Investigate - Prologue
By Blueowl
Beta'ed by: Morgana. Thank you!
Rating: PG-13
Summary: As a Private Investigator, Clark Kent can make a difference while not needing to worry about answering to a boss or keeping normal business hours, which is important, since he also chooses to make differences in other, more unbelievable, ways. Meanwhile, Lois Lane is dead set on uncovering the truth behind the miraculous and the heinous. How will the world react when such truths are revealed?
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[Prologue]
Lois leaned back on her couch and gave her eyes a rest from hours of reading, writing, and rewriting. Papers were scattered around her with frantic scrawl jotted along several margins with circled portions of text throughout. Ink smears covered portions of her fingers, even though she had been working on the computer for the last day.
She had finally done it—or at least reached the point of no return. It was now up to him, assuming it was a him.
For months, years, she had known there was something going on but there hadn’t been any hint of proof strong enough to convince Perry to allow her to pursue the story—not that she just sat on it, she just didn’t work on it officially. That was before Prometheus happened.
“Almost blown to smithereens,” Lois muttered to herself. “Not that that's anything new to me. No, being rescued was new.” She looked at the article she had written, taking in the sight of the Messenger seemingly levitating off the launch pad. That piece of the story definitely overshadowed the initial bit that involved her almost being killed.
Someone (who she would track down and expose!) sabotaged the space program by placing a bomb on the Messenger, a bomb that she found but could not stop.
And then he, or it, came.
Not only had this entity whisked her out of the shuttle before taking care of the bomb, it had done so before lifting the entire spacecraft into orbit—all without actually being seen. Sure, the ‘lift off’ had been live on international television, but the rescuer had been impossible to see, let alone identify, due to mysterious mishaps with all of the cameras on board. Equipment had become unplugged and cameras that should have caught something had either been turned away, disconnected, or, in a few instances, fried. How it all had happened in a matter of seconds was still anyone's guess.
Being present at the scene, Lois had been able to make out a blur of earth tones that looked like a momentary smudge in her vision, but it didn't resemble a form she could identify. And when it had moved her, it had all happened so fast she couldn’t even be certain that what had grabbed her had held her with hands or just simply wrapped her in a blanket and transported her.
But it had happened and no one could deny it.
After Prometheus, blatant miracles around the world started happening, but there was still no hint of who or what was doing it — or why. The days of the ‘minor’ miracles that had first gotten her attention still occurred but they were dwarfed by much grander instances — instances that could not be explained away as flukes or impressive luck. Stories began to flood in from all around the world. Everything from people being yanked to safety from an oncoming car by some streak of beige, to the breakdown of the nuclear power plant in Metropolis that had been causing the bizarre heat wave.
Whoever was responsible for these life saving stunts was a god-send, but she refused to jump on the bandwagon that believed it was all supernatural, even though the ‘angel’ belief eased the public’s fears and were infinitely better than the conspiracy theories. She wanted to get to the truth, whatever it may be.
She only hoped the being responsible for it all would somehow read her article and be brave enough to respond.
O o O o O
Ice shifted in a half empty glass on the coffee table with condensation pooling around the base. The dull but constant sound of passing traffic hummed through the window behind the couch as a dishwasher echoed from the kitchen.
Clark returned the stack of papers to the table after speed reading it all. It was a very boring text but necessary. City records. Vital to solving cold cases of missing persons or determining trends that could lead to more helpful answers.
He was a private investigator, and had been since the startling young age of 18.
Soon after high school, he felt contained, cooped up, and he had to get away. Some people would say he felt that he needed to “find himself,” which he supposed was at least partially true. After he started flying and had learned to control it -- thankfully, with help from his dad -- he was compelled to use it. As for exactly why, maybe, like a bird, it was in his nature.
At the time, his parents were not too pleased with him leaving and refusing the scholarships he had been offered, but he was an adult (albeit 18) and had saved up enough of his own hard-earned money that he was able to get a passport and a ticket to China. Even though he could have just flown over, he was extremely mindful of how that would raise questions if anyone were to ever look into how he had gotten into the country. So he played it safe, knowing that once he was there, he would have free reign, as long as he was careful about time-frames.
Making it in China wasn’t that difficult for him, although it helped that he didn’t need to eat. He often did find work, however, doing odd jobs for people--particularly where heavy labor was concerned. He never stuck around for more than a week in any given location, immersing himself in the culture and language just well enough for him to get by before moving on. After wandering the coast, he branched into the mainland and into the rural areas, pleased by his progress — although he wasn’t yet sure what he was aiming for.
A few months in, he understood several dialects and could speak two well enough to convince a native that he had been studying the language for a few years. Another month in, and he had half a dozen down pat, spurring him on to learn more.
It was the middle of his fourth month while working for a man when his wandering came into focus. One evening, the man’s daughter, Daiyu, went missing. Wanting to help, Clark went out to look for her. He spoke with neighbors and looked in all the locations the family thought she could be, but only when he started pressing deeper did he find a trail—by eavesdropping.
