Story ToCPart Six Part Seven:----------
Michel's footsteps echoed in the empty hallway as he made his way back to his office, clutching the toolbox to his chest. He moved on autopilot, his mind jumbled with thoughts of his parents, and Clark, and Mr. Irig. His mother and father were both teaching classes, right about now, so he couldn't go to them for advice; then again, he already knew what they would likely say. Michel sighed and pushed open his door.
“And just where have you been, all this time?!” a voice snapped, startling him. He looked up to see Susanne at his desk, arms crossed, glaring at him through puffy, red-rimmed eyes. She stood and marched up to him. “You do still work here, yes?!” she thundered. Before Michel could respond, her eyes dropped to the toolbox cradled in his arms. “What is that?”
Michel tightened his grip on the box and tried to casually step around Susanne. “It's just a toolbox,” he said quickly. “I'm sorry for taking so long at lunch. If you need any—”
“What's in it?” she demanded, reaching for it. “Why are you sneaking around with it?”
“I'm not sneaking!” Michel protested, trying to hold the box away from her. “If you must know, it's a radioactive rock, so—”
“Oh, spare me the lies!” Susanne exploded, slamming a hand down on the desk and sending half a stack of papers toppling to the floor. “Radioactive rocks! Governmental secrets! Do you men all think I'm stupid?!” She advanced on him. “What is it really? Photos of your undergraduate intern modeling lingerie? Love letters from your wife in Brussels?”
He stared at her, stunned in confusion. In moments, he snapped out of it and tried to dodge her grasp, but it was too late; she lunged, seized the toolbox, and opened it. A hot, fiery pain swept through Michel's body...for about half a second. The lid immediately slammed closed again with a metallic thunk, and Susanne looked up at him apologetically.
“I should have known,” she said softly. “With you, it really would be a rock.”
Michel took a deep breath to try to slow his panicked heart-rate and he watched, still slightly ashen-faced, as Susanne gingerly set the toolbox down on his desk. For a while, she simply stared at it in silence. “You should put that in something else,” she said at last.
He nodded mutely.
“What is it?” she asked, turning to look at him. “I've never seen a crystal glow like that. It is crystal, right?”
“I don't know, yet,” Michel admitted. “It's something I'm studying for a fr—” He paused. “For someone I know.”
“I see.” After a looking decidedly lost for a moment, Susanne bent and picked up the fallen papers. She placed the stack on his desk, tapped it straight, then turned and started towards the door with heavy steps.
“...Susanne?” he called.
She stopped and turned back to him, a warning flashing in her eyes.
Michel hesitated. After a heartbeat, he asked, “Would you ever risk your life, and possibly your family's lives, to help someone else?”
Susanne visibly relaxed and leaned against the wall by the door, her arms folded as she seemed to think. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not. I really don't know. My grandmother did.”
“Oh?” he said.
She nodded. “During the occupation, she fell in love with a maquisard who convinced her to aid the Resistance. She would smuggle messages and supplies to the camp, even taking a few pot-shots at German soldiers with an old hunting rifle under the cover of darkness.”
“She sounds like a brave woman,” Michel replied.
“Perhaps,” Susanne murmured. “In the end, her village was one of those the Nazis massacred in retaliation against the Resistance. My mother was just a little girl, at the time; she and her eldest sister, my Aunt Yvette, barely escaped with their lives. The rest of them didn't make it.”
Michel winced. “I'm so sorry,” he said.
Susanne only shrugged. “When we covered that period in history class, I realized that it would have happened even if my grandmother had never met that maquisard. So, maybe she was right to try to do her part to help fight. But, then again, it wouldn't have happened if there had been no Resistance.”
“Or no Nazis,” Michel pointed out.
The corners of her lips tugged into a sad smile. “The world is a cruel place, Michel,” she said softly. “There will always be Nazis and maquisards, firing at each other over our heads.” With that, she turned and left.
*********
“Mr. Kent, so glad you could join us.”
Clark grimaced as he was muscled into the brightly-lit command tent and roughly shoved into a hard chair across the table from Jason Trask. His eyes slowly adjusted from the darkness outside, at last focusing on the ex-military commander's savage grin. “Where's Wayne Irig?” Clark demanded, refusing to show fear.
Trask leaned forward on the table, his eyes boring into Clark's. “*I* will ask the questions here, Mr. Kent. You were trespassing on a Bureau 39 base, so *you* will answer to *me*. Now, I'm going to make you a deal, trusting that your stay in Metropolis has put some sense in your head. Give up the alien and I'll let you live.”
“What makes you think I could, if I wanted to?” Clark responded.
“Superman came to Smallville around the time you were born,” Trask explained as though pointing out the obvious. “There has to be a connection. Tell me and you live.”
“There's nothing to tell,” Clark said, anxiety beginning to creep into his mind. “I'm learning all this for the first time now.”
Trask snarled. “I'm trying to save humanity from an alien invader, Kent!” he shouted, springing to his feet.
“You have no proof of that!” Clark protested. His heart began to pound.
“There's another possibility,” Trask said, resuming his seat and looking Clark over. “Perhaps the alien has taken over your mind, infused you with its power.”
Clark shook his head, taking a breath to calm his increasingly jangled nerves. “Nobody's infused me with power. Nobody's taken over my...” he paused. The growing fear had suddenly morphed into an inexplicable sense of anticipation, as though something were just about to happen. “...mind...” he said slowly, the cogs in his head beginning to turn.
A thunderous blast rocked the camp, shaking the very ground beneath them. Even without super-hearing, Clark could make out the distinct crackle of flames in the distance. People began shouting.
Trask shot to his feet just as a second explosion sounded. “What's happening?” he barked, already half-way to the entrance of the tent.
One of his men rushed in, his entrance punctuated by another detonation. “Sir, we seem to be under attack! Our munition and supply tents have been completely taken out!”
The shock on Trask's face soon gave way to a venomous glare. “It's the alien!” he spat. “It has to be!” He followed his subordinate outside, gun drawn, a manic gleam in his eye.
The second that Clark was left unattended, he felt the restraints around his wrists break. A figure in black, its face concealed by a ski-mask, yanked him to his feet and pushed him toward a hole that had suddenly appeared in the ground. “Start crawling,” a familiar voice instructed once he landed at the bottom.
As instructed, Clark got up and began moving forward through the pitch darkness on his hands an knees. After a few seconds, he could feel the presence of someone behind him. “What's going on?!” Clark asked. “What is all this?!”
From the darkness behind him, he heard Michel chuckle. “What, you've never heard of the French Underground?”
Clark groaned.
“Oh, just keep moving,” said Michel, as the ground shook with another blast. “But to answer your question: Ammonium Nitrate. I borrowed some fertilizer from your parents to create a diversion. Not too bad for a plan B, right?”
“Michel,” Clark said softly, his pace slowing a little, “I'm sorry for what I said, before. I should never have lost my temper at you, like that.”
There was a pause. “Keep moving,” Michel urged, “and don't worry. I understand what I must look like, from your perspective.”
Clark opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it again. Above them, a stampede of heavy boots sent tremors through the soil, sprinkling dirt down onto his head. This would be so much easier if they were flying...if *he* were flying. Still, at least Michel was here.
“Clark?” Michel said, suddenly.
“Yes?” Clark replied.
“If you still have *any* regard for me at all, please don't ever breathe a word to my mother about any of this.”
TBC-----
