Lois & Clark Forums Forums Fan Fiction Lois & Clark Fanfic A Reconstructed Life (22/22)

The farmhouse was eerily quiet with Bruce and Lois gone. Clark felt uneasy, like a thief or other intruder, like he wasn’t supposed to be there at all. Alfred did his best to cheer Clark up, but as the hours passed between when Lois had left and when he could expect to have her back in his arms, he grew listless. Still, he tried to be as sociable and friendly as he could to the old man.

Despite what lingering mistrust Clark and Bruce reserved for each other, Clark rather liked the aging butler. For the hundredth time, Clark sent up a silent prayer of thanks that he hadn’t succeeded in killing Alfred on either one of his assignments.

Yet, for all the conversation Alfred attempted to strike up with him, Clark was restless and on edge. He ate the tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches Alfred made for lunch out of politeness, and choked down the – delicious, even if he had no appetite – rare roast beef and vegetables the man cooked for dinner only through sheer effort. His gut was telling him that something was very, very wrong, though he didn’t have a clue as to what it could possibly be.

He whittled away what hours he could trying to keep himself busy. The weather, though cold – was bright and clear, and warmer than it had been in weeks. Clark found a list of “To Do” items around the farm that Lucius had begun but had clearly never finished, as evidenced by the fact that he found all the items he needed to complete the list within the barn. Clark wasn’t a handyman by any stretch of the imagination, but, after reading through The Idiot’s Guide To Home Repairs, he felt confident enough to try and tackle the list. Before long, he’d replaced the leaky bathroom faucet, retiled the bathroom floor, sheet rocked and painted the basement, fixed the squeaky staircase leading to the second floor, and fixed the loose shingles on the barn roof. No one had asked him to do such chores, but he felt compelled to do something in exchange for Lucius allowing them all to hide out at his house. It was true that Clark had never met the man – only seen the pictures of him with his family hanging in the house – but he was grateful for the farmhouse haven where he’d been allowed to escape Lex’s efforts to find him, as well as the place where he and Lois had been able to explore their blossoming relationship in depth.

So, it was with thankfulness in his heart that Clark set himself to his tasks. But once he was finished with the list, he felt no better. In fact, his dread had only grown worse. He flew up into the sky, breaking through the Earth’s atmosphere to hang motionless in that space between the world he knew and the vast, cold, impersonal universe. He stayed for as long as he could, until his lungs were on fire for want of a fresh breath of air. But while he was up there, he let his mind wander. He found himself praying, in a fashion, for forgiveness for his tortured, misguided past and all the murders he’d committed in Lex’s name. He wasn’t entirely sure if he believed in a higher power or not, but he supposed it could well be that some unearthly force out there might hear his thoughts and grant his absolution. Not that he deserved it, he knew. But he was making an honest attempt to turn his life around, thanks to Lois. Shouldn’t that alone earn him at least a little slack?

For Lois, I would do anything, his mind whispered in a contented sigh. I’ll never understand why she loves me, but I will do anything to make certain I’m worthy of her love.

Then he was dropping from the sky, too fast for any mortal person to hope to see, breathing in deeply and assuaging his burning lungs with sweet, fresh, cool air. By then, it was dinner time, and he made a sham of enjoying the meal. If he fooled Alfred or not, he wasn’t sure. The old man never let on if he suspected that Clark’s heart and stomach weren’t in the right place to delight in the food.

“It’s nearly time for the debate,” Alfred said a little while later, pulling Clark away from the book he was distractedly trying – and failing – to read.

“Oh. Thanks, Alfred,” he said, shutting the book without marking his place in it. It was a futile gesture anyway. He’d retained nothing of which his eyes had glossed over.

He set the book aside and grabbed the TV remote, which was next to him as he lay sprawled on the couch. He sat up, making room for the kind butler, and turned on the television. Alfred nodded his thanks, then sat down on the opposite side of the couch.

“Coffee?” the man asked.

Clark shook his head. “No, but thanks for the offer. I’m a bit too worked up to drink anything.”

“It’s just a simple debate,” Alfred gently reminded him.

But Clark frowned and shook his head again. “I know. But I can’t help feeling like something isn’t right. I had the same gut feeling the night Bruce captured me when I went to Wayne Manor. I’m worried, Alfred.”

“Master Bruce has taken every precaution. He’s got more than a few of his own security guards manning the debate. He’s as safe as he can get.”

“Not safe enough,” Clark muttered.

Alfred turned to him, tight lines of worry showing around his eyes. “Truth be told, I’m not thrilled he’s there tonight either. But Lex Luthor does not know Master Bruce has been in contact with you. He has no reason to go after him.”

“You’re wrong, Alfred,” Clark said, his stomach roiling. “He’s already got a grudge against Bruce. He sent me to kill him – and you – twice. While he may not be stupid enough to try something at the debate, there’s no guarantee. As the years have gone by, Lex has gotten more and more unstable. Having me there as his personal assassin only helped to distort his mind and inflate his own sense of invulnerability.”