“We just got another, about eight with a very pretty face,” a man by a pub whispered.
The age caught Clark’s attention, as well as the disturbing tone of ownership. He quietly followed the men and was horrified by what he stumbled upon.
A market. A market that sold girls and women like pieces of meat, often times to become wives to men they had never met, far away from the homes they knew. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), he didn't see Daiyu among those held captive, but he couldn't ignore what he saw.
Not exactly sure what he was doing, he patiently watched how the people within behaved and interacted with one other as he came up with a plan. It was eye opening to see how well kept so many of the men were. If they were in a coffee shop or walking down a street, no one would ever imagine they were involved in human trafficking. With a nod to himself, he bolted back to his suitcase back at the farm and quickly donned business-like clothing he had that was similar to what he saw other ‘buyers’ wearing.
He knew it was likely there were more places than just the one he saw and he hoped he would be able to discover where those were because it was possibly Daiyu had been taken there. So he straightened his back and entered the alleyway.
After giving the password he had overheard other buyers give, he was escorted in.
He didn't need to look through any more walls to be further sickened, his ears told him enough. He needed to do something. He needed to save these people and stop these monsters.
Passing by a number of 'customers’ Clark had no moral dilemma with quickly and subtly pickpocketing each as he passed within reach. Super speed really was handy, though he took special care to not be spotted.
Secretly loaded with cash, he came to one of the men standing watch over some scared women.
“I would like a long term arrangement,” Clark said, taking what he had heard one man say and hoping he was convincing.
“Well, as you can see, we have a lot to choose from,” the man said proudly as he walked down the row, motioning to the women and children cowering along the wall. “Any of these are up for such things.”
“Very well, but I'm looking for something in particular,” Clark said, walking past each with seemingly the same care as the 'salesman’.
He wasn’t sure how he contained his rage, but he somehow did, memorizing each face he saw -- not that there were many he could see, as most kept their heads down.
“Oh, no problem, we'll be getting a new batch tomorrow. Clean and fresh, virgin,” he said. “So until then, you could have one you see here at a discount and come back tomorrow to--”
“I'm not interested in returning tomorrow. I want a gem today,” Clark said, inwardly gaping at his daring, but the feeling was fleeting.
He was going to end this and he was not going to just let this sorry excuse for a living being have any say in the matter.
“Where is this new batch currently? If I can go there now, I will pay you well,” Clark said, pulling 3000 Yuan from his pocket and casually folding it between his middle and forefinger like it was just a card.
The man looked appraisingly at Clark, taking in his glasses, clean shaven face and overall well off appearance.
Not knowing what he was looking for, Clark gathered every ounce of willpower to not waver under the older man's gaze. Unknowingly, Clark made his eyes sharpen and his presence stretch from him like a tangible thing.
The girls along the wall whimpered or stilled.
Finally, the man grinned. “Well, as they say, money talks!” He held out his hand expectantly.
Clark offered the 3000 Yuan, allowing the man to seize it, but he didn't immediately let go. “I have best find an unblemished flower for myself there or I'll return and find you. Neither of us would want that.”
The man laughed nervously, and Clark let go. Promptly, the man told him of a warehouse on the other end of town.
He left with a nod, taking another 5000 Yuan from other men on his way out. Laden with a remarkable amount of funds, he sped to the other location and scanned it, quickly finding that the trafficker had told him the truth.
Clark frowned, looking into the building from behind the cover of clouds and the darkness of the night. He found Daiyu, but he knew he couldn’t just rescue her and leave all the other children and women to a horrible fate, so he did the only thing he really could.
After quickly stashing the majority of the cash, he made his way to the city's public security station (police station).
“I need to talk to the Chief of Security as soon as possible, please,” he said to the officer at the front desk.
The man looked at him, unimpressed.
“Reason?”
“I know two locations of where human trafficking is taking place, right now,” he answered, placing his hands on the counter. He quickly read the name badge which had ‘Zhang’ engraved on the metal plate.
Zhang frowned. “How did you come by such information?”
“I was looking for a lost girl, overheard some guys, followed them, and then saw. . . .” His mouth went dry.
“Follow me,” Zhang said. “Chan, take over here, will you?”
“Sure,” another man said, quickly taking his place as Clark followed Zhang.
People glanced his way, but didn't question him as he followed Zhang into what he quickly concluded was an interrogation room.
“What's your name?” he asked.
Clark quickly pulled out his wallet and retrieved his passport. “Clark Kent, sir.”
Zhang looked down. “American? Hm, you sure of what you saw?”
“One hundred percent,” Clark answered firmly.
“Very well. Please take a seat. The chief will be in shortly,” Zhang said. He closed the door behind him.
He didn't have to wait long before he heard voices from the other side of the false mirror.
“You know Americans, seeking adventure and exaggerating,” an officer said.
