ToC - for previous parts.
Waking a Miracle (14/??)
The elevator doors trundled open as though they were ton-weighted concrete slabs being slid along the base, groaning. Slow, and nervewracking, he could see the scenery of the bullpen and upper landing of the Daily Planet stretch out before him, miniscule fraction by miniscule fraction, until finally a complete-sized opening stood before him. Beckoning.
Like a flailing, drowning man, Clark broke to the surface. He had a gasp's worth of freedom as he emerged into the newsroom, but his foot had barely struck the tiled floor when, with a small note of exhilaration, he felt her hand slip along his back, swift, fleeting, like the touch of a lover. And then the illusion shattered. She grabbed on to his sport coat, taking up a tent of the outer fabric into her fist to form a brutal makeshift vice.
"Lois, what are you doing?"
"Taking us somewhere more private," came her clipped response, as if she could barely let the words loose without making them into a yell.
Then, she was tugging him this way and that, getting him to walk the way she wanted, steering him like some sort of horse that she'd mounted. The people in the newsroom were staring, but if Lois happened to care, she wasn't showing it. Her habitual blush whenever she drew attention to herself after an unintended rant or conspicuous newsroom activity was absent. Her gaze was steely, and her muscles seemed locked with tension.
It was as if she was preparing for war.
He braced himself as he allowed her to guide him into the empty conference room, unwilling to make a public scene with the act of dislodging her, and some small part because he simply couldn't walk away. He felt strangely like a bug, flitting around one of those electric zappers, except the light was Lois Lane, enthralling, uncompromising, domineering, and in this case, just as deadly. No, there was no way he was getting out of this discussion this time. He could tell that under no circumstances was this to be interpreted as anything short of an offered ultimatum.
Talk, or die.
Lois flipped the lights on as she passed through the threshold on the way into the conference room. She guided him to the chair facing the bullpen at the end of the long, rectangular table in the center of the area. Then she went and yanked the blinds down, much to the apparent dismay of the people outside watching with keen interest.
He heard whispers of protest, though he tried his best to shut them out.
She pointed to him. "You. Stay here, or I will hunt you down and flay you," she growled, the cold sound of her voice enough to make the blood in his veins feel curdled. He had little doubt she spoke the truth. She then left, slamming the door behind her, and leaving him isolated, alone, and he may as well have been naked. He put his head into his hands and heaved a woeful sigh.
For about thirty seconds, as he had come out onto the landing of General Newcomb's building, Clark had thought he had gotten away once again without having to answer a thing. The walk down the sidewalk, he had begun to feel a tingling sensation, and had noticed that for once, Lois Lane was not charging out ahead of him like a battering ram as per her usual style. No, she had been staying behind him, studying him with a keen interest. She hadn't even tried to hide it when he'd turned around to look at her.
During the ride back in the cab, the staring had only gotten worse, to the point where he had felt like he was being torn apart with her very gaze, rent, and bared before her. He had asked her what was wrong, knowing full well the answer, but she had only shrugged and said, "It can wait until we're somewhere more private." Overall, however, she had been extremely calm and collected. Nonchalant.
Something that she definitely was not now.
The door to the conference room opened again and she came back in. There was a thick folder in her hand. All the info she had on Trask, Thompson, Bureau 39, and this case in general, he assumed. He watched her slough her burden onto the tabletop. The deck of photos which had gotten him into this mess cascaded out of the top end of the folder like a pack of collapsed dominoes.
Lois didn't sit down. She stood, feet braced slightly apart, arms crossed over her chest in a stance that simply screamed, I'm in charge. "All right, Clark. You're going to tell me what the Hell is going on, and you're going to do it now."
Yep, there it was.
A battle to the death, one of them wasn't getting out of this conference room in one piece, and he knew full well he was the unfortunate candidate for termination. "Lois," he began. "I really have no idea what Newcomb was talking about. I've never met him before."
And that was the honest truth. The only person in this whole investigation he knew about was Jason Trask, who they had seen neither hide nor hair of since they had started, except by photo. Thompson and Newcomb seemed to be the only breathing entities in this whole mess. Trask had remained a ghost from the past, a fact for which he was unendingly grateful.
