."
"Did the doctors say how long before we know anything?"
Martha shook her head slightly. "Not yet, but they were hoping to have some more answers for us when we get back there."
"That's good," Clark said numbly, still trying to process the shock of his father's heart attack. Then, "I wish I could do something to help him."
A trembling smile stretched across his mother's face. "Me too, sweetie."
For the rest of his life, Clark could only remember bits and pieces of what followed.
One moment they were traveling through the solid green light of an intersection, only five or so miles away from the hospital, and the next moment there was a jarring impact and the sickening crunch of metal. The car was pushed sideways for several feet. The windshield broke into a spider web of cracks a heartbeat before it shattered completely. At some point, the car flipped over, rolling onto the roof.
Light, sound, and sensation ruled supreme. Everything existed in flashes of color or jarring feelings, or bursts of sound. Nothing felt connected. It was just a series of heartbeats strung together in a haphazard fashion. Clark had no time to process what was happening or even form a single, coherent thought.
And then, just as suddenly as it had all begun, it stopped. The world screeched to a halt. The flashes ceased. The world seemed to stream along in normal fashion, just as it always had.
Clark had remained conscious throughout the entire ordeal, thanks, mostly, to his apparent invulnerability, which he'd possessed since his toddlerhood. But that didn't shield him from being completely disoriented by the accident. For long minutes, he dangled there, suspended upside down in his seat by his seatbelt, dazed and trying to get his bearings. Gradually, his wits returned and he became aware of what had taken place.
He'd been in a car accident.
A bad one.
Panic gripped him.
"Mom?" he shouted over the ringing in his ears. "Mom?"
No response.
"MOM!" he called, even louder.
But Martha was silent.
Gingerly, still afraid that perhaps his invulnerability hadn't protected him against internal injuries, he looked to his left. He immediately wished he hadn't.
Martha was a mess of blood and eerily still. Her eyes were wide open, unblinking. Her mouth was open in a small O of surprise. Her chest did not rise and fall with breath. Clark knew, in that exact moment, that she was dead. But that didn't stop him. He carefully tried to work his seatbelt free, but either it was stuck or his hands were trembling too much - he was never quite certain which it was. Terrified of losing precious time, he tore the seatbelt in half, close to the buckle, and flipped himself so that he was right side up again. His knees on the ceiling, he reached out to his mother, checking for signs of life, all the while calling her name over and over in the vain hope she would answer.
There was no pulse. There was no breath.
His mother was gone.
Sick with that knowledge, Clark turned away and vomited.
Using his extraordinary strength, he began to work the passenger door open. He didn't care if it looked suspicious when the car was later inspected. He had to get out of there, now. It felt like the walls were closing in on him and the proximity to his mother's unmoving form was making him claustrophobic. Little by grudgingly little, he got the door open enough to feel the cool breeze on his face.
By then, he could hear sirens in the distance.
Slowly, he became aware of others there, trying to help, fear on their faces and care in their movements so as not to make matters worse inadvertently. He saw Wayne Irig there, his faded blue overalls unmistakable even in all of the confusion and terror flooding Clark's mind. Nick Astor, the big gruff, but lovable, town grocer was there as well, helping Wayne try to open Martha's door. Father John was there too, the local pastor, using his strong muscles to help Clark make progress with his door - or, at least, Clark knew that man would believe that was the case. It was a sharp reminder, however, to him to keep his abilities hidden.
"Clark?" Father John called out. "Are you hurt, son?"
"I'm...not sure," he managed to respond.
He was pretty sure he was physically unscathed. But his heart felt like it had had a hole ripped right through it.
"Well, don't worry. We'll have you out of there in no time," the kindly, middle-aged preacher assured him.
"My mom," Clark said, choking back tears. "She...I think she's dead."
"It's okay," Father John said soothingly. "Everything is going to be okay. The paramedics will be here soon to help."
Clark nodded, but in his heart he knew it was already too late for her. Still, he sent up a silent prayer for a miracle that by some chance she could be brought back.