“I don't know. He saw something. Call it intuition or whatever you want, but I think we should at least hear what he has to say. Who knows, maybe this is the break we've been looking for for those missing girls,” Zhang said. “The look in his eyes when he was talking to me . . . whatever he saw disgusted him.”
“Very well,” a third voice said.
The door opened.
“I'm Chief Wang Wei Chee. You have information?” the man said, stopping on the other side of the table.
“Yes, sir. I know the location of two places where human trafficking is taking place. There are at least two dozen women and children held against their will, one of whom I personally know. She’s a daughter of a farmer I’m working for. We need to hurry,” he explained, before giving them the two locations.
“You speak very good Mandarin, Clark Kent. I saw you entered the country just a few months ago. Did you take language classes?” he asked, jotting down the street names.
“I’m self taught, actually,” Clark answered.
He nodded thoughtfully. “We’ll check these places out. We of course take such things very seriously, so in the meantime, you will stay here,” he said, already turning to leave.
“At the second place, you should find the farmer's daughter. She’s just turned 9 and her name is Daiyu Jiang,” Clark quickly told him.
Chee paused before giving a nod and closing the door behind him.
Roughly an hour later, the Chief Deputy came in and gave him some food, thanking him for coming forward with such vital information. After some gentle prodding, the Chief Deputy shared that they had raided both locations after they discovered he was correct.
By the end of the night, over one-hundred-and-seventy women and children had been saved and several dozen men had been arrested. Not only that, but they found documents detailing where other locations were, which eventually led to the end of half a dozen other rings in the coming weeks.
Impressed by Clark’s actions, the Chief asked him his age before immediately promising to look into giving him work as a private investigator as soon as he got a degree and turned 25, that way his nationality wouldn’t be an issue. He went a step further by writing out a letter of recommendation so that Clark could begin taking the needed steps to obtain his education. Clark promised he would consider it but made the Chief swear to keep his name out of the reports, stating that he didn’t want a target painted on his back. It was clear that whoever ran this human trafficking operation had a great deal of pull on the streets. The Chief agreed.
And that was where it all truly started for Clark.
He knew what he wanted to do and how he was going to do it.
He was going to be his own boss and work as a Private Investigator, and that’s exactly what he did.
With the letter of recommendation, he got his first professional job, foregoing college, and from there it slowly grew. He quickly learned he had to conceal his age, at least in the beginning, because very few people took an 18 year old seriously, but after his ‘resume’ expanded, as well as his knowledge and confidence, it didn’t matter.
He traveled, solving cases across China, then through Mongolia, Russia, and Kazakhstan, including a case involving a diplomat’s son.
That case was special because he obtained his first false (but 'provable’) identity with the help of the diplomat, enabling him to finish the case.
Vasily Borodin.
This name he would use occasionally for future professional needs.
Gaining a wider repertoire of investigative techniques, he cut down and around the continent. He learned nearly a hundred languages those first two years, branching into Europe where he closed a handful of cold cases and helped save a woman at her breaking point in Paris. By the time he was pulling out of Europe and heading south, he had found nearly one hundred missing persons, solved over a dozen previously unsolved murders, and had helped bring more than fifty evil individuals to justice.
And then he went into Africa.
Through the years, he had never slipped in noticeably using his abilities in public, and he did end up using them at least once a month to help avert disaster. Fortunately, all those times he had been able to act without drawing anyone’s attention, making it look as if the saved individual was just extremely lucky.
But then an instance of impossibility occurred and a moment of certainty.
He was in a more violent place in Africa, in the Congo, looking into a trail of missing diamonds and miners, when he happened upon a group of armed mercenaries. They were corralling the people of a small village, separating the men from the women and children. Clark didn't need his vast, real world experience to know what they were going to do next.
Lining up the village men, the mercenaries raised their weapons -- and fired.
There was no convenient way to make it appear these men's lives were saved by happy happenstance. No amount of breath would blow this danger away, at least not completely. So Clark moved. Fast.
He caught all the bullets in a blink of an eye and kept moving, afraid to stop. He slammed into the would-be murderers, knocking them back and causing many to lose their weapons and a few to even lose their shoes. He then shot back into the brush, and watched, heart hammering in his chest, unable to believe what he had just done in front of so many people.
The mercenaries fled, not caring what they left behind, including a case of ammunition and several others full of supplies, such as medicine and food.
The villagers cried, relieved and overjoyed, saying a spirit of their ancestors must have protected them.
The village men took the weapons, the first one proclaiming they would prevent anything like this from happening again, as it was clear their ancestors had provided the means to do so. They just had to see it through.
Clark solved his case a few days later, but he was still reeling from what he had done.
He had saved those men's lives and had rescued their families — and his actions had been seen.
But it was okay.
The people weren't afraid and there was no possible way it would be linked back to him.
So maybe, maybe, he could do more things like that.
He had already been saving lives in secret for years, but never had he done so in plain view of those he was saving, interfering with those who would have claimed their lives.
It was exhilarating, frightening, and humbling.