"But *he* knew *you*, Clark. Don't try to tell me you didn't notice it."
"I really don't know how!"
Good, this was good. He could deal with this. He could say he didn't know all day long, and it wasn't lying a bit. Although it did force him to consider General Newcomb's pointed words.
Newcomb had known him, and had known he kept a secret. During the interview, as Newcomb had spoken, Clark had felt a peculiar sensation, as though something heavy had sat on his chest. Like the walls were closing in on him and there was no escape. But he had dodged the inevitable when luck had blessed him. Newcomb refused to be as direct as he no doubt could have been.
Now that was puzzling. What did Newcomb have to gain by being unwilling to contribute? Perhaps he was not safe if he revealed too much. The fact that he turned the tape off had indicated the information he was even *hinting* at was extremely sensitive.
Clark puzzled over it for a moment, feeling slightly more curious than he ever had about this situation. Was Trask really *not* a lone gunman? He had suspected as much, but to be smacked in the face with the evidence was another matter. And suddenly, it made him feel more alone, and even more helpless. It wasn't just one person after him, it was a group. Perhaps this mysterious Bureau 39. And if Thompson was connected to it, that meant that the US government was possibly sanctioning it.
Sanctioning the destruction of Metropolis.
Sanctioning the cold-blooded slaughter of the two most wonderful people he had ever known.
All to keep him quiet.
It made him feel sick inside.
Several moments of his musing had passed before he realized she was staring at him, as if assessing his veracity. She seemed satisfied and finally allowed herself to collapse into her chair with a sigh.
"Well," she began as she clasped her hands in front of her, all business. "Why don't you explain to me what's going on with Trask, and we can start assembling clues about this from there?"
"I can't tell you about Trask."
He knew he wouldn't be able to stand up to pressure, but he wouldn't give in without a fight. If Trask truly was involved in this mess, especially given the new information that he wasn't alone, and possibly aided and abetted by the government, well...
The knowledge was chilling.
Someone high up wanted him subdued so badly that they were willing to expend countless American lives to keep him down. *Lois* included. Well, he thought, bitterness seeping into his bones like a stinging dose of poison, it was working quite well.
He sat here, the strongest man on the Earth. Unkillable. Capable of astounding feats. Flight. Speed. Acute vision and hearing. But a coward.
Yes, that's right, Clark Kent. That's exactly what you are. A coward alien who has *no* place in this world. Not as a savior, nor as a piece of plankton, barely drifting along the surface.
Trask saw him as a weapon with a particular compassion that could be exploited to promote silence, and nothing more.
A weapon.
The day he turned his abilities on a human being was the day he flew himself into the sun. It was as simple as that. He was no more a weapon than an invincible, cowardly pillow. But people, Trask's people, apparently, did not agree.
"*Why* can't you tell me about Trask?" she asked, her eyes pleading with him. The fire he knew so well by now loomed there, behind her gaze, but she hadn't let it loose yet. She *was* trying, albeit weakly.
"Because if I do, you'll never look at me again!" Or you will, but you'll be sickened. Hi, Lois, you work with Miracle Man. The alien. The freak. How does that make you feel? Happy or repulsed? Oh, it's a tossup, you say? Or did you mean to say a throw-up? I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to think about it when Trask has decided to have you slowly boiled in oil.
'My Last Moments on Earth, Spent With a Little Green Man... Miracle Man!' -- an in-depth interview by Lois Lane.
"Oh, come on, Clark. What could possibly be so bad? You haven't committed a crime, right?"
"No."
Not directly. His very existence had resulted in hundreds of callous slaughters, though. Did that count?
"Well, what's the problem then?" she asked, a shrug sluicing off her shoulders in what appeared to be the final calm before the storm.
He looked longingly at the door.
Please, Lois. Just let me go, he wanted to scream. Leave me alone to wallow and die alone, as soon as Trask figures out how to finally off me. I'll even resign if it keeps you safe.