“You really think he’ll attempt something tonight?” Alfred asked, chewing his lower lip.

Clark sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know. And it’s the not knowing that has my nerves on edge.”

He busied himself with finding the correct channel to watch the debate, but he could not stop the black cloud of despair and apprehension from hanging over his head. He tried to focus on the television screen. The MCs were already talking, but Clark tuned them out as the camera made a sweeping pan over the gathered crowd, every one of their faces showing excitement for the debate, which was mere moments away. A cheer went up as the candidates took to the stage, but just before the camera cut away from the crowd, Clark caught a glimpse of Nigel St. John, Lex’s trusted old friend and underling, whose hands were, perhaps, even bloodier than Clark’s.

Clark felt his stomach bottom out as he stood. Alfred scrambled to his feet in alarm, peering at Clark’s face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nigel,” Clark said through gritted teeth. “Lex is up to something.”

Before Alfred could respond in any way, Clark was off. The living room door slammed shut in his wake, pulled closed by the slipstream Clark left behind. As soon as he’d cleared the porch, Clark shot up into the sky and tore through the darkness, racing the wind and mocking the stars with his speed. Faster and faster he flew, urging himself to move with a speed greater than he’d ever attempted before. He felt the air’s resistance against his body, like he was flying through layers of plastic wrap, all of it trying to hold him back. He forced another burst of speed, and felt the air around him tear asunder. A second later, he heard the fading remains of a sonic boom in the far to his rear, but he had already put a considerable distance behind him when it sounded.

He flew in a straight, unwavering course to where the debate was being held. As he grew closer, he stretched out with his senses, searching for any clue as to if there was an imminent danger for him to ward off. But the crowd in the outdoor arena was too large and too noisy for Clark to get much more than a disjointed, jumbled mess of sound that was more confusing and disorienting than anything else. He scanned the ocean of faces, trying to guess as to where the camera had been pointed when he’d glimpsed Nigel, but there were too many cameras to narrow down his search, and it was entirely possible that Nigel had already moved his position.

He’ll want to be close enough to the front, but not so crowded in as to be left without an escape, Clark reasoned, his mind automatically slipping back to the thoughts that had been foremost in his mind during his earliest days as an assassin.

Swiftly, he pinpointed a few key areas where he would have wanted to be, if he were the one doing the killing. But, before he could check them thoroughly, a crack sounded out.

Gunshot! his brain screamed.

“Bruce!” he bellowed, instinctively altering his course to shield the billionaire.

He was half a second too late. The bullet struck Bruce in his left shoulder. As if in slow motion, blood exploded from the wound, arcing and splattering in a red mist, while the front of Bruce’s pristine white Oxford shirt grew red with a rapidly spreading stain. Bits of bone were mingled in the spray of red – the bullet appeared to have struck Bruce in the shoulder near his collarbone – a potentially fatal strike, but at least it hadn’t been the man’s heart.

Bruce cried out in pain and shock as the bullet tore through his flesh. Clark saw the billionaire’s left arm immediately go limp, even before Bruce’s knees gave out and he crashed to the stage floor. Clark slipped into his X-ray vision. Bruce’s artery had been nicked, but had, thankfully, not been severed. Still, with each beat of the man’s heart, blood spurted from the wound, making a puddle on the stage.

In the next heartbeat, Clark was kneeling by Bruce’s side, ripping off a section of the billionaire’s expensive, custom tailored suit, pressing the navy-blue fabric to the wound. Even if he couldn’t completely stop the flow of blood, it had to be at least a little helpful, he reasoned. He had to try everything and anything to save Bruce’s life.

“It’s okay, Bruce. I’ve got you,” he told the man as he quickly worked to stem the flow of blood. Then, looking to the guards, “Find the shooter!”

One of the guards spoke rapidly into his walkie talkie. It appeared he was requesting medical help. But Clark wasn’t willing to wait. He gently and carefully lifted Bruce in his arms, then he rose into the sky, while the audience screamed and pointed at the flying man, making a beeline for the nearest hospital.

“Looks like you’re flying with me anyway,” he joked, looking down at Bruce.

Bruce gave him a weak laugh. “Is this where you say ‘I told you so?’” he tossed back with a cough.

Clark shook his head. “No. I’ll leave that to Lois. She can out-argue me any time. She’ll do the perfect job in telling you that you should have listened to me.” He grinned to let the man know he was only half-serious.

As soon as a hospital came into view, Clark angled down and flew right through the emergency room doors, alighting on the floor only once he was inside. He immediately called for aid.

“Help! He’s been shot!”

A doctor and three nurses came running, one of them pushing a gurney. Clark gently laid Bruce down on it, then took the man’s good hand in a gesture of support and strength. The other arm, he noted with a sick feeling in his stomach, had already gone cold and purple, and Clark only hoped Bruce would retain the limb and have function to it restored.