The sirens grew closer and within minutes Clark could see police cars and fire trucks arriving on the scene. The men who'd been trying to rescue the inhabitants of both vehicles stepped back and let the professionals use their equipment to free those who were trapped. Mere moments later, Clark saw a pair of ambulances come screeching to a halt, out of the way but still close. As soon as the vehicles stopped, the back doors flew open and teams of paramedics rushed out.
Things moved quickly from that moment on. The car doors were pried off and he was helped out by a baby-faced young policeman. Two others pulled Martha's lifeless body from the wreck and the medical professionals started working on her right away. The man from the other vehicle that had hit them was freed from his own twisted metal deathtrap. Clark didn't have to look hard to see that there was no saving the man. His head had gone through his windshield it seemed, and his skull was battered beyond repair.
"Clark," one of the paramedics said, snapping his attention away from the grisly accident before him. Later, he would wonder how the man had known his name - if perhaps Wayne or Father John had told the kind stranger what it was.
"Huh?" He blinked, trying to dispel the lingering images of blood and death from his mind.
"Come with me. Let's get you checked out, okay?" the man said.
Every fiber of his being should have screamed at him not to let anyone check him out, lest they discover he was different from regular boys and girls his age. But his mind wasn't focusing on that. He was still dazed - shuffling along as if trapped in a nightmare he couldn't figure out how to escape from. So he simply nodded, his mind in a fog, and allowed the man to lead him toward one of the ambulances.
Jimenez - that was the name Clark could see on the paramedic's lapel - gave him a quick, but thorough, check. While he did so, he did his best to keep Clark distracted from everything else that was happening around them. Even in his foggy state of mind, Clark recognized this. He felt guilty knowing that it wasn't working. After what felt like a lifetime, Jimenez gave him a small smile.
"You're a very lucky young man," he said, though as he said the words, Clark saw a grimace streak across his face. "I mean...you don't appear to be injured at all. I'm surprised."
"My mom...?" Clark inquired, rather than acknowledge his unscathed body. "Is she...?"
As he asked the question, he already knew the answer. There was no rushing about to get Martha to the hospital. There would be no miracle there that day. Her spirit was gone. He was now a boy without a mother.
"I'm sorry," a different paramedic said, her hand on Clark's shoulder. Kensington, her badge declared.
"She's...she's really gone?" Clark sniffled.
"I'm so sorry. Her injuries were too severe," Kensington said. "I wish I had better news for you. I'm so, so sorry."
"What am I going to do?" Clark whispered, more to himself than to anyone else.
"Hey, son."
Clark looked up, wiping away the tears that had welled up in his eyes.
"Sheriff Harris," he acknowledged.
"Let me take you home," the sheriff offered. "I'm going to need to let your father know what happened."
Clark shook his head. "There's no one there. Dad had a heart attack this morning. My mom and I were on the way to the hospital when we were hit by the other car."
"Oh, Clark! I'm so sorry," the man said, his entire demeanor going somehow softer and more pained. He gave the boy a quick, supportive hug.
"Can you take me there instead?" Clark asked, unsure where else he could go or what to do.
"Sure thing, son. I just have to square away a few things with the other officers, then we'll be on our way."
Clark nodded and watched Sheriff Harris move away to speak with a deeply tanned officer. He saw the paramedics who'd been working on his mother pull a clean white sheet over her body and load the gurney she was strapped to into the back of the ambulance. The doors shut with two solid thumps, then the vehicle slowly pulled away, with no sense of urgency. Clark finally let the first of his tears fall.
He gathered later, after speaking with the police and giving his own account of what had happened, that the driver of the other truck had been drunk and fleeing from Sheriff Harris when the accident had happened. He'd torn through the red light, going more than eighty miles an hour, and had smashed squarely into the driver's door, killing Martha on impact and sending the pickup into a roll. The other man - a William Bartlett by name - hadn't bothered to buckle his seatbelt when he'd stolen the vehicle after a botched robbery at the liquor store. The impact had sent him crashing though his windshield and had killed him instantly.