"I can't say," he replied.
A warbling, grated growl fell for her lips as she threw back her chair again began to pace, pent up annoyance fueling her furious pace. "Clark Kent, you are the most frustrating man I have ever known."
"Thank you, I think."
He sighed. This relationship had gone from precarious, to potentially good, to potentially bad, to pretty darn bad in the course of a few days. Mostly due to his own stupidity, which made it all the worse, especially when even now, he was sitting here, staring at her in awe. She was a beautiful woman, inside and out. Her strong will -- the very reason he was stuck here in the first place, terrified -- was the thing he found most breathtaking.
She winced and her agitated movement ceased. "Seriously, Clark. Tell me. I'm going to find out regardless of what you do or do not tell me. Wouldn't you rather put your own spin on it first?"
Well, that was logical.
Just *tell* her, Clark!
A part of him still clung to the precipice before the abyss. He just couldn't do it.
"I--"
"I know there's something weird about you, Clark."
Her words brought all previous thoughts to a halt, and suddenly there was a brick laying in his stomach, solid, amorphous. His body felt desperately hot, and yet the air surrounding his skin was freezing.
Oh, God. She knew. She knew, after all this time he had spent deliberating.
He clenched his fists on the table in front of him to hide his shaking fingers.
"What?" he asked. His voice was low. Abrupt. Grated. Even to his own ears.
Afraid.
What he had really wanted to ask, was, "When can I expect to see my life smeared across the Daily Planet's front page?"
Her gaze softened a bit, an uncharacteristic change, but a welcome one, and she approached him. She stood there before him, her posture more open than it had been this entire time, looking for all the world like she wanted to reach out and touch him.
"Clark," she began. "You have an innate goodness about you that just doesn't happen anymore. I can see it. I read your story about the explosion in that manhole this morning while I was drinking my coffee, before I slogged out to Thompson's interview. It's heartrending, *good* journalism. That type of empathy doesn't just happen on the fly. You can't fake that."
Her hand jerkily went to his shoulder and sat there weakly, as though she hadn't wanted to but couldn't stop it from wandering there. "But what's worse is that I don't think you realize that every time we get somewhere in this investigation, the pain in your eyes is like an explosion. Something happened, Clark. I *know* that it did. Maybe I screwed up our date by asking, but this thing you're keeping... It's eating you inside, just like Newcomb said. It's impossible to *not* ask."
The relief that spread into his limbs was so intense he had to bite back the urge to cry out, to say thank you, to lean into her arms and sigh. The precipice that he had been flailing his arms over was gone, and he was on strong, expansive ground again. She didn't know. There was still time left.
There was still time left to be Clark. Not some bug. Some object for her to interview.
Still time left, and he was utterly tongue tied.
"I--"
The door to the conference room rocked on its hinges, and Jimmy exploded into the room like a gangly human canon. He clasped a folder in his flailing hands, and his face was ruddy with excitement. "Lois!" he cried. "You will *not* believe this. I finally have that--"
Her glare brought him to a full stop. Lois took a deep breath, visibly shaking. "Jimmy," she began, her voice so low it had the tone of a dull hiss. "You. have the. WORST. timing. ever!" The word 'worst' was accented as she slammed her fist into the table. The whole structure wobbled, despite its gargantuan size.
Jimmy swallowed hard. "Info... on... Trask... that you wanted..." he finished weakly.
The sinking feeling Clark had felt in Newcomb's apartment had renewed. Still time left to be Clark, but not much. Not much at all.
"Oh!" Her glower flipped into a look of excitement. "Well, do tell. I'm sure Clark is interested." The sarcasm dripping from her voice was enough to douse any remaining relief that he felt. She leaned against the table at a slant, legs crossed to keep her balance, and her arms folded over her chest, although it was more of an impatient stance than a defensive one.
Jimmy's wide eyes flicked back and forth between Lois and Clark, as if he couldn't decide who looked worse to mess with. Lois and her glare of a thousand deaths, or Clark, who imagined he appeared as though he had been hit by a truck and dragged for several miles, invulnerability aside. "Okay, well, he was in the Air Force. Joined Project Blue Book its last year in 1969."
