ToC -- for previous parts.
Well y'all. The end of this story is poking its head onto the horizon. However, due to some unforseen busyness, I couldn't quite ride my buffer all the way to the end, and it's sorta gone now. I have been extremely busy the past few weeks, and just haven't quite been able to keep up with everything. I am going to skip posting this Thursday to give myself time to regroup. WAM will be back next Monday
Thanks tons for all your feedback and support!
Waking a Miracle (19/??)
She approached the 'S' section feeling nothing more than the particular forced indifference that had been wrapping around her since they had arrived. None of it was real. She wasn't walking through a spaceship graveyard. She was perusing a derelict Circuit City. A Best Buy for the cosmic community, possibly key providers for every space movie since The Day the Earth Stood Still. And the file cabinets had been fictional works worthy of that esteemed science fiction award. What was it? The Hugo? She didn't really keep up with fictional awards, all she cared about was Kerths. Okay, well, and Merriweathers. And... And Pulitzers, she thought with a curtailed sigh, snapping herself back to attention. This was no time to dream. This was a story, and however ridiculous the subject matter seemed, she had no doubts that Thompson and Trask were very serious about it.
She brushed past another tarped ship that looked sort of like a cross between a lawnmower and a mailbox. With a derisive snort, she let the tarp fall back down, having only lifted it up on sheer impulse. This couldn't be real. Not a lick of it. It couldn't be. It *looked* real. Too stupid to be fake. Who would fly through space in a machine bent for lawn care? Too ludicrous. Clark had believed -- she had been able to tell from his voice as he walked mysteriously off towards the other end of the warehouse. But she hadn't really cared. There were far too many amusing things to look at here.
Yes, that was right. They were amusing. *AMUSING* Not real. Not real, she repeated to herself. Why did she keep having to repeat herself?
Because it's a lost cause, Lane. You believe it.
Speaking of Clark... she looked up and in the direction where he had disappeared into, but was rewarded with just a dull, dark blur. It was too hard to see that far in this dim lighting. She shrugged and turned back to the cabinet that now stood before her, staring back, innocently, yanking it open with one swift.
Sacramento, CA 1972. San Antonio, TX 1987. San Diego, CA 1985. San Jose, CA 1978. Californians were sure getting their fair share. Or maybe their civil engineers were entirely too obsessed with 'S' names. Saratoga, NY, 1991 was the first folder in the cabinet that caught her eye, mainly because it was the only thing remotely far away from the Pacific Ocean.
She scoffed.
Saratoga. Saratoga. Why was Saratoga sticking out? She knew it was something-- *Horse racing!* Belmont, right? The Belmont stakes had had a UFO sighting? Oh, good grief. Maybe the aliens had come to watch Secretariat win, or something. Had Secretariat won the Belmont? Well, she knew the name, so Secretariat must have won *something*. Unless Secretariat was some codename for a missile system and she'd gotten her memories crossed, which was entirely feasible, since she cared much more about missiles being fired by maniacal overlords than she did horses. Secretariat Missiles. It sounded feasible. Anyways.
She flipped further through, rather quickly until she happened across a name that made her come to a screeching halt. Smallville, KS 1966. Smallville. Where Clark was from. Where Trask had lived. Where this whole sordid tale, the whole reason she was here, seemed to be centered around. Smallville.
As much as she wanted to deny that she was standing in a genuine UFO graveyard, she couldn't deny the importance of Smallville, however ironic that sounded. There was no coincidence that could possibly be more damning. And certainly, it wasn't even a coincidence.
Kansas, 1966. The year, thereabouts, that Clark had been born.
With a slightly paranoid glance down along Clark's last known heading, she saw only darkness. She peered back at the folder, and with bated breath, opened it. The file was pages and pages long, in neat 10-point courier type. There were photos. Pink and neon yellow highlighter marks that still stank of ink. An active case.
A side-by-side mug shot of a young boy, dark hair, no glasses, kind of wiry, along side the unmistakable image of a grown Clark Kent, dark hair, glasses, and very muscular, was paper clipped to the inside of the folder sleeve. With a rising sense of panic, she began to read the file, her eyes darting frantically from left to right. Subject landed in Schuster's Field, Kansas, May 17, 1966. Immediately taken under the wings of a local married couple, Jonathan and Martha Kent.
Clark Kent was adopted -- she knew that much. The wayward thought danced around in her head long enough for it to register in full clarity before she could stifle it.
Her heart slammed in her chest, uncontrollable, and she was so shocked she nearly lost her grip on the folder. Clark Kent. Subject. Synonymous? It couldn't be! He was so... so... so NOT alien, it almost felt like lunacy just to consider the idea. He had two eyes, two ears, a nose, a mouth, a chin... A gorgeous well toned set of shoulder muscles at the very least. He was no Martian from outer space. Martians didn't wear tuxedos and go to balls. They didn't work as reporters. Didn't tell her she was beautiful and mean it. No. He couldn't be. Martians did NOT LIVE in Kansas.