By the time Clark made it to the hospital to see his father, he was exhausted - mentally, physically, and emotionally. Jonathan was still sedated when Clark was ushered into his room. That was just fine with him. He felt like he barely had the strength to speak. But he forced himself to talk to his father for at least a few minutes.
"Hi, Dad," he said as he walked to the bedside. "I'm here. Mom told me what happened." Here, his voice cracked as he tried to bite back his tears. He didn't want Jonathan to know that his wife was gone, not while he was still so weak. "You have to fight, Dad. You have to get better. You're the strongest man I know. You can get through this."
Clark pulled up the chair in the room so as to be right next to his father. He took one of Jonathan's big, callused hands in his own. For a few minutes, all he did was study that hand - the rich soil that was under his nails from working the farm, the tanned skin from days spent out in the sun, the small cuts and scrapes earned from the hard labor he did each day. Hands that, for all their roughness and hard appearance, were gentle and loving - a quick, reassuring squeeze on Clark's shoulder when he was having a bad day, deft, agile movements that had repaired more snapped kite strings than Clark could recount, solid pats on Clark's back when he accomplished some goal, butterfly-light touches of his fingers as he'd wiped away tears throughout Clark's life.
"You have to get better," Clark whispered, but it was more a plea to the universe than anything else.
I don't know what I'll do if you leave me too, his broken heart added bleakly.
But the universe wasn't listening that day. Jonathan did not get any better and the doctors kept him fast asleep as they ran more tests and gave him time to recover. Visiting hours at the hospital ended and Clark was forced to leave. Without anyone at home and without knowing what else to do, he accepted Sheriff Harris' invitation and stayed the night at the officer's home. It was an awkward situation to be sure. Since they'd been in kindergarten together, the sheriff's daughter, Rachel, had had a crush on Clark. But Clark saw her as nothing more than a good friend, a fact he often felt guilty about, though he and Rachel had long since gotten their feelings about one another out into the open. She respected his feelings and had not pressed the issue any further, but still Clark felt bad that he could never give her what she wanted.
"With Joshua off at college, we have a spare room for as long as you might need, until your pa gets well enough to come home," Sheriff Harris assured Clark as they drove through the darkening night.
"Thank you," Clark said in a subdued tone.
"Look, Clark, about today..."
"No, don't say it. Please," Clark interrupted. He was barely holding his emotions together as he sat in the squad car.
"All right," was the other man's only reply. "We'll stop by your house first so you can pick up some spare changes of clothing and the like, okay?"
"That would be great," Clark said without enthusiasm. "I really appreciate all you've already done for me. I know my dad will too, once he's well again."
"It's the least I could do. Why, when my shed burnt down three years ago, he was there the next day with his tools, some extra lumber he had laying around, and a box of nails. With his help, we had a new, bigger, better shed up in no time at all," Sheriff Harris said, smiling a little at the memory.
Clark managed a small smile too. "I remember that. He really enjoyed getting to help your family out."
"Ah, here we are."
They pulled up to the Kent family farmhouse. Clark hopped out of the cruiser and let himself in with his key. He hurried to his room and stuffed whatever he could grab into a duffel bag, not wanting to keep the sheriff waiting. He took another brief moment to grab his toothbrush from the bathroom and then headed back down the stairs.
"That was quick," the sheriff remarked, though not unkindly, when Clark opened the back door of the car and tossed his bag on the seat. "There's no rush. If there's anything else you want to grab..."
"No, thanks. I'm fine," Clark said, shutting the door before opening the front door and letting himself inside. "Thanks."
"Okay then. If you're sure..."
The car reversed, turned, then headed back out to the main road. A profound sense of loss settled over Clark as his childhood home - now dark and lifeless - grew smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror.