But it was a thrill he was familiar with. He felt it each time he brought a lost child back to their family, each time he was able to give an answer to a grieving soul, and each time he solved an 'unsolvable’ case.
And now he knew he could do more.
He traveled all the way to the cape of South Africa, spending a little over a year in Africa altogether.
In the spring of that fourth year, he bought a ticket and traveled to the bottom tip of South America, hunkering down for a month in Argentina and immersing himself in another branch of languages. The main language was a dialect of Spanish, but there were dozens of others to learn as well — pockets of less spoken languages, languages at risk of dying out.
He strived to learn as many as he could, thriving on the human interaction he would experience and becoming grounded in the humanity that reminded him again and again why he did what he did.
He had long since learned that cruelty was a constant around the world. Evil people existed everywhere and sometimes the good guys didn’t win.
But there was good. There was beauty and peace, despite the brutality and horror that also existed.
He didn't know how many times a family had allowed him to stay — a complete stranger — on their land and under their roof. He had long since lost count of how many meals he had been served and how many offers of jobs he had been given. And when people learned what he did for a living, their praises alone were as good as gold.
And so he traveled north, bouncing between Chile and Argentina until he slipped into Uruguay, and ping-ponged through Paraguay, Bolivia, Peru and Brazil — his passport now extremely thick and heavily used.
There were a few close calls that year, but like the incident in Africa, no one had actually seen him; granted, he couldn't be completely sure if that young boy in Brazil had been fully unconscious when he pulled him out of the river.
He continued north, gaining additional experience and closing more and more cases, his name becoming known to not just those he served. In Central America, he confronted cartels and made contacts in nearly every level of infrastructure and government until he finally returned to the U.S..
He had of course returned in secret over the past five years, sharing with his parents all of his most rewarding experiences while glossing over the less glamorous. His parents were proud of what he was doing and accepted his decision to not further his formal education, in part because they saw he didn’t need a declaration on a sheet of paper to get cases — not that they had felt he would amount to nothing without a degree, they just knew a degree often helped in life.
In time, more people in certain circles knew of him, both upstanding and low. He was the man who got the tough cases done. Everything from the surreal to the hopeless, from the forgotten to the infamous.
Clark Kent would get answers no one else could.
Always.
He bounced around the U.S., building his base of contacts even more as he took cases from average Joes to secretive generals.
And that was when his life took an unexpected turn.
He received a call from a woman named Patrice Van Der Car, administrative assistant to General Burton Newcomb of the Department of Defense. She asked Clark if he would be willing to meet the General at an old metal ore refinery just outside Baltimore city limits that evening at 9pm. She emphasized that it involved a matter of grave importance.
Normally he would have been very suspicious, but, though he was still weary, he knew Newcomb was an upstanding man with a good heart due to research he had done for a case a year prior that involved a missing soldier.
Thus, Clark agreed to meet with him and, later that night, was grateful that he had.
Newcomb wanted to hire an investigator (outside government interference) to verify the existence of a dangerous renegade in his wing (which was made up of roughly 3000 people), and, if present, catch them. The reason for this was due to a variety of disappearances (military and civilian) over the last few months and troubling rumors of a secret creation of a ‘unique’ division with questionable ideals.
There were three people the General suspected may be responsible, but he couldn't determine which one and he had no one within he could trust or was frankly willing to risk. And so, after hearing about Clark and some of the rather dangerous cases he had solved, the General knew he was worth a chance.
Clark was warned it would likely be a long commitment, but that the General would accommodate almost any request from Clark to aid in his investigation and would pay twenty percent more than his normal fee.
“Do you know what this division’s mission is? Its purpose?” Clark asked.
“I can only tell you once you have agreed to see this case through and after you have sworn to never reveal what you learn from the investigation to anyone I do not clear. I have already taken the liberty of starting the necessary checks on you, due to the level of clearance this will entail, but you must understand that once you begin this, there will be no going back. You will likely learn things you would have preferred never to know.”
“If this is as serious as it sounds, I will accept that knowledge, whatever it may be,” Clark said.
“Very good. I admit I was uncertain about asking for you when I learned of your age—twenty-three, my Lord—but your experiences and recommendations speak for themselves and now that I have met you, I know you are the man for the job,” he said, holding out his hand.
Clark took it.
“Thank you, General,” he said.
“This is my direct line,” the General said, handing him his card. “The files are in my car. Burn them all once you have gone through them. None of the documents I give you can remain. We cannot allow these files to fall into the wrong hands, understand?”
Clark nodded as he followed, noting how the General didn't say anything against taking notes. “Once I get through what you have for me, I’ll get with you to discuss my strategy.”
The General turned to him before removing the first box from the car. His expression, if it were possible, was even more solemn than it had been a minute before.
“Kent, I feel I should also warn you, one of these folders may . . . hit a little close to home for you.”
Clark raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“Aspects in the X-Files TV series are not too far from the truth. We, the human race, are not as big as we think we are.”
He turned away, grabbing another box of files, as Clark inwardly reeled. It wouldn't be the last time that night.