She panted. Get a GRIP, girl!!! It wasn't working. She kept reading, even as her heart began to feel like it was seizing up in her chest, and ants were chittering around in her veins, tickling, dreadful. The subject's wards have been terminated, it said. Wards. Jonathan and Martha Kent. It couldn't be! But... It made so much sense, it couldn't be fake, either. It...
She blinked, shaking her head.
Focus!
She blinked even more furiously.
FOCUS!
Trask had killed Clark's parents, according to Clark. Trask was supposedly a member of this Bureau 39 entity -- an entity that, although shaded and indefinite as far as a paper trail went, seemed to revolve around defense against a heretofore unknown alien threat. She was standing in a warehouse, filled with a bunch of hardware that could be new age models for microwaves, but were in all logical reality, probably spaceships. There was file after file of photographical evidence. UFO sightings. Probably the biggest pile of xenophobic malarkey she had ever come across. And there was a file on Clark. Clark was an alien. He was NOT an alien. He was an alien... And Trask had killed his Earthling parents.
Oh, God.
Clark *was* an alien. NOT! Yes! NO... YES. And these evil bastards had killed his parents because of it. Yes. NO. That couldn't be it. She was going insane. She was suffering sleep deprivation. She'd gone into chocolate withdrawal because Lucy had eaten all her Rocky Road. A taxi driver had given her some previously undiscovered airborne transmitted crazy disease. She was really still stuck behind the curtains in Thompson's penthouse with Clark, the stuffy air and close quarters finally having addled her brain enough that she was suffering hallucinations. She'd suffered hallucinations earlier in the week. This wasn't new. Yes, she was hallucinating. That was it. She was definitely insane. Insane for even thinking it -- for contemplating that the US government had killed an alien's parents out of what... fear? Retribution?
Retribution, she decided.
Why was she deciding!? She was insane. And pacing. Really fast, she was pacing. But still quite Looney Toons. And suddenly in need of large doses of alcohol. Anything to dull the onset of wackiness that was her sleep-deprived, chocolate withdrawal, heat exhaustion, taxi-driver disease. Loislanitis. That was it. Symptoms: hallucinations, fluttery heartbeat, headaches, shaky limbs, and sudden suspicion that your partner is a Martian.
And still, there was sense to be had.
George Thompson had turned Trask's latent xenophobia from his short-lived work with Project Blue Book against him. For whatever reason he had killed Sarah, it was obvious that in the aftermath he had chosen to blame Clark. But why was this obvious? She couldn't possibly be following this logic. THERE WAS NO LOGIC HERE. No, there had to be a reasonable explanation. And that reasonable explanation was... The only reasonable explanation was that Thompson had somehow convinced Trask that a nine-year-old, seemingly innocent boy, had been capable of murder. And what better excuse than that he was a malicious alien?
Like ET, but with a chainsaw and a bulldog named Butch. She imagined the loveable little alien with a Schwarzenegger accent, going, "I'll be back."
But Clark wasn't malicious! a voice screamed inside her head. And he didn't look like ET.
But, then, how to convince Trask that Clark was an alien? Word alone wouldn't do it -- Clark appeared human for all intents and purposes. No, no, no, NO. He was totally human -- he didn't just *appear* human. Yes, he was Clark, the innocent-minded, kind-hearted lummox she'd grown to enjoy having around, despite his more frustrating characteristics. Like... like that secret he was keeping. Which wasn't that he was an alien. It couldn't be, it just couldn't. Clark. Alien. He must have some special qualities that made him a potential danger, regardless if that was the intent of those qualities or not.
And that was when she felt like the wind was completely knocked out of her, and she skidded to an abrupt halt, folder clutched in one hand, her other hand hanging off of the cabinet as if it were her only means of standing upright.
Special qualities.
"Plain sight, Miss Lane," General Newcomb had said.
Clark Kent.
Miracle Man.
One and the same?
He had excellent hearing. More so than any person she had ever met. "It *is* rather noisy here," he'd said. She'd thought he meant traffic. But did he mean other things? He didn't respond to rescues anymore. Did he have to ignore calls for help? Why would he ignore calls for help? The fires in Metropolis just before he had disappeared must have had something to do with it. They must have. It was the only explanation to why someone as caring as Clark would ignore people asking for aid. And why was she still on this track? Clark couldn't be Miracle Man. Miracle Man had--
Speed -- he'd gotten to the penthouse before her. And...
Flight. The door had been ajar when she'd gotten to Thompson's penthouse, the curtains flapping noisily in the breeze. The lock on the sliding doors busted beyond repair. Clark sitting there, silent in the dark. He had *flown* into the penthouse. She gasped. The sight of Clark's height plummeting during Luthor's ball hadn't been a hallucination. He had been FLOATING, and he'd FALLEN.
Floating.
She made him float when he looked at her? Her heart rammed into an even higher gear. She made Miracle Man float. A blush crept over her face before she shook it away.