That night, as he lay on his back in a bed that wasn't his own, blankets and pillows that were also not his own surrounding him, he finally let his tears fall. He cried until he had nothing left, then fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep. Yet when he awoke the next morning, he felt anything but rested. He shuffled down to the Harris' kitchen, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. But the somber looks on the family's faces snapped him to full alertness.
"What?" he breathed, fearing the answer.
"Clark..." Sheriff Harris began, clearing his throat and pulling at his shirt collar.
Clark felt his stomach turn to lead and his pulse skyrocket. "What's going on?"
"I...uh..." the sheriff stammered and Rachel looked away from Clark.
"Is it Dad? Did something happen?" Clark half demanded in a panic.
"I...I'm afraid so. The hospital...they just called. Your dad...he had another heart attack during the night."
"They tried, Clark," added Betty, the sheriff's gentle wife. "They tried so hard. But..." She seemed unable to finish her statement.
"He didn't make it, son."
Sheriff Harris' words hit Clark like a physical blow. He recoiled in horror.
"No!" he said, defying the universe. "No, he can't be dead! He's my dad! He can't be gone!"
"I'm so sorry, Clark," Rachel said, getting up from her seat and approaching him.
Clark flinched away from her as she tried to put her hand on his shoulder. "No..." he said as he pulled away. "No!"
Then he turned and ran.
Out of the house. Across the yard. Down to the road.
He had to put as much distance as he could between the house and himself as he could.
A left at the road. Down the cracked asphalt. Away. Away. Away.
It wasn't the Harris' fault that Jonathan had died. But Clark couldn't be anywhere near them right now.
A mile now. Then another. Past the familiar houses and fields he'd known all his life.
Why wasn't the running clearing his head, the way it usually did?
Abandoning the road. Slicing across Shuster's Field. Into the seclusion of Rocky Cove.
Once there, although he wasn't winded, Clark collapsed on a large rock, his legs turning to rubber and giving way beneath him, though he knew he could normally go many, many more miles before running out of steam.
All around him, peace reigned. Birds chirped in the sunlight. Tendrils of mist were burning away as the day grew slightly warmer. Bugs flitted through the air or crawled by on the ground. The buds on the trees lay still in readiness for the proper time to burst into bloom. A rabbit scampered by in the underbrush - Clark more heard it than saw it.
In that perfect stillness, Clark began to scream.
He screamed out his heartbreak, his fears for the future, the way he missed his parents. He screamed for how unfair it all was - his parents had been the best people he'd known and now they were simply gone, their lives snuffed out at far too young an age. He screamed as he recognized that he was an orphan.
When he finally wore his voice hoarse, the tears came. Hot and fast, they spilled down his cheeks. They splattered the ground at his feet and the soaked shirt he was wearing. As he cried out his loneliness and his anguish, his tears came all the harder and his breathing grew ragged until he felt light-headed, as though he wasn't getting quite enough oxygen.
For a long time, that was all he could do. Then, gradually, his tears dried. He got a handle on his breathing and forced himself to take deep, albeit shaky, breaths. Silence came back over the woods. He wiped away the remnants of the salt and water from his cheeks and then sat still. It was an effort to move, to speak, to even think.
All day long, he just sat there, too dazed to do anything else. The sun began to go down and it grew cold out. Clark didn't notice. He, of course, could feel the differences in temperature, but no matter how extreme the cold or heat he was exposed to, it couldn't hurt him or make him feel uncomfortable in any way. He just continued to sit there, lost in his own thoughts, memories, and grief.
When the search party found him, his skin was far too cold to be healthy for a normal person, and his rescuers feared he was catatonic until he finally moved and acknowledged their presence.
He never heard what they said to him that night - not their relief at finding him safe and sound enough, not their expressions of condolences, not their offers to be there for him if he needed anything. Only one thought was in his mind. And that thought was all encompassing, blinding him to all else, muting all else around him.
He was now completely alone in the world.
He was an orphan.
To Be Continued...