Within the safety of his apartment, he could not read fast enough, devouring all the boxes of files provided to him, including Project Blue Book—a 'terminated’ program whose goals were to determine if UFOs were a national threat and to analyze any UFO data. It was near the end of the Project Blue Book file stack when he came upon the folder labeled "Smallville Incident, 1966". . . .
If he had been human, he might have hyperventilated. As it was, his heart was hammering in his chest so loudly he couldn't hear anything else.
It was him. The thing they had detected crashing in Smallville back in 1966. . . .
He read through the rest of the files, the question of fate now no question at all.
He flew to Smallville immediately after burning the files, save one.
After a brief conversation with his parents, Clark confirmed the spaceship that his father had buried was no longer where it should have been.
Which meant the government, on some level, knew about him.
He had to get his vessel back and he needed to determine just how much they knew, as it was clear they knew more than he did. Until that moment, he hadn’t even known he was . . . alien.
He felt conflicted. On one hand, he wasn’t at all surprised, and perhaps on some level he always suspected or even known, but on the other . . . how could he be an alien? He looked just like a human! And yet . . . how could he be?
But identity crisis aside and even without counting his desire to get his vessel back, Clark knew he had to help the General. If even just a quarter of what he had inferred from what he had read was true, General Newcomb was completely correct to be concerned.
The things he read sent up red flags and, from his years of experience, he knew they needed to act before it was too late.
And slowly, a plan began to take shape.
He called the General four days later, late in the afternoon. It wouldn’t do to call him less than 12 hours after receiving over a hundred documents.
The plan was risky, particularly where it came to his secret, but if it worked. . . .
“I can make the necessary arrangements, and I agree it will be best for you to go the route you've proposed, even though it will postpone investigative progress in the beginning by a few months,” the General said before growing slightly incredulous. “There are two of your requests, however, that I must ask you about. The first, your degree of choice . . . Astrophysics? With the contacts you've provided and mine, I can get it for you, but you'll actually need to know it. You won't be able to fake it without someone in this group noticing.”
“I know it, sir, admittedly self-study, but I'll willingly take a test from any University if you feel it necessary.”
“It may be. I'll let you know.”
“And my second request?” Clark asked, already having an idea of what he was referring to.
“No blood tests or shots?” the General asked incredulously. “You do understand that that’s standard procedure when entering the military.”
Clark took a deep breath, hoping the General would be able to accommodate his odd request and not press too much.
“It’s . . . against my religion,” he said somewhat sheepishly.
The General raised a disbelieving eyebrow but said, “Very well. I’ll make it work.”
Clark hid a sigh of relief, even though he knew the General knew he was hiding something. Hopefully he just thought he was afraid of needles. “Thank you, General.”
“As for you attending Officer Training School, as soon as you have a certified degree — either by your means or my own — you will be entered into the next OTS class. You do understand that, if you do this, you will become an active member of the United States Air Force. Depending on how this investigation goes, you will very likely be serving for the next four years at least. You will become a genuine officer with all the responsibilities therein.”
“I understand. The commitment is worth it if it means we can prevent what you fear and what I frankly suspect.”
“I’m glad you are willing to see this through. Once you have given your oath, I will place you where and as you requested. I have kept my suspicions close to the chest. They still trust me, so implanting you will likely be the easiest part of all of this.”
The General was right.
After receiving his diploma, a Bachelor's degree in Astrophysics from ETH Zurich (Swiss Federal Institute of Technology in Zurich; German: Eidgenössische Technische Hochschule Zürich), he went through OTS.
Taking the General’s recommendation, he aimed to be the best, and he was, graduating top in his class (not that it was all that important in the long run--much like highschool). At times, it had been hard to keep his abilities under the radar, but the months flew by quickly and before he knew it he was a Second Lieutenant and had received his first assignment.
The first year was ground work, though after the first six months, he knew he had gotten their attention. He also suspected who was in charge of it. Of the men the General listed, Lieutenant Colonel Jason Trask was clearly the mastermind, even though he hid behind another.
Clark fed what he learned to the General and gathered evidence wherever and whenever he could as he got closer and closer to the group, and then he was invited in.
“You come highly recommended, Lieutenant Kent, and you majored in Astrophysics, exactly the expertise we are looking for,” Trask said before shifting forward. “You are up for reassignment soon, correct?” Trask asked.
“Yes, sir,” Clark said, standing at ease in his blues.
“I have spoken with General Newcomb and I learned something interesting. I've worked with Newcomb for years, and although our methods differ slightly, we both know where the other stands, and that's the side of the United States -- and the side of the human race.”
Trask watched Clark's reaction carefully, and Clark responded accordingly.
He lifted his chin ever so slightly, his eyes sharpening.
“I understand,” he said. “And I accept the position you wish for me to fill. When do I start?”
Trask grinned. “I knew I would like you, Kent. You don't ask unnecessary questions and I can tell you really do understand. As for when you start . . .” he said as he stood up. “You start now.”