“Take care of him,” he warned the medical staff. Then, to Bruce, “I have to go and make sure Lex doesn’t get away with this. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Then, before anyone could react, he was gone again. In a flash, he was back at the staging ground for the debate. Less than three minutes had gone by since he’d arrived - too late – to save Bruce. People were still in a panic and the guards were having a difficult time keeping the rioting crowd in check while they searched for Nigel. But Clark’s sharp eyes spotted the man trying to weasel his way out of an emergency exit off to the left. He swooped over, grabbed Nigel by the front of his shirt, and flew him over to one of the guards on the stage.

“Here’s your shooter,” he boldly told the guard, pulling the gun from Nigel’s waistband and crushing the barrel enough so that it would never fire again.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed other members of the security detail ushering the candidates off stage. He zipped over to them and planted his body directly in front of Lex.

“Not so fast, ‘brother,’” he taunted. He took Lex by the arm and half-dragged him back over to center stage. The microphones were still live, so Clark grabbed one off its stand. Grabbing a handful of Lex’s black jacket in his free hand, Clark floated them a good five feet off the stage, so he could get everyone’s attention, while the guards all murmured to each other uncertainly, none of them willing to risk hitting Lex by firing at the inhuman threat flying above them.

“Excuse me, everyone! May I have your attention, please?” he asked into the microphone, not much hope in his heart that anyone would pay him any mind. But, to his eternal surprise, people stopped in their tracks and looked in awe and terror at the flying man before them. “There’s no need to panic. The man who shot Bruce Wayne is in custody. You’re all safe now.”

A surprised and disbelieving murmur rolled through the crowd like the distant sound of thunder. But people listened and stilled their once erratic, panicky movements. Clark felt confident enough to keep speaking.

“The shooter is a man by the name of Nigel St. John,” Clark continued in a clear, steady, bold voice. He wondered at the fact that he was not nervous to address the thousands upon thousands of onlookers. “He works for this man before you. Lex Luthor.”

“He’s a madman!” Lex cried, loudly enough for the microphone to pick up his voice.

Clark floated them both down to the stage, now that all eyes were on him and he didn’t need to resort to theatrics to grab people’s attention.

“Lex hired Nigel to make the hit on Bruce tonight,” Clark asserted confidently.

“What proof do you have?” Lex taunted. “Without proof, all you are is a flying freak of nature. An alien, incapable of relating to humans!” He craned his neck out to make his voice better heard in the microphone. “Who will the people believe, alien? Some weirdo who happens to appear just when Bruce Wayne was shot? Or me? A man who has always provided reliable goods and services to them, who’s dedicated billions to charities and scientific research into things like curing cancer.”

A grumble swept through the crowd, and Clark knew he was losing ground with them.

“Maybe you are the one who shot Bruce Wayne!” Lex accused evenly.

The crowd didn’t seem to know how to react to them. Most stood in silence, others nodded to themselves, others growled in contempt of Clark.

“I know his words seem to make sense,” Clark addressed the crowd. “But I know what I’m talking about. My name…was once Kal Luthor, Lex’s adopted younger brother. He faked my death, gave me a new identity, and hid me away from the world. He had me…commit numerous crimes on his behalf. Believe me when I say ordering a hit on Bruce Wayne tonight is consistent with the kind of man Lex is.”

“Lies! Unsubstantiated lies!” Lex spat.

“He’s not lying!” That was Lois, who’d fought her way to the front of the audience. She clambered up the staircase to the stage and stood just to Clark’s left, on the side opposite from where he held Lex. She stayed back, assessing the situation as Clark silently and subtly shook his head no.

“This is ridiculous! Guards! Get them!” Lex barked.

But even the security detail that Lex had hired were wary of the man they’d just seen fly above the stage. They looked from one to another uncertainly, shaking their heads and muttering to themselves. Not one of them rushed forward to help.

“Lex Luthor is a psychopath,” Clark continued, his eyes pleading with the crowd to listen to him. “This is not a man you want running and ruining this great country. He cares only for his own self interests. Soon, thanks to Lois Lane and Bruce Wayne, his deeds will be exposed for all the world to see. I’ve been working closely with them for half a year now, of my own free will, to prove to the world, once and for all, that Lex Luthor is a criminal mastermind.”

He’d felt compelled to lie to the world, making it seem like all those months he’d been locked away under the Metropolis city streets in the old abandoned fallout shelter had been by choice. He didn’t want Bruce to come under fire for falsely imprisoning a man, even if that man had been a ruthless, remorseless assassin at the time. And he certainly did not want Lois to be in the crosshairs of any investigations.

“It’s over, Lex,” Clark said in a lower, but deathly firm, voice that the microphone only just barely picked up. “You’ve lost. It’s over. Your reign of terror. Your empire. Your bid to become one of the most powerful people in the world.”

“Are you going to kill me?” Lex spat out, taunting him with a snort of disbelief, challenging him before the entire world as the cameras kept rolling.