"Figured that, mostly," Lois interjected with a bored tone.
Jimmy's voice stumbled a bit at her interruption. His gaze shot down to the folder he held open in his hands, and his eyes darted right to left as he scanned the page to find his place again. The air was filled with the dull thrumming of his casual umms and ahhs as he searched. "Stayed in the Air Force for a while after Blue Book shut down. Apparently he was a very hot shot pilot," he said with a nod as he located where Lois had derailed him.
Lois shifted her feet. "Interesting. So he didn't follow Thompson?"
"Not directly, no."
"What do you *mean* not directly?" Lois had meandered around the table by this point, her hands absently snaking out to pick up the pen that had fallen beside her own folder of information when she'd slammed it on the table.
"I'm getting to that, Lois," Jimmy said in a half-whine. He looked at the sheet again.
She began to tap the pen against the side of the table. "Well?"
Jimmy had the good sense to not retort. Clark figured at this point she might get violent with just about anyone, instead of directing all of her attentions to him. Which was good in a sense. Bad in others. "He transferred to the FBI in 1975. But get this, his *wife* also died that year."
Lois's pen percussion stopped immediately, but it was Clark's turn to shove his chair back and stand. "What?" He walked around to Jimmy and peered over his shoulder as he read further.
"You killed my Sarah, and now I'm showing you what will happen every time I catch you using your powers," Trask's voice echoed in his head. Could his wife be the mysterious Sarah? He had always just assumed it was the ramblings of a madman. He had been nine. A kid. And Trask had thought he'd killed someone?
"Yes," Jimmy said as he read from the file. Lois was peering over his shoulder on one side, Clark on the other. "Apparently he was coming home from a post in Fort Leavenworth for some advanced battle simulation training."
"Fort Leavenworth. Why do I know that name?" Lois asked, looking at the ceiling in thought, tapping the pen against her chin.
"It's where the National Simulation Center is situated. A lot of military offices send their top people there for special training," Jimmy explained.
Clark felt a dull pounding beginning in his head as the pieces began to assemble. He ran his hand through his hair and tried to calm down.
"And where is that?" Lois asked.
"Kansas," Clark responded dully. The world ahead of him was beginning to move into an unfocused jumble, like an impressionist painting.
Jimmy nodded. "He was normally stationed at McConnell Air Force Base."
"Also Kansas..." Clark said, but his voice had faded into a listless whisper. Even he could barely hear it. His throat felt raw. Parched.
He tried to remember if he had ever seen Trask before That Day. The day his parents had died. He couldn't remember. He just couldn't. His life before the accident was a pale jumble of happy moments with his parents and the angst that came with learning, slowly, that he was different from the rest of the kids at school.
He didn't get hurt or sick. He could move faster than anyone he knew. He had just discovered his heat vision the very last year before his parents had died.
He just hadn't worried about the people around him. It was all him. Him, him, him. Why was *he* different. Why was *he* special. And why couldn't anyone answer his questions?
Trask had been the first to label him as an alien, and as an impressionable nine year old who was grief stricken and lost, he had just accepted it at face value. The theory of his origins stood the test of adult logic, however, and Clark had remained a firm believer.
Alien. Scum. Freak.
You are *all* those things, Clark Kent.
"So anyways," Jimmy explained. "He gets home from his training at Fort Leavenworth to find his wife murdered, pretty much minutes before he arrived. The perpetrator was never caught. But get this."
"What?" Lois demanded. Out of the corner of his eye, Clark could see her hand grabbing on to Jimmy's elbow and she inched in further to see. She was practically blocking the young gopher's view.
"George Thompson was the FBI agent assigned to the investigation."
"Well there's the connection. But what does this have to do with Miracle Man? It's like I'm trying to connect the dots without the right set of numbers! Let's see." She grabbed the file from Jimmy's hands, though Jimmy seemed all too happy to relinquish his hold, if only to escape from her unending scrutiny.