It was worse than Newcomb had feared. Trask had an entire task force and extremely loyal followers. For five months, Clark painted himself as the most loyal and devout, pouring over their intel and giving them his estimates of where some of their artifacts had come from (at least what region of space by taking what they knew of the object’s entry trajectory). He was never so thankful for his natural aptitude in math.
Most of what they had seemed to be space junk. He seriously doubted the races that created the items even knew they had crashed to earth. With most not having any substantial propulsion system or even a hint of an advanced form of navigation, he suspected the people who made them weren’t even around anymore (due to the length of time it would have taken the vessel/equipment to travel from the nearest system in any given region). Most reminded Clark of Earth's own space probes, sent out to take pictures of the other planets in the system and to simply learn, never expecting them to return. It made him wonder if any of Earth's space probes would eventually be found by other sentient species.
However, not all vessels were as simple.
The day he was escorted to the warehouse would forever be seared in his mind, and it was the last of that case.
“This is one of our most valuable finds, Kent. And we have several eyewitness accounts of it's entry into the atmosphere and a few of it's landing--although it had been too far at the time to allow for prompt recovery. Which is why we do what we do. I believe this vessel carried a living being, one that very well may still be alive on Earth. I believe this entity may be a scout and that an invasion is just a matter of time,” Trask said, walking him around the blue spaceship beside a blue and red orb that resembled a planet.
“It was found buried in a field several miles from where we know it had landed, meaning either the entity moved and buried it themselves, or someone of Earth aided the being for some reason.”
Clark nodded, deciding to take a chance. “I remember my parents mentioning people from the government going around asking questions when I was very young. They hadn't seen anything to report, but they did find it strange. They were glad when they left.”
“Understandable. I know those field operatives back then could be . . . disconcerting,” Trask said amiably. “But back to the matter at hand. How do you feel about this find? What does this tell you? What is your threat assessment?”
“Whoever made this vessel is a great deal more advanced than we are, so I am concerned about their intentions. A people with this sort of tech could take this planet, if they had enough ships. And if what you suspect is true, they are likely much smaller in stature than us, or have the ability to shapeshift, which is handy in space travel,” Clark theorized.
“Those were my thoughts as well.”
“What do you hope to do?” Clark asked.
“Capture and question them and then eliminate them as a threat.”
“Playing devil's advocate here, what if they turn out not to be a threat?” Clark asked.
“Whoever suggests such a thing is a threat themselves, Kent,” Trask returned seriously.
“Of course, but there will always be optimists, foolish as they are.”
“True, and we are prepared for them. They will be re-educated or eliminated. We can't fully protect the people of Earth if we are not first committed to protecting humanity from within. There will be unfortunate losses, and we all will likely be asked to make sacrifices, but the continuation of the human race is worth it.”
“I agree.”
“Soon, Kent, I will take up a higher position, and those with less fortitude to do what is necessary will either step aside or be removed. Newcomb suspects us, I am certain, but he is wise enough to not interfere because as 'optimistic’ as he is, he knows where the line must be drawn. I respect him in that regard, although I still wish things were different. If he were more willing to make the tough choices, he could have helped us a great deal, but perhaps in his own way he has. He did send us you, after all.”
Clark forced a genuine looking smile.
“Is there anything I can do in the immediate future to better help facilitate our position?”
“Actually, there is. I believe you are ready, and no one would expect a Lieutenant. From this point on, Kent, I'm going to need you more than ever before. Things will be asked of you, and you must always remember why we are here, what the end goal is.”
“I understand, sir. What is my task?”
“You will receive a package at fourteen hundred hours. You are to plant it at the north east side of the Pentagon without being seen and then leave by seventeen hundred hours today. Unfortunately, there are people that don't understand our responsibilities and they're in our way.”
“I'll get it done.”
“I know, Kent. Good luck.”
Kent left immediately, knowing they finally had enough for Newcomb to act.
With Newcomb aware of the plan, he received the package and deactivated the bomb before planting it where Trask had indicated.
And then Newcomb’s forces and other government officials moved in.
In the meantime, Clark dashed to the warehouse.
As he approached his ship and moved to touch the orb, he heard someone come up behind him.
“I knew you would be here,” General Newcomb said.
Clark didn’t move, wondering what else the General knew and how he could have missed him.
“We are going to begin moving all of these things in three hours. Whatever isn’t accounted for will be deemed destroyed, due to Trask’s criminal actions. I expect you to report at my desk tomorrow at 0740.”
Clark blinked as Newcomb then simply turned and left.
As soon as he was very certain he was gone, and verifying there was no tracking device on anything he wanted, Clark instantly vanished to Smallville with the ship and orb, not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
He didn’t know what Newcomb knew exactly, but it seemed that he was on his side.
His parents were understandably concerned but also knew they could do nothing but hope that the trend of good news would continue. The fact Trask and his goons would no longer be a problem was a huge relief and worth their initial fears over Clark becoming an officer. Learning more about Clark's origins was just a bonus. Knowing he was now safer in the world was better.
