ToC - for previous parts.
Waking a Miracle -- (06/??)
A blaze was going steadily in the study's fireplace.
Shadows danced along the walls as sharp pops of wood and
heat gave the room a percussive background noise. The sky
outside the window was dark and purplish, a sliver of
lighter navy blue rimming the horizon to the west.
Under the dim light of the one lit lamp in the room, George
Thompson flipped to the next page of his book. The tattered
pages glowed slightly under the odd illumination. The book
was a cheap fantasy novel that he had picked up a long time
ago and never gotten around to, but it was entertaining, and
he was enjoying one of the rare moments he had to himself.
The door behind him slammed open as if on cue.
"Someone is looking into your FBI records."
George looked up from his book and stared at the intruder.
"I'm running for election," he shrugged as he uncrossed his
legs and leaned back further into the heavy, wing-backed
chair. "I don't find that surprising."
Trask's eyes widened slightly, and his face just seemed to
scream, 'are you an idiot?' "Someone from the *Daily
Planet* is looking into your FBI files."
George put his book down and stared. So? he wanted to say,
but the look in Trask's eyes just screamed rampage.
"That's where the Alien works now," Trask stated pointedly.
George shrugged again. Trask was becoming more and more of
a liability, more unstable, more... frenzied... as time went
on -- he set himself off on witch hunts, often without any
proof beyond circumstantial evidence that there was
something amiss. Several case files had been closed
prematurely as a result of his behavior, one of which had
turned out during the autopsy to be a genuine human. Trask
had just shrugged it off as an acceptable loss.
"Well it *is* his job now, Trask," he attempted to placate
the man. "It's probably routine. Think about it -- how
would he even suspect me enough to investigate me? The only
one who's been a troublemaker in this organization is you."
Trask ignored the jab. "We need to act. Now!"
George couldn't have cared less about Clark Kent. The man
had proven to be no more a risk to this country than any
normal human. In some cases, he had helped. But Trask, due
to George's own interference, was stuck to Clark like muck
to a sewer and would not be turned off the trail. If
anything, he had become more obsessed as time went on, and
George had little doubt that Trask had slowly developed a
psychosis.
"Relax, Jason," George soothed. "This campaign puts me in
the perfect position."
Ever since Sarah, Trask was like a fly that couldn't be
swatted.
"To what?" Trask made a face. "Smile pretty for the
cameras?"
The suits had found out about Trask's little...
indiscretions... with Mr. Kent. They had left the
Metropolis arson investigation unsolved, but they had made
it clear that Bureau 39 was to be shut down, once and for
all. Officially, that was.
"No, Trask. Think, what are campaigns based on?"
"Public opinion."
Trask was to be silenced. Publicly, in a way that would
remove all possibility of doubt and conspiracy theories, and
certainly all lingering attention on just how far Trask's
connections went, and who they were indirectly sanctioned
by. The plan was already in motion, if only he could keep
Trask leashed long enough.
"And who better to destroy Clark Kent once and for all than
the public? Our hands will be washed entirely of this whole
messy business. Besides, I think that our science team has
finally found something we can use. A rock with certain...
unusual properties."
"A rock?" Trask snorted and began to pace. George traced
his movements with his eyes. "What are you going to do,
throw it at him?"
"The boys say it isn't from Earth." George had been
inclined to agree after seeing it. The rock had hummed and
pulsated, a sickly lime-green color that was strong enough
to provide illumination in a dark room. He had never seen
anything like it. "They say that it emits a very high band
of radiation that doesn't seem to affect humans, at least
not with short-term exposures."
"Doesn't affect humans?" Trask finally seemed to relax a
bit. A slow, sickly grin crept across his face. "You mean
you found something that might affect the Alien?"
"Magic-eight ball says, 'Signs point to yes.'"
Perhaps this would get Trask to relax a bit. All George
needed was a few more days.
"Astounding! when can we test it?"
Or not.
"Patience, Trask. Patience," he soothed. George could
only hope it was enough.
*****
The abominable snowman, Clark thought as he looked in the
bathroom mirror. He looked like the abominable snowman.
Every inch of him was covered in gray, powdery dust and
grime. His hair looked a striking shade of silver, but had
none of the shine of natural hair color, and his face looked
pale, more a dull taupe than flesh.
He smiled, but noted his expression looked rather odd when
he looked like father death.
The good news was that all the furniture in his apartment
was in the upright and locked position, and all the dust was
swept up. He had a line of trash bags along the living room
wall that had nothing but dirt and debris in them. He had
gone through the place with both a vacuum and a broom,
multiple times each. Several vacuum bags had been claimed
in the bitter struggle.