In his mind’s eye, Clark saw that night, so long ago, when Lex had pulled the Kryptonite collar out from a box. Once again, he saw the sneer and superiority in Lex’s features, the way the man had enjoyed every moment of Clark’s pain. He remembered how much Lex had loved having such incredible power, the way he’d relished crippling the most powerful man in the world. He remembered how mentally crushing it was to become Lex’s slave.

Clark took a long time to answer, enjoying the flickers of heavily masked uncertainty that raced across Lex’ features, despite his show of bravado.

“No, Lex,” Clark finally answered.

“Coward,” Lex shot back. Clark recognized the tone. Lex was trying to get into his mind, and Clark was not going to allow that.

In his head, he heard himself begging Bruce and Lois for the chance to kill Lex. He heard his arguments for how only an agonizing death befit the multitudinous crimes Lex had committed. He felt the righteous rage building in his heart and it was an effort to tamp it down and retain his composure. If Lex only knew how much hate was in Clark’s heart, he would know he’d won, regardless of if Clark snapped his miserable neck or not.

“For a long time, I fantasized about taking your life,” Clark admitted in a whisper. “It seemed only right and fair. But someone recently made me see that killing you only lowers me to your level. So, no, I’m not going to give you the release of death. You’ll be very much alive to watch as you lose everything you ever held dear.”

“I always knew you were weak,” Lex snapped.

Weak.

Pathetic.

Useless.

Burden.

All the old terms Lex had hurled at him over the years came back to assault Clark’s mind. He gritted his teeth against screaming out against them and fought to master his emotions.

Clark shook his head. “No, Lex. I’m stronger than I ever was, even in your worst nightmares.”

“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Lex growled lowly, twisting in Clark’s grasp so that he could look him in the eyes. He moved his face directly into Clark’s, challenging him, unflinching in the presence of the super powers he knew lurked beneath Clark’s calm, but stern, appearance. “You’ve just made a serious mistake.”

How many times had Lex come close to ending Clark’s life over the years? How many times had he exposed him to Kryptonite, leaving Clark in writhing agony, torturing him over the tiniest perceived slights or failures? How many times had Clark been left gasping for breath, too weak to stand or even sit, when his punishment was over? How many nightmares had he suffered as a direct result?

“No, Lex,” Clark said, his voice as unyielding as granite, “you are the one who made the mistake. You tried to take my life from me, in every way imaginable. But you don’t have any power over me anymore.”

“Oh? Don’t I?” Lex taunted, his eyes lighting up at some internal joke that only he knew the punchline to. “I said I should have killed you long ago. But tonight will work just fine.”

At first, the words didn’t really register with Clark. They felt too empty, too out-of-habit for them to really mean anything to him. It wasn’t until Lex tore himself from Clark’s distracted grip and stuck his hand into his pocket that Clark realized the gravity of the situation. He tried to react, but he was still stuck in his painful memories and was already too late. Lex whipped out a thin, pencil-like object from the inner breast pocket of his coat and flicked a button on the side. Instantly, a sharp, slender rod of Kryptonite coated metal shot out from within. Fully extended, the weapon was nearly a foot long.

As soon as the Kryptonite was exposed, Clark felt the too-familiar sickening effects of the stone. His entire body felt aflame, his head pounded, his muscles grew weak, and he felt nauseous. With his reflexes seized in pain, he could not stop what came next.

Grinning like the Devil himself, Lex took a half step forward and used that momentum to stab the razor-sharp point of the metal rod into Clark’s abdomen. A scream ripped from Clark’s throat, loud enough to practically shake the foundation of the arena the debate was supposed to have taken place in. An evil light danced in Lex’s eyes as he twisted the rod. Clark felt every tear as Lex shredded his intestines. Then Lex withdrew the rod before stabbing him again, this time puncturing Clark’s stomach. He screamed again as the acids housed within his stomach gushed out, burning his body with invisible flames, in a way that was almost more intense than the pain from the Kryptonite. Clark felt blood rushing into his abdomen as he started to bleed out. A trickle of blood bubbled up in his throat and dribbled out between his lips.

“Clark!” Lois screamed in terror and anger.

“Enjoy Hell,” Lex whispered in Clark’s ear as he twisted the Kryptonite coated metal hard enough to break off a good four-inch-long section, leaving it embedded in Clark’s guts.

“Drop the weapon!” a man’s voice called out.

Clark’s vision had narrowed to pinpricks of haze, but he was vaguely aware of the fact that the voice belonged to a uniformed police officer. From the tone of his command, it was evident that the man was not one of the ones on Lex’s payroll. Then he crashed to the floor, sprawled on his side. With a grunt of effort, he rolled to his back, to alleviate the pressure on his wound.

“Drop the weapon now!” he repeated.

Lois was at Clark’s side now. He could see the fearful tears in her eyes. She gave his wound a panicked look, her hands shaking and hovering above the bloody holes in his body. A pool of blood began to spread beneath Clark’s body; he could feel its warmth as his body started to go cold. He was in shock as much as he was losing his tenuous grip on life.