"Sarah Trask," Lois mumbled as she scanned the page. Her pacing step as she read was ambling and undirected, as if she were just moving for moving's sake. "Deceased 1975, cause: blunt force trauma to the head, possibly a bad fall? Hmmm, this says Trask lived in Smallville..."
Clark closed his eyes. "That just can't be right."
How could he not remember Trask? Smallville was tiny. Even by the time he was nine, he at least recognized everyone's faces. There was Marshall, the man in the barber shop who always gave him lollypops when he walked by, even though he never stopped in to get a hair cut. There was Betty, the woman in town who managed the diner. Bob, the mailman. And more. So many faces, hundreds. But none belonged to Jason Trask.
The folder flashed in front of his face, and sent a gust of cool air onto the skin of his cheeks and forehead. He opened his eyes, but things remained unfocused. Nebulous. He was learning more today about Jason Trask than he had ever figured out in the course of the past eighteen years. Mostly because he had no desire to find it. No desire to endanger more people. And now the information was here. In front of his face. And it was overwhelming. Terrifying. It felt as if the mere act of possessing it was a death sentence.
He tried not to let himself shake.
"Here it is, Clark. Read it and weep. So what do you know about all this?"
Oh, God. Now he remembered. Jason Trask. Clark had seen him and his wife walking through the market one day when Clark had been young. Too young, he couldn't remember the exact year. She had been pushing the cart and Trask had been crunched up behind her, smiling into her neck as he ambled along, stepping forward each time his arms, which were clasped around her waist, outstretched enough to be in discomfort.
Sarah Trask.
Her brown hair had spilled over her head and flipped up at the shoulders. She was thin, and pretty, but not breathtaking. Her face had been oval-shaped, her nose small and buttonish. Her smile, pulled back over an array of off-white, slightly crooked teeth, was kind and gentle. She had even gotten Clark a jar of honey off the shelf because he was too short.
The memory came flooding back like an assault, and he was hard pressed to keep his footing. No, it was collapse or sit. And so he sat.
He struggled weakly to find his voice. "Lois, this happened in 1975. I was nine then."
"Everyone in a small town knows everything about everyone else!" she snapped.
"Lois, once again. I was nine. I remember them. Seeing them. In a supermarket. But--"
She glared at him through the blur. "You're hiding something still, Kent. I can see it. You're intentionally trying to block this investigation."
That did it. The world snapped back into focus, and he felt hot anger in the place of his former blurred confusion. "Well, gee, Lois. I've told you already that I think Trask will kill you if you start sniffing around. What ever would possess me to keep you away from him?"
His tone was mean. Nasty. Biting. Like a snake that had been poked one time too many. He knew it, and regretted having to take it, but his anger wasn't lessened. She was putting herself in unnecessary danger. This was *his* problem. One that he knew substantially more about because of her, he grudgingly admitted, but *his* problem all the same.
"Is that it, Clark? Did Trask kill his wife?"
"I have *no* idea," he insisted.
"Then *why* do you insist he's a killer? God, I *will* solve this myself if I have to." Her pacing resumed. "Jimmy, get me everything Smallville's newspaper has on this murder. I want to know exactly what happened there in 1975."
Having spun on his heels so fast, he almost appeared to have Clark's flight of foot, Jimmy nodded and fled. Clark wished he had such an easy escape. Such an easy out. He looked at the door, longing once again, but his feet remained firmly planted on the floor, his body stuck in the chair as though adhesives had stuck him there in the first place.
Bug to light. He dreaded the next jolt of electricity that was sure to come his way.
"I wonder who the sheriff on duty then was?"
"John Hannover. Was the sheriff then," he gritted.
"Finally," she threw up her hands, but continued to pace around the room in dizzying circles. "He says something definitive. I thought you said you were nine then, how would you remember?"
"Lois..."
"Really, Clark. You're a mountain of inconsistencies today. It's really unbecoming. I can't believe I was naive enough to think this was just a traffic ticket. Of all my luck."
"Lois, I remember *everything* about the day my parents were murdered," he snapped.