The beautiful window that vaulted over his living room area
was now spotless, along with all the other mirrors and
windows in the place. He had gone over all the countertops,
shelves, molding, appliances, and furniture with rag after
rag sprayed with cleaning solution and polish. Everything
that wasn't salvageable was now in the dump in the alley --
he had carried several loads of woodchips and pieces of...
things... down using the service elevator. Clark had also
replaced all of the broken or burnt out light bulbs.
The process had taken about six hours. His new landlord
Floyd had stopped to check on him, watching for several
minutes, but didn't offer to help. He had questioned what
Clark was doing, grudgingly accepting the answers, and then
he had walked off again, probably to harass the next tenant.
Next up was to paint and refinish everything, but that could
wait until the following night or until the weekend. He had
a working shower that didn't spray brown goo, a mattress, a
clock, a beat-up dresser closet combo to keep his clothes
in, and a general atmosphere that wasn't so clogged with
dirt anymore that he couldn't breathe. As far as he was
concerned, he could live off just that indefinitely.
Now, there was only one thing left to clean, and it was in
dire, dire need.
He turned the hot/cold knob all the way into the red,
twisted on the water in the shower, and let it run a few
minutes until the water had pooled slightly in the basin and
was sending billowing mushrooms of steam into the air. The
mirror turned clouded and Clark could no longer see his
ghastly white visage. He stripped quickly and left his
soiled clothes on the floor in a small heap, hopping into
the shower stall as they landed with a rustled thud.
Warmth buffeted him as ribbons of brown water sluiced off
him in thick, solid-looking threads. He sighed with
pleasure into the warm spray. Grabbing his washcloth, he
began to soap himself off in lazy circular motions. Like
the before and after pictures of a detergent commercial, his
skin was two drastically different tones where he had
scrubbed and where he had not. He couldn't recall another
time in his life he had been so dirty, not even during the
brief period he had been doing rescues.
Well, he amended, there had been the one time.
He started to scrub much harder, as if there was a spot of
dirt he couldn't get out, working up a rich lather as he
went. Suds were everywhere and his washcloth seemed to be
thinning in the center. Bare threads still held it together
but the towel fuzz that gave it its good scrubbing quality
was disappearing in large patches. Another squirt of
shampoo went into his hair and he worked his fingers across
his scalp in a frenetic haze.
The steam was thick enough to cut on a chopping block and
his extremities seemed to blur into a fog-hazed oblivion.
More scrubbing. Dirty. The only sounds were the thudding
rainfall from the showerhead and his own soft panting -- it
was as if the city outside had disappeared into a soundless
void. When he put his head directly under the spray, the
thudding became a steady, relentless thunder and everything
felt hot.
He stood baking for several long minutes in the virtual
silence. The water running off him was crystal clear and he
felt so wet he was heavy with it. Closing his eyes, he let
the water continue to buffet him across his front, striking
him, hitting him. He braced himself against the cold, slick
wall tiles and rested there until the water started cooling
off and the thick steam began to dissipate.
Finally he turned the water off and grabbed a puffy black
towel. The water had chilled off so substantially that by
the time he had turned it off there was no need to turn on
the exhaust fan, but he flipped it on anyways. The mirror
was still fogged over with condensation, and the walls
seemed damp.
He slicked his dripping hair back out of his face, smooth
against his scalp, and peered into the mirror. All he saw
was a blur until he swept his hand across it and cleared
away some of the moisture. His features seemed sharper and
more angular, and his face still looked grim even without
the dust. The vague shadow of stubble that had begun to
form made him look even more haggard.
With a sigh, he finished drying off and wrapped the towel
around his waist. He walked back out into his bedroom and,
mindful of his overall dampness, pulled his suitcase up onto
his mattress rather than sitting down to bend over.
There were a few remaining sets of clean clothes -- he
didn't need to visit the laundromat just yet. He did need
more things to wear, that was for sure, but it could wait
until his first paycheck. Splurging to get the apartment
and on top of that splurging more to buy the proper supplies
to fix it up had ended up making a rather sizable dent in
his pocketbook. He had enough suits and casual wear to get
him through the week, at least.
He rifled through his suitcase, looking for his last clean
pair of flannel boxers, when his hands struck something
smooth and soft. He stopped.
He hadn't remembered packing that... That was supposed to
be in the trash in Kansas City along with most of his other
former belongings.
Breath caught in his throat, he pulled the uniform out of
his suitcase. It was black spandex -- his reasoning having
been that he was less likely to stick out in black. It was
supposed to have made him harder to see, and less likely to
have been spotted.