“Lois,” he gasped in a whisper, lacking the strength to make his voice heard any better than that.

“Get away from him!” he heard Lex sneer, trying to pull Lois away.

“Back away!” the cop yelled.

Clark saw the rest of the metal rod in Lex’s hand and the look of rage on his “brother’s” face. Lex raised the rod, ready to strike once more with the jagged, broken end of it. Clark closed his eyes, waiting for the terminal blow. But it never came. A shot rang out and Lex gave a strangled cry before slumping to the ground. If he was dead, Clark wasn’t sure. He felt only relief that Lex had been stopped.

“Lois,” he rasped again.

In the background, he heard someone calling for the paramedics.

“I’m here,” Lois told him, taking his hand in hers.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “For everything. I tried so hard…”

“Ssh,” she shushed him, fighting back her tears, though a few made it past her defenses and slipped down her cheeks. “Save your strength. Help is on the way. Just hold on, Clark.”

“Trying…”

She switched her hands then, taking his hand in her left and using her right to gently, lovingly cup his cheek in the way he always did to her.

“Please, fight,” she whispered, choking on her emotions.

“Expose…Lex. Even if…dead,” Clark croaked. “Must…bring justice.”

“I will, I promise.” She kissed his hand and he felt the wetness from her tears on his skin.

“Never…forget. I…love…you,” he gasped as his vision faded and his pulse weakened.

“I love you too,” she sobbed, as realization dawned in her features. For just a moment, she pressed her lips to his in a kiss.

Clark felt his breathing slow and become shallower. A tiredness settled over him. It became too hard to keep his eyes open, so he let them shut. He tried to listen to the comforting sound of Lois’ heartbeat, but his powers were gone, thanks to the radioactive stone lodged within him. He could only hear Lois’ unchecked sobbing and he tried to will his love to seep into her and take away her pain.

Then, before he could repeat his declaration of his undying love, the world slipped away.



***

(Continued below)

The world of the mid 1990s faded away. A brief blackness followed, then the familiar world of 2128 slowly coalesced around Clark Kent the Fourth, affectionately known around the halls of the Abstergo Corporation as “CK.” He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the harsh fluorescent lighting in the room as the virtual display before his eyes automatically turned off, leaving his glasses unobstructed again. He yawned broadly, exhausted beyond measure, mentally, physically, and emotionally from the ordeal he’d just been through. He could scarcely wait to lay down and get a well-deserved sleep.

“How was it?” his boss asked, stepping into the room from the smaller observation area to the side.

“Brutal,” he answered, slipping his hands out of the haptic gloves he’d been using. “I didn’t expect it to be so…draining,” he continued.

Dr. Kenneth Klein nodded. “It’s exhausting for everyone the first few times. But, the good news is, after a few more trips into the Animus, you’ll get used to it.”

But Clark shook his head. “That’s not it though. Yeah, I’m physically tired but…I didn’t…I never expected it to be so…emotional.”

Dr. Klein nodded once again. “Of course, every trip is different. But, for some, the trips into their ancestors’ memories isn’t bad. Even though they are actually ‘living’ through the events, they can disassociate themselves from what they’re experiencing. For others…it’s harder.”

“I knew about my great-great-great grandfather’s past,” Clark said, unstrapping himself and stepping down out of the gyrospheric apparatus that had allowed his body to move and twist as he’d digitally inhabited the body of his ancestor. He shook his head. “I just never realized how hellish his life really was. He truly was a tortured soul.”

“I tried to warn you,” his boss said sympathetically, putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder.

Clark sighed wearily as he shuffled across the room and sat down heavily in the armchair the Abstergo company provided in each room where its employees entered into the Animus. He hung his head and rested his chin on his chest., catching his breath and gathering his strength.

“We can debrief tomorrow,” Dr. Klein offered kindly.

“No, I can do it. Over dinner,” he added with a wry grin. “I’m starving.”

“The cafeteria is still open. I hear it’s surf and turf night,” the older man informed him.

“Perfect.” But he didn’t get up right away.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m just…it’s weird to me, that’s all.”

“What is?”

Clark shrugged. “Everything. The original Clark. My great-great-great grandfather. He was twisted and manipulated into becoming this…this truly awful person. But from him…from his undying love for Lois Lane…all of this happened.”

“Utopia,” Dr. Klein said with a knowing nod.

But Clark shook his head and scratched his ear. “Not just utopia. Because of him, I’m alive. It’s incredible, you know?” He shook his head again, this time sadly as a great heaviness settled in his heart. “He had this…horrific life. His mind was warped at a young age. He was manipulated and forced to kill so many people. He was a slave to the man who should have been his brother. He was tortured with Kryptonite too many times to count. Everything was stacked against him.” His voice was strained with the swirling emotions that being in the Animus, living the first Clark’s life through his memories, had stirred up. A lump was in his throat as he fought back tears born from the hopelessness he’d felt emanating from his ancestor as he’d been forced to kill and known there would be no other life for him.