Oh God, he'd finally said it out loud. It sounded so foreign, coming from his very own lips to his very own ears. And at once, he felt the sting and spasm of guilt, clawing out from his heart.
Murdered. Trask had murdered his parents. Because of him.
"Murdered." Lois, brought to a full stop mid-stride, did not look impressed. Skeptical. She stood there looking at him quizzically, head tilted to the side as if she thought a layer of cotton were blocking her senses.
"Yes, murdered. The cause of death is officially listed as a car accident, but *that* man, the man you are so keen on finding and having a face-off with, Jason Trask, murdered my parents, and there is absolutely *no* doubt in my mind that the second he knows you're on to him, he *will* kill you. Lois, the man is unhinged. Please back off the story, I don't think I can bear this anymore."
Guilt-wrenching, but self-preservatory at the same time, the words came forth like an explosion. He was powerless to stop him. The need to defend himself, to give himself armor as she stood staring at his bared soul was immense. And as the words tumbled forth, he felt something new, and strange.
Liberating. Something pent up was being released, exhausted.
He was talking about the murder for the first time in eighteen years, and it was liberating.
"Trask. Murdered your parents."
"Yes."
There was silence for several seconds. She looked at him then, and their eyes met in the usual fashion. He could almost see the thought processes clicking through her head, random, all-expansive. She stilled to the guise of a statue for only a moment, before her breathing quickened, and the explosion happened.
"And you let the case go unsolved!? What kind of reporter are you?" The pacing renewed yet again as her outburst sliced the air.
This was not exactly the response he had been expecting.
"Lois..."
"Really, Clark, I thought you had a sense of decency, but allowing a murderer to go free when you know he did it? Your *parents* no less?"
"Lois."
"What on Earth were you thinking? It's our *obligation* to bring this man to justice, Clark."
"Lois!"
"WHAT?" she yelled as she did an about face.
The look on her face told him this was it. This was his last chance to convince her that staying on the story was a bad idea. That her life was in danger.
"If I even get near him, more people will die. He went free because I want people like you to have a tomorrow. This man can't be brought to justice, he thinks he *is* justice. And if you pursue him you're going to end up lying cold in a dumpster somewhere and I will never ever forgive myself. Please, please just back off."
And from the glare on her face, he knew he had blown it.
Her lower lip trembled for a moment, but it wasn't sadness, it was fury. The look that she burned him with was more potent than any heat vision he could ever hope to produce, and he felt all of his hopes withering away. Lois Lane would not be stilted.
"God, you're such a..." She paused, as if struggling to find words. "Such a..." She had her fingers closed in a pincer like formation, pulling away from her lips as though she expected to yank the right thing to say out of her mouth by force. "Controlling..." Another groan, as she struggled to find her rant, but failed. "Egotistical..." More gesturing. "MAN," she finished with a raucous belt.
Clark was absolutely speechless as she moved to the door and poked her head out.
"Jimmy, get back in here please!"
Jimmy poked his head back in the room in short order, but swallowed when he seemed to take in the state of the room's occupants. "What's up, Lois?" he asked, wary.
"I want the phone number for a John Hannover. Smallville sheriff, circa 1975."
"On it, Lois."
And Jimmy was gone again.
Clark rushed her, then, but stopped short of actually touching her. The look she gave him as his hands hovered over her shoulders, trying to grasp at her but finding an invisible barrier, was pure menace.
"Lois, please, listen to me, you can't--"
"I'm going home, Clark," she said, her voice having found the cold center she had started this interview with. She glanced at her watch and then started policing up all her loose notes and files. "It's almost dinnertime. I have work to do, and you're obviously not going to help me."
"But, Lois!" he protested.
The protest was in vain, and as the door slammed shut, leaving him alone once again, he felt himself deflate. He knew better than to follow her. If anything on this Earth could kill him, he was fairly sure it was her. He collapsed back into the chair and took a huge, wracked breath. His whole body shook, unable to cope with the sudden tension, and his head swam with self-imposed nausea.
His true secret was still safe.
But that was hardly any consolation.
*****
TBC...
(End Part 14/??)