Stupid, Clark.
He had realized belatedly that any form of rescue work was
going to get him recognized soon enough. Newspapers had
splashed speculation and bold type headlines proclaiming
things such as, "Miracles: Man or Myth?" Mere weeks after
he had started doing larger rescues, he had been dubbed
Miracle Man, even though nobody had proven the thing doing
the rescuing was actually a man.
He ran his hand over the silver 'S' symbol. The texture was
rough and glittery, and his fingers seemed to snag on it
from time to time. At the time when he had made it, he
couldn't resist adding a copy of all that was left of his
heritage to his costume, but looking back now, it had been
stupid to give himself such a recognizable look.
It was stupid to have ever tried the whole get-up at all in
retrospect, but...
After fifteen years of silence, how could he have known that
Trask was still keeping tabs on him?
The man *murdered* your parents, Clark. Obsession like that
doesn't go away.
He brought the uniform up to his face and buried himself in
it, trying hard to keep his breathing steady. It still
smelled of acrid smoke and death, even after all this time.
Or maybe he was imagining it. The scent tickled the back of
his throat and urged him to inhale his last moments as the
world-renowned could-be hero, could-be angel. He kept his
eyes closed, trying to keep the world blurred and black like
his uniform, but that seemed to bring the memories even
closer to the surface. They threatened to burble forth like
a geyser, and this time, he couldn't keep them at bay.
His chest constricted and suddenly he could see flames.
Everywhere. They glowed and blurred like orange dancers.
Mesmerizing in his state. He was tired, so much so that the
feeling seeped into his bones and infected the marrow
underneath with a cold deadness. Everything ached and the
smoke was suffocating him.
The alley between two of the burning buildings was a
luminescent inferno. The shadows quivered and leapt about.
And he was dirty. Covered in soot and grime and grease and
chemicals and smoke and nastiness that he couldn't identify.
If he could have clawed his own skin off just to escape the
soiled, slovenly feeling, he would have.
So tired... He just wanted to curl up and hide in a hole
until the misery was gone, but there were still three
buildings burning in the distance, and the two that towered
directly over him. He could hear the screams of the victims
inside, piercing his eardrums so harshly he thought he would
die from the assault.
"Help me," they screeched, as if expecting someone, someone
like him, would be able to come to their aid. He could hear
them coughing, goggling, and flailing like fish out of
water, even the ones in the buildings several blocks away.
And the sirens, the sirens and the radio talk, the explosive
boom of the buildings crumbling around him like houses of
cards in a breeze--he could barely think straight.
But he didn't move.
"You see this in my hand?"
Trask stood in front of him in a hefty black ops uniform.
In the strange light, he looked like a floating, ghostly
head with two hands drifting along side. The fire glanced
off his irises and made his eyes appear incandescent. He
was clutching a small, blinking device in his hands, and he
seemed unaware of the destruction and chaos surrounding
them.
"What are you doing here?" Clark choked. He hadn't seen
Trask since the day his parents died, but he would never
forget his face. Not then, and certainly not after tonight.
More screaming clawed at him and rent him from the inside
out. Some of them were kids. Crying for their parents.
Trask grinned. "I'm teaching you a lesson. I can see from
the look on your face you hear them. Save them, and I keep
killing. I have twenty-five more buildings rigged to go off
as we speak, and I'd say you look about ready to collapse as
it is. I guess there are limits to how super you really
are. How many have we gone through today? Twelve?"
Clark looked at the transmitter.
"Don't even think about zapping it or me, or every single
building I rigged will suddenly get a lot hotter."
"The people are dying," Clark whispered. His throat felt
tortured and raw, and his eyes burned in the dancing light.
"Why are you doing this?"
"You've forced me into this, Alien. Didn't I tell you
before that this would happen any time I caught you using
your powers? I've obviously been too lax. Save them, and I
keep killing. Walk away. Disappear, and the dying stops.
It's your choice."
One of the far away buildings that had managed to hold on to
its moorings began to crumble and the foundation gave way in
a rumbling superheated vortex. The collapse wreaked
devastation on Clark's tortured eardrums. Some of the
screaming stopped, but he was far from grateful.
"You can't be everywhere at once, but I can," Trask had
proclaimed. He hit a button and three more buildings
erupted in flames.
Clark blinked as his new apartment came back into focus. So
many dead that night, and the following morning he had seen
some headlines thanking him for helping to save the first
batch of buildings that had succumbed to Trask's handiwork.
He tossed the uniform away from him and stared at his hands.
Miracle Man.
He went back into the bathroom, but this time it was to
vomit.
*****
TBC...
(End Part 06/??)