“But?” Dr. Klein prompted, as Clark fell silent to collect his thoughts.

“But…he changed. He risked everything for a woman he didn’t even know. He allowed love to slip into his heart. He sacrificed everything to keep her safe.”

“Love is the most powerful force in the universe,” his boss remarked thoughtfully.

Clark nodded and looked at the painting on the wall, depicting the first Clark. It had been commissioned by Lois shortly after the man’s death. How Abstergo had gotten ahold of it, Clark didn’t know. It should have been in a museum somewhere. But he rather liked the fact that it adorned the room where, day after day, week after week, Clark had relived the memories of his great-great-great grandfather. It had helped him to feel connected to his ancestor well before he’d ever climbed up into the Animus, strapped on the haptic gear, and allowed his mind to be transported to the far less civilized mid 1990s and experience the life Clark Kent the First had lived.

Clark pulled his gaze away to look at his boss. “You can say that again.” He gestured to the painting. “My great-great-great grandfather should have become the world’s most devastating villain. He should have destroyed this planet. He could have. He had more than enough power to, once he escaped from Lex Luthor’s influence.” He made a fist in his passion, then relaxed once more as images of his great-great-great grandmother flashed in his mind. He could see her gentle smile. It was no wonder why the first Clark had fallen so hard and fast for her.

He shook his head to dispel the images lingering in his mind. “But he found love instead. My great-great-great grandmother. Lois Lane. She saved the world, simply by returning his love. If she hadn’t…I hate to think of the consequences.”

He let out an involuntary shuddering sigh, doubting he would ever be brave enough to let his mind wander down the dark paths of ’what if.’ What if the original Clark hadn’t been captured and held prisoner by Bruce Wayne? What if he’d never met Lois? What if Clark had met her, but hadn’t been strong enough to let love into his life? What if Lois had never been able to see past the fact that Clark had been an assassin? What if she’d never forgiven him for killing her parents and sister?

What if?

What if?

What if?

Clark shook his head again. The ‘what ifs’ didn’t matter. His great-great-great grandfather had changed, thanks to Lois Lane and none of the morbid possible futures had come to pass. A smile crossed his face and his eyes sparkled in wonderment.

“But she did love him,” he continued after a moment of collecting his thoughts. “And that made all the difference. He spent his final days, his final moments, as a force for good. He laid the groundwork to expose the horrors Lex Luthor had committed. His journals and testimonials toppled one of the largest crime organizations in the country.”

“Four generations born from him,” Dr. Klein agreed in awe. “All of them making a difference in the world. All of them changing our world for the better. And all because one couple fell in love.”

Clark nodded, his voice going soft with awe and reverence for his ancestors. “A couple that, for all intents and purposes, never should have been. They had everything working against them.”

Dr. Klein smiled at him and patted his shoulder in understanding. “And that, my boy, is exactly why their love story is so timeless. It’s why families still recount the tale to their children, time and time again, why children ask for it as a bedtime story, why so many still visit the museums dedicated to Lois Lane and Clark Kent.”

“And yet, Clark isn’t always viewed in the best light,” Clark pointed out with a soft sigh. “Not that I can blame them too much. People don’t know his whole story. How can they? They haven’t lived the horrors he did. They never will, thanks to the work his descendants have done in making the world safer and more peaceful.”

“And that’s why I felt it was so important to send you into the Animus,” Dr. Klein reminded him with a kindly look. “His story has never been properly told. Oh, your great-great-great grandmother did a commendable job of it, based on what he’d told her and what he’d written in his journals. But to experience his full life? What you learned in there,” he said, gesturing to the now-silent machine behind them, “it’s going to utterly reshape the way people look at your great-great-great grandfather.”

Clark nodded as he recalled the stories he’d been told all throughout his childhood, at bedtime when his father would tuck him in, at his grandfather’s knee in front of the cozy fireplace on cold winter nights, at the hospital bedside of his great grandfather, who, though suffering from dementia, could recount the story of Lois and Clark with crystal-sharp clarity. A wistful smile touched his lips, even has he fought to reconcile the tamed-down stories he’d been told with the violent truth of what the first Clark’s life had been like.

He looked to the large, glossy, framed photograph of Lois Lane that hung next to the painting of his great-great-great grandfather. In it, she held two laughing toddlers in her arms – Clark Kent the Second and Samuel Kent. She was smiling, but it wasn’t the same smile Clark had seen while in the Animus. This smile, though lovingly directed at her sons, was tinged with a sadness that Clark had seen in every “post-Clark” photograph, as he’d dubbed them in his mind.