After eating a very late dinner with his parents and hiding his ship in the barn’s makeshift cellar, he returned to his apartment with the orb, grateful he had been wise enough to wear thick gloves the first time he had touched it. He wasn’t sure why, but something had told him he shouldn’t touch it directly until he was absolutely safe.
The moment he did in Smallville, it glowed and a word popped into his mind. Krypton. The name of his home planet. Unfortunately, that was all he was able to get from it, but he hoped there was more it would share one day.
The next morning at work held an odd atmosphere. Apparently there was a shootout between Trask, his men and those of the authorities (military police). A number of people from work were missing and the reason was immediately clear to Clark. It was later confirmed.
Trask and the majority of his men were dead.
With his blues as sharp as ever, Clark straightened and entered the General’s office at the directed time. The last eighteen months had passed quicker than any other eighteen and he wondered what would happen during the rest of his commission.
He still had his commitment to the Air Force, case closed or not.
He closed the office door behind him and reported in as ordered.
“Please sit, Clark,” Newcomb said. Clark did so, subtly doing a scan of the room for the third time.
“There are no recording devices or the like in this room, and rest assured the walls and door are soundproof. I have also told my secretary and the MPs outside that we are not to be disturbed. What is said here will go no further, but I want you to be as upfront with me as I am with you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Newcomb shifted slightly, looking thoughtfully at Clark.
“I must say, Jonathan and Martha Kent were quite resourceful and wise. To report someone had left you on their porch with nothing but a blue blanket roughly a month after they actually found you. . . . And they no doubt had some sway with the Judge. To grant a couple sole custody of a baby in less than six months of fostering is practically unheard of. I do wonder, though, did you have the same aversion to needles then as you do now?”
Clark forced himself to remain passive, but it was a feat to do so.
“What are you going to do?” he asked, already coming up with plans and back up plans. He could help his parents disappear nearly as easily as he himself could disappear. They already had emergency backpacks in case they needed to leave in a hurry, having prepared for such a scenario years ago.
“Nothing, only to tell you to keep doing what you're doing. You have done more good than most people ever even consider doing their entire lives. You mean us no harm, and I believe I am right in saying you consider yourself one of us. To me, you're just an immigrant who has been an American citizen for as long as you can remember. I will not demonize you because of your birthplace, wherever it may be.”
Clark cleared his throat to fight back the sudden rising lump. “Thank you, General.”
“Now, for the matter of the rest of your commission. We have a few options. My higher ups know of your vital contributions to the investigation and know why you became an officer to begin with, so if you would prefer, you can be honorably discharged at the end of your current duty station. You could instead, of course, complete your commission like any other officer and then return to being a PI full time, or you could do the third option,” he said, counting off on his fingers.
“Third option?” Clark asked, wondering where this was going.
“We both know you have unique abilities. Now I'm not sure what exactly you're capable of, but I wouldn't be a very good General if I didn't try to use all of my men's capabilities to their fullest. I know you are not a military career man. I know I would only have you to the end of your commission, but for the next two years I would like you to be part of a special forces division. Not for combat,” he quickly clarified. “But for things involving Search and Rescue. Recovery. The experience you gained in your travels alone makes you qualified to be a unit’s guide. How many languages do you know?”
“Er… I’ve lost count to be honest. Over two hundred.”
Newcomb blinked. “Fluenty?”
“Yes. If I include languages I can get by in it's closer to five hundred.”
“Well, if we ever need a translator I know who I'm going to call,” he said, amused.
Clark smiled uneasily.
“Alright, first question, do you want to complete your commission?”
“I do want to complete it. It'll lead to fewer questions later I think, but I'm not sure if I should work with a unit. To be honest, I'm . . . faster on my own.”
“Alright, I suppose before we go any further you should lay out what exactly you can do.”
Clark combed his fingers through his hair, clearly nervous.
“Hey, if I wanted you studied you wouldn't be here right now, and if anyone ever thinks about doing something like that they're going to have to get through a whole armed battalion. And that'd just be the beginning, so there is no need for you to be afraid. After all, without you, I would be dead right now.”
“What?”
“The bomb Trask had planned to explode outside the Pentagon yesterday. I would have been leaving at that time. I can't be sure I was included in his list of targets, but I would have been there. And thanks to your warning, I'm here instead of the morgue. On that subject, I was surprised when you told me you had already diffused the bomb. I don't recall anything in your history that said you could do that. Am I correct in assuming you can do this because of your abilities?”
“To put it simply, yes,” he said, glancing at the General’s desk, deciding on a path. “You have a bag of dark chocolate in your top drawer.”
“You can look through objects?”
“Yeah. I could also smell the chocolate so knew which direction to look. I try to only look when I have a reason.”
Very intrigued, Newcomb smirked. “So heightened senses and being able to see how a bomb is wired without opening it. What else?”
Clark took a deep breath. “You sure you want to know everything?”
