This is an Elseworlds Story and contains a WHAM warning here in the beginning.

Mis-Kal-culations
By TJgruffs

Prologue:

There were mornings on the Kent farm that didn’t always start before the sun peeked over the horizon. Sometimes, right before spring planting, or during a rare summer day off, or maybe once the harvest was in, or perhaps a snow day had been declared; any of these instances might allow a Kansas farmboy to sleep in a little later. And there were instances when he’d talked Mom and Dad into letting him sleep in the barn loft.

Then Dad wouldn’t be in such a hurry to come out early in the morning to wake him up. He didn’t have to use his son’s early morning dawdling as his own excuse to linger over a cup of coffee. The boy was already out there, probably already started; such a responsible young lad. Dad could take it easy, secure in the knowledge that his wife didn’t suspect he allowed the boy to sleep in, knowing the youngster would be taking up the slack later by doing the heavy work with a speed that was developing into something too incredible to explain just yet.

One of those particularly bright spring mornings, a groggy, thirteen-year-old was awakened from his deep slumber to the cacophony of every barn swallow in Kansas gossiping about the day ahead. He absently began to wonder why Dad hadn’t gotten him up yet. But then, Dad hadn’t known he was up here. Last night the boy had barely been able to heave his fatigued bones up the steep stairs to the loft. But the loft had been the best he could do after reaching the front door to find it locked, the incongruity of this occurrence completely lost on him in his exhausted state. Rather than shout Mom and Dad awake, he’d turned his tired body toward the comforting familiarity of the barn.

He was home now. One more evening wouldn’t make that much of a difference. The barn would be a welcome respite from the Spartan accommodations he’d been made to endure up until recently. As the warm musty scent of hay combined with the cool spring breeze of the evening filled his nose the realization that he’d never again have to inhale the sterile, empty air of an artificial environment had nearly driven him to tears.

But he was grown up now, too old to cry. So he’d sucked up his emotions like a good Kryptonian, and trudged up the stairs to the loft, collapsing into a dusty, compacted mound of hay, where he’d fallen into an exhausted sleep. Waking the next day to smear fresh bird droppings from his face was disconcerting, but heat of the bright golden sunbeam that shone warmly across his shoulders was wonderful. Holding his hand up to the golden beam, he perceived the tingle that permeated his skin, the rush of energy that enveloped his entire being.

He was Home!

Only a second later he was scrabbling to his feet to do a cartwheel off the edge of the loft down onto the barn floor. That he was out of practice didn’t occur to him until he landed flat on his back. He lay still momentarily, waiting to feel the throb of pain that should spread over his back and shoulders, his eyes scrunched shut in anxious anticipation. When nothing happened he cautiously opened them and turned his head from side to side realizing there was no pain in the movement, not even a twinge.

YES!! HE WAS HOME!

With an agile twist and thrust he was back on his feet and running from the barn, his voice hoarse with emotion and maturing adolescence as he announced, “MOM! DAD! I’m HOME!!”

He pounded up the steps to wrench open the screen door, unknowingly yanking the rickety frame from its hinges. He barreled into the door, shoving through the locked structure with his shoulder as he continued calling, his shout bouncing off nearly vacant walls as he dashed through the empty kitchen into the living area. The gray dust cloths that covered every large article of furniture brought his boisterous entry up short.

He paused next to what he perceived was the couch, looking around at the dim room in bewilderment. Were they painting? He reached an uncertain hand out to grasp the cloth that hid the couch from view, only to suddenly understand why the cloths looked gray. They were coated with dust. *Years* worth of dust.

“Mom?” he called out again. His mind went to work in the stillness, considering the amount of time he’d been gone. Had it been so very long? Three, perhaps four years maybe? Did they move? He pulled the dust cloth from the couch; a very familiar couch. When people moved they took their furniture with them…didn’t they?

The familiar squeak of the screen door behind him triggered a defensive spin, his intent to face whatever threat had presented itself. The familiar, yet shocked face of Wayne Irig caused his guard to drop as quickly as it had arisen. Instead he felt immense relief, the grateful recognition of something so simple as the kind face of a neighbor bolstering his hope that he was indeed home and that the man would know where Mom and Dad were.

“Mr. Irig,” he began, the long unspoken name feeling odd on his lips, “My mom and dad…do you know,-”

The older man’s surprise at the intruder melted into recognition which immediately evolved into anguish, his troubled gaze instead dropping to the action of his hands as he worried the brim of his worn straw hat through his fingers. “Clark…son, I hate to be the one to tell you…” His voice was beginning falter, but he looked up as the boy crept up closer to hear him, his eyes watery with something beyond age.
“They’re gone, Clark.”

“Gone?” The younger man looked around at the covered furniture, the empty walls and shelves. “Gone where?” he asked, leaning in so as to catch Mr. Irig’s every whispered word.