“It’s a shame,” he said finally, looking away and down at his hands, which lay nestled in his lap. “After such a tortured life, Clark barely got to experience any happiness, at least, not for very long. Two weeks. That’s all he had. Two weeks of freedom. Two weeks of being in love with Lois.” Another heavy sigh escaped his lips, his chest heaving with the weight of it. “He never even knew he was going to be a father.” He paused for a moment as the tiniest smile curved his lips upward in a reflective way. “Of course, neither did Lois.”

Silently, he recounted the story he’d been told by his family all his life. It hadn’t been until two months after his great-great-great grandfather’s funeral that Lois Lane had even discovered that she was pregnant. And that had only been because of Bruce Wayne.

“What woman would?” Dr. Klein mused. “She would have been too newly-pregnant to know before Clark’s murder.”

Clark the Fourth nodded sadly, thinking back over the story. No matter how many times he’d heard it, it had never ceased to bring him both a pang of sadness and amused disbelief. How anyone could go nearly three months without knowing they were pregnant still baffled him. He’d witnessed enough family members expand their families. His own aunt had endured the most grueling first trimester he could imagine, and though he’d been a mere seven years old at the time, the images of how sick she’d been still stuck with him to this day. And now that his own wife was expecting their first child, he was even more hyper-aware of the changes pregnancy made to a woman’s body.

And yet…now that he’d been through the Animus, he thought he understood it a little better. In living through the first Clark’s memories, he’d learned just how powerful love was. Loving his own wife was easy. Lois and Clark had needed to fight for every last iota of their happiness together, which had brought their love to unparalleled heights.

Unbidden, the image of the heartbroken, agonized, soul-shattered expression on his great-great-great grandmother’s young face as she cradled Clark’s dying body in her arms popped into his mind, chilling him to the bone. It was a look he knew he would never forget. It would haunt him for the rest of his life. He’d never seen anything like it before and doubted he ever would, even though he’d long ago taken up the role of a super-protector of the world, as had his father before him, and his father before him, and his father before him, following in the steps Clark Kent the Second had laid down, starting in his late-twenties.

A lump formed in Clark’s throat and he swallowed hard, trying to remove it while his eyes misted over. Quickly, he scrubbed his eyes with his sleeve, ridding himself of the evidence of the forceful emotions swirling within him, threatening to bring him to his knees.

Finally, after a long few moments, he felt confident enough to speak. “After the funeral, she kind of fell apart,” he explained softly.

Dr. Klein looked at him with quizzical expression. Clark knew the story of how Lois Lane had discovered her pregnancy was knowledge kept only within the family.

“At least, that’s what I’ve always been told,” Clark quickly elaborated with a shrug. The story poured out of him with ease as he recounted the tale for his boss. “She was tired all the time and was barely able to keep anything down.” He sighed again, for the first time appreciating how much his great-great-great grandmother had suffered. “Even water.”

Dr. Klein’s eyebrows raised in a silent “yikes” and Clark nodded in acknowledgment. Once again, Lois’ mournful, terrified cries as she realized the love of her life was dying rang in his ears, as clearly as if he were back in the Animus, watching it happen all over again. He heard her screams as she realized that there was nothing she could do to save him. He shuddered again as his heart broke anew for the woman he’d never gotten to meet in real life.

Shakily, he continued. “Bruce took her to the hospital, afraid for her life. He thought she was dying. At least, that’s how I’ve always heard it told by Bruce’s great grandson, William. Bruce thought that she’d given up the will to live with her fiancé dead.” A wistful smile crossed his lips as he remembered the fiercely strong woman he’d gotten to know through the original Clark’s memories. “But she wasn’t dying. She was pregnant…with twins no less.”

“That had to have been quite the shock,” Dr. Klein remarked, shaking his head awe.

“I’m sure it was,” Clark confirmed, absentmindedly wiping his hands on his pant legs. “It wound up being a blessing in disguise though. I was told that the news brought her back from the edge. In a way, Bruce hadn’t been completely wrong. While she hadn’t given up her will to live, she was certainly detached from the world around her. Those babies of hers gave her a reason to live, to fight, to become a force for good, to finish the work Clark had started.”

He smiled distractedly, so bound up in the memories of the stories he’d grown up hearing that he no longer saw the room in Abstergo anymore. Instead, the ghostly images of his great-great-great grandparents floated before his waking eyes, rendering him blind to all else. But they comforted him, rather than disturbed him, like benevolent angels sent to watch over him.

Once again, he heard his great-great-great grandfather’s vows to Lois and remembered the way the man had sworn to himself in his heart and mind that he would one day be worthy of her love. He recalled Clark’s solemn oath to be a better man and to make a life for both of them, and it resonated deeply with him. And while Clark the First hadn’t been able to marry Lois Lane and start a new life with her in which they raised their family as husband and wife, he had made good on all the rest of his promises. Clark the Fourth smiled again as he thought about all the good that had come from the changes his great-great-great grandfather had made.