“Just give me things one at a time. I'll let you know if I'm about to have a stroke.”
“Alright,” he said, growing a little more calm as he allowed himself to chuckle at the General’s comment.
He glanced around the room before simply leaning forward and grabbing hold of the bottom rim of the heavy wooden desk.
“Watch your legs, please,” Clark said, carefully lifting the desk straight up until it was above their heads.
Newcomb leaned back, staring at Clark who was also seated, but with his arm extended up at a slight angle, effortlessly holding the several hundred pound desk.
“Well, I knew you had somehow taken your craft the other night, now I know.”
Clark smiled and put the desk back down before leaning forward and taking a sticky note. Holding it out away from himself and the desk, the General looked on curiously.
Suddenly, the corner of it burst into flames, earning a surprised but interested hum from Newcomb before Clark blew it out and dropped its frosty remains on the desk.
“You must be handy at camp outs.”
Clark laughed, becoming more relaxed. “I've caught bullets before.”
“Caught bullets? As in, fired from a gun, bullets?” Newcomb asked, now growing as excited as any reserved General could.
“Several guns actually. Happened in Africa a few years ago. Stopped some mercenaries trying to kill all the men of a village.”
“How did they react?” Newcomb asked, chuckling.
“They ran away. As for the villagers, they thought the spirits of their ancestors had saved them.”
“They didn't see you?” he asked, a little confused.
Clark shrugged sheepishly. “I'm pretty fast.”
“Faster than bullets?”
“Yeah. I've never clocked myself precisely, but . . . I can break the sound barrier if given enough space.”
“And I'm sure next you'll tell me you can fly as well, right?” Newcomb asked, amused.
Clark pressed his lips together apologetically.
“Lord Almighty.” Shaking his head but grinning, he took a deep breath.
“You understand why I don't tell anyone. The only others who know all this are my parents,” Clark put in.
That gave Newcomb pause. “No one? No one from your childhood or in your travels?”
Clark shook his head. “I've wanted to, but it's never . . . It's always. . . .” He trailed off with a shrug. “It’s not an easy secret.”
“The important ones never are.”
“I want to use my abilities to help, and I am willing to help find those MIA or the like, but I also don’t want to endanger anyone in any way,” Clark said after a moment.
The General nodded, leaning back in his chair in thought before nodding to himself.
“No one will ever learn this secret from me, but one day the world may discover the truth. Hopefully it won’t happen for a very long time, but we can’t ignore that possibility. As such, I cannot give any hint that the military knew of your abilities in any way. It would not be good for the United States or for you if it was learned that we knowingly had . . . well, a demi-god working for us.”
Clark frowned.
“I know you probably don’t like that term, but let’s be real here. At any other moment in history, if any civilization or group of people saw what you could do, they would label you as that. Which is why we must tread carefully. If you ever become publicly known, you will instill fear and wonder, so we must always have control of your image--for everyone’s protection, including yours.”
Clark nodded slowly. “My father has always been afraid that one of two things would happen to me. I would either be captured and dissected like a frog or turned into a weapon,” Clark admitted.
“Understandable fear. So I believe we have only one course we can take while safely utilizing your abilities in secret.”
“And that would be. . . ?” Clark asked.
“A new position. Special Field Support Officer. I'll need to clear it with a few other Generals, but that should give us free reign to implant you into different units when needed for search and rescue or to allow you to go in alone for certain other missions, such as a liaison to lay groundwork for our people to enter an area. I understand you don’t want to engage in combat, so we will limit the chance of such as much as we can. Besides, knowing what I do now, I don’t want you in combat. It would be too risky.”
“I agree. I’m not sure what I would do if placed in that situation. I don’t think I would be able to restrain myself if it meant the possibility of one of our own being killed--or anyone being killed for that matter.”
Newcomb nodded, deep in thought.
“There are a lot of things you can help us with without exposing your full capabilities. Give me a week and I’ll have a path for us to take.”
“Alright, General. And thank you. When I . . .” Clark paused for a second, trying to find the best words. “When I learned what I could do, I never thought I would be able to join the military, or really join any group like this. Sure, there are things I can’t tell those I serve with, but I’m part of something that's doing what I wouldn't be able to do by myself. I’ve never really had that before, feeling like I belong--not even growing up.”
“Alien or not, you're an officer, and when your commission ends, you will be a veteran; but even without those things, you'll always be an American and an inhabitant of the world. Although you weren't born a human, you were raised as one. Besides, I'm sure your parents will agree, you’re a Kent and always will be.”
“Generals must all take motivational speech classes,” Clark commented with an appreciative smile.
“Nah, it's just a superpower only those who make General have,” Newcomb stated. “It's often joined by uncanny intuition or ungodly defiance.”
“I take it you have both?”
“Only when it counts,” he bantered.
“Of course,” Clark said amiably.
Newcomb smirked. “The future is going to be very interesting with you, Kent. And better. I'm certain of that.”
Clark smiled as Newcomb gave him a nod of dismissal.
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