“They…they’re dead, son…killed in a car accident two years ag,-AACK!” Irig gasped as the boy’s fingers shot out to encircle his throat, the pressure stopping his words mid-breath.

“YOU’RE LYING!” The roar that emanated from the boy with more power than a thirteen-year-old would naturally produce and rang in his own ears with a startling resonance, but he couldn’t loosen his grip. His fingers in fact squeezed harder despite the clawing struggles of his victim. “WHERE ARE THEY?!” He gave the old man a fierce shake to emphasize his seriousness.

The vulnerable flesh beneath his fingers began to buckle and the old man’s feeble resistance tapered off to hitching gasps and inadvertent twitching. Veins popped out all over his face and his eyes bulged as his body registered the lack of blood flow combined with the affects of the painful grip.

“I DIDN’T LIVE THROUGH FOUR YEARS TORMENT TO COME BACK TO NOTHING! WHERE ARE THEY?!!”

Clark Kent stared in dismay at the convulsing body in his grip as life seeped away from the old man, but the revulsion the young man felt had no affect on his increasing grip, the preternatural strength that crushed the life from the well-meaning neighbor. His rage would not allow him to loosen his hold. He squeezed until red foam dribbled from the open mouth of the elderly farmer, dropping the limp body to the floor, screaming with horrified shock as a firm hand gripped his shoulder….

“Kal?”

No, not Kal El, not that hated Kryptonian, freak show name…

“Kal, you okay, buddy?” The hand left his shoulder, but he easily could make out the face of his bewildered roommate in the darkened room. He still needed a moment to realize he wasn’t in Smallville, that Mr. Irig’s pending death had been interrupted by the arrival of a determined county deputy. But that was over four years ago and many miles away.

“I’m fine, Dave,” he hoarsely assured his concerned roomy, who was already turning to climb back into his own bed. “Just a little mind freak,” he murmured, more to himself.

“Save the freaking for tomorrow’s game, Eldritch,” Dave replied around a wide yawn as he pulled the covers around his head, “then you can freak all over Southview’s ayyyassss!!”

Kal snorted and shook his head ruefully before he resettled himself back under his own blankets, but sleep was a long time coming. His mind wasn’t as apt to settle as quickly as his softly snoring roommate.

He hadn’t thought about Smallville for some time, but in the stillness of his dorm room, Kal recalled the promise he’d given Lex in regards to the outcome of tomorrow’s game and the decision weighed heavily on his mind…enough to cause nightmares apparently.

Lex had done so much for him though; he’d given Kal the security of his new name, his new identity. Kal Eldritch would remain safe if he remembered that he had no connection to Clark Kent of Smallville. The Clark Kent that ran away from home, returning after four years only to loot his family’s abandoned house, and subsequently attack the neighbor who stopped by to investigate.

Lex had offered to secure the Kent property for him, under his new name, as a gesture of gratitude, but Lex’s reasoning to make a clean cut from his old life made a lot more sense to an impressionable and lonely teen in need of a father figure. Kal thanked his lucky stars every day for the averted collision that brought Lex Luthor into his life and he considered any advice the man offered words to live by. Throwing tomorrow’s game didn’t really seem so much of a big deal considering the lengths Lex had gone through to repay Kal for his life. Lex’s justification for the action had been amazingly simple in that Kal couldn’t afford the spotlight that would be placed on him if he became some well-known football star.

But Lex had also suggested that Kal join the team in the first place, saying the teamwork and practice would be good life experiences for him.

“Builds character, Kal,” Lex explained jovially, grinning around an expensive Cuban. “Makes you realized there’s more to life than book learning...and the ladies love a football player.” He’d followed that statement up with a wink that had made Kal cringe uncomfortably, though he wasn’t sure if it was because Lex had an inkling about his growing interest in the opposite gender, or something else. Regardless of his mentor’s notions, he had thought Lex wanted him to do well at the sport, so this suggestion that he shouldn’t try so very hard, and in fact, commit a few purposeful errors had seemed strange until Lex had clarified his rationale.

As Kal lay quietly contemplating his situation, he realized he only questioned Lex’s logic at late hours of the night after his dreams had been disturbed by bad recollections of the past. Therefore his attempt to bury his memories seemed like a reasonable solution. This had worked during his internment in the hands of his Kryptonian captors, memories of which he’d already buried, but for the first time he began to consider a conscious campaign to blot out his past life.

Lex was smart, Lex had been around and Lex knew what was best. If he could resolve to make this his mantra, he’d be more at ease with his own conscience.

Turning inward upon the landscape of his memories, he began a mental purge of all that was Clark Kent, erasing what he could, until, like the writing on a page, all that was left were the dim furrows of what had once been visibly apparent. The task was mentally tiring, inducing a deep, dreamless slumber. However, in redirecting his journey to the shadowed route, Kal El had also failed to remember that those who transgress in the dark without knowing the path are bound to stumble at the sudden presence of light.

TBC...

TEEEEJ