He’d saved Bruce Wayne’s life, though he’d never much cared for the man. Sure, Bruce hadn’t won the election – the public had re-elected President Garner rather than the billionaire who’d survived three assassination attempts – but he’d gone on to help Lois ensure that the world never forgot Clark Kent, the man who’d been instrumental in taking down Lex Luthor. Clark the Fourth chuckled to himself. Not only had Clark saved Bruce’s life, by taking him to the hospital he’d chosen, he’d also inadvertently helped Bruce to meet his future wife – the surgeon who’d removed the bullet from his shoulder and repaired the damage it had done, though Bruce had never regained the full use of his arm again. Bruce had gone from being mistrustful and half-loathing Clark the First to becoming one of his biggest supporters, lauding Clark’s sacrifices and building museums around the country dedicated to both Lois and Clark in his later years, once Clark’s sons had begun the process of bringing the once-impossible notion of a utopian society closer to reality.

All because he’d come to understand how deeply Clark Kent’s love for Lois Lane had forever changed the former assassin.

Between Lois’ efforts and Bruce’s financing, the world had come to know the Father of Utopia.

But Clark had cemented his own immortality in his own right as well. The journals detailing all of Lex Luthor’s evil deeds had been instrumental – indeed, absolutely vital – in bringing the disgraced billionaire to justice. Clark the Fourth had seen the old film reels of Lex Luthor’s trial. He’d listened as his great-great-great grandmother had read the words written by his great-great-great grandfather, chronicling the way Lex had brainwashed him into becoming a super assassin and recounting, in minute detail, each murder he’d been forced to commit. He still felt a chill run down his spine as he recalled Lois Lane’s voice – strong and clear, though plainly biting back tears as she read the journals for the jury, lawyers, and the world at large.

Those journals had secured a verdict of ‘guilty’ and had pushed the presiding judge firmly in the direction of the death penalty. Lex Luthor – paralyzed from the waist down from the bullet that had stopped him from dealing the killing blow to Clark the First - had been denied any appeals and had, instead, faced a brief stay on death row and a swift execution. Afterwards, the journals had been donated to the Smithsonian Museum and considered as important a piece of history as the diary of Anne Frank or the death camps of Nazi Germany. Even now, four – soon to be five – generations later, every high school student in the country studied those journals as part of their history classes.

“Clark?” Dr. Klein prodded worriedly, peering at the far-off look in the younger man’s eyes.

“Oh, sorry,” Clark replied, clearing his throat pulling himself out of his thoughts.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Clark affirmed. “I was just…thinking. It’s pretty incredible, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Everything. Once my great-great-great grandmother discovered that she was carrying Clark’s sons, it pulled her out that dark, isolated place she’d slipped in after his death. It propelled her into motion and made her more determined than ever to honor Clark’s memory and take down the man who’d imprisoned, brainwashed, and tortured him for most of his life.” Clark’s voice was soft with respect for the amazing woman Lois Lane had been. It was humbling, when he thought about it, to know that he was descended from her as much as the first Clark.

“She brought Lex Luthor’s misdeeds to light and utterly destroyed both him and everything he’d ever built. She made absolutely certain history would remember him with the same disdain it does for Hitler and Stalin.”

“She raised her boys well,” Dr. Klein added after a moment, after Clark grew silent and contemplative.

He nodded gently. “She did. Those two boys grew up to be great men who helped usher in utopia. Because of them we now have a perfect world; peaceful and safe, in a way that the first Clark never got to experience for himself.” He sighed heavily, wishing the reformed assassin could have lived to see such greatness come to pass. “And yet, the world is still split on their opinion of Clark. For every person who sees him as a beacon of hope, there are a dozen others who still view him as a villain. They can’t see past the forced misdeeds he’d been coerced to commit. They don’t understand how much it hurt him to make all those kills, despite how much he’d tried to numb himself to the atrocities he was committing.”

“A view you’re going to help us change,” Dr. Klein confidently assured him. “With the knowledge you gained in there, we’ll be able to bring your great-great-great grandfather’s story to life. His life’s story will be turned into movies and holograms, taught in schools alongside his journals, turned into museum exhibits, featured on the news. The whole nine yards,” he vowed.

Clark nodded gravely. “I guess the saying is true. Post tenebras lux. Light from darkness.”

“’All great and beautiful work has come of first gazing without shrinking into the darkness,’” Dr. Klein quoted in turn.

“Who’s that from?” Clark said, looking up with interest. “I don’t recognize it.”

“John Ruskin,” his boss replied.

Clark nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll have to add him to my list of authors to read.”

“I think you’ll enjoy his works,” Dr. Klein said with a slight smile. “I’ll give you some time to recuperate and meet you downstairs?”

Clark pushed himself up out of the chair with a strength that went beyond the super powers he’d inherited through his Kryptonian genes. He squared his shoulders and gave his boss a tired, but content, smile. He shook his head.

“No, I’m ok. I’m actually really excited to share what I’ve learned. I think it’s going to revolutionize the way people look at the man who gave the Mother of Utopia her family back, and, in so doing, changed the world.”





The End.