This was ridiculous. Ridiculous to even think about. NOBODY COULD FLY.
Except Miracle Man.
And Clark had looked awful happy out on that balcony in Luthor's penthouse. Like it was something he missed. And if Miracle Man hadn't been around for a year, it meant he wasn't likely using his powers right?
But this was ridiculous. She couldn't be thinking it.
She was so wrapped up with her circular bout of logic, she didn't notice the room had gotten substantially brighter until she was in her fourth round of Clark's not an alien, yes he is! The folder in front of her began to glow as though it were under direct sunlight, and she turned towards the source.
Something had lit up across the room...
Reality slammed the brakes.
She blinked her way back to the present, furiously trying to stop drifting off into tangents like that. She'd already been through that. Already figured it out. Already seen Clark's expression when she had walked up to him with that folder... She didn't need to review it fifteen million times!
Now, she was crunched up in a dark corner of the small, cubicle-sized room. Her arms were around her knees, and she was pasted so tightly into the corner she was having trouble breathing fully. She stared out over her knees into the haze.
All she could hear was the soft thrum of the overhead fluorescents. The soft sounds of his labored breathing. The slamming of her own heart in her chest. Blood rushing in her ears like water running through pipes, as she sat, lightheaded, confused.
A figure lay across from her in the corner of the dim room. He was on his side, his back to her, not really in a fetal position, but rather sort of in an arc like a banana. He wasn't moving much. He certainly wasn't awake, but neither was he sleeping, nor dead. She could tell by the way his body was racked with shudders from time to time that he was still in the throes of some painful oblivion. The state that had come over him as Trask had snuck up behind them in the warehouse.
Before, when Lois had found the folder, she had felt beset by confusion. Triumphant, that the puzzle had finally been solved, when she had come upon Clark, but confused. The light had lead her to him, and he had stood there, a glowing ball of illumination clutched in his hands, a strange oval-shaped metallic spaceship with an unmistakable symbol on it directly to his side. Miracle Man.
She had found him, looking lost, and yet fulfilled, all in one gaze. And then the glow had gone out, he had thrust the ball into his pocket, and had stood, still like stone for several moments. At first, it had been a peaceful stance, and then strained. He had turned towards her. The look of apprehension that had held his features in a vice had bled into one of horror, when he had identified her standing there. His anguish had given her such a shock that the last vestiges of sanity in her gaze had fallen into an 'o' of surprise that cradled around her lips. The folder had cascaded to the ground out of her slackening grip, and she had stood there, silent, unable to speak. Then he had made a weird-sounding moan, his eyes had rolled back into his head, and he had been on the floor in a writhing tangle with the notes she had stolen from the 'S' cabinet only moments ago.
She tried to stop the review and screwed her eyes shut, trying to remain calm, but the memories still flooded her. "It's good you guys decided to stop by. It sure made my job a lot easier," Trask had said as Clark had rolled into another a fit of spasms.
"Clark?" she whispered, blinking the horrible images away once again.
The banana figure in the other corner of the room didn't move. Didn't stir. Gave no indication that he would hear her pleas for him to wake up. She wanted to crawl over and see how he was, and at the same time, she wanted to curl up and die in the corner by herself.
Clark Kent was Miracle Man.
He must have been so smug, watching her flail along for clues that he could have given her with a single sentence utterance. And yet, despite the hurt, she couldn't really argue his logic. He obviously hadn't wanted to be discovered, especially not like this. Why would he tell her, his pursuer? Well, his secondary pursuer. At least she understood now why he was so frightened of Trask.
Trask had hurt him with the deaths of his adopted parents, and presumably with other atrocities she had yet to know about. Trask had something that could hurt him still. Something physical, to follow up after years of mental destruction. She knew from that phone conversation between Thompson and whoever was on the other end of the line that the "Clark Kent problem would go away." Sounded like a death threat if there ever was one, and she had no hopes that these people would be at all nicer to her, not with her reputation in town for being completely unforgiving with the morally corrupt.
And these Bureau 39 guys were the morally corrupt to end all morally corrupt.
Clark was in trouble. And so was she.
"Clark?" she whispered again.
Clark still didn't stir, and she slowly began to panic. How were they going to get out of this mess? What was going on? Why had Trask just locked her away in this room, alone, with Clark? There had to be a way out of here! If only she could actually think of it...
She finally dared to scoot over to his still form. She put a hand on his shoulder only to be shocked back by the heat she felt radiating there. He was drenched and slick with sweat. And, even in this lighting, she could tell he was as pale as a sheet. His eyes were closed, though, and she was thankful for that small boost to his comfort. Maybe he would sleep the worst of it away.
He's not *sleeping*, Lois.
She blinked, feeling the sting of tears. She hadn't meant to drag them into this mess. Surely he knew that she had just been operating under her usual gung-ho glory. Her constant brushes with death had never seemed so real. She didn't feel she lacked courage, not at all. But she *was* frightened this time around. She was *really* in trouble this time. And it wasn't just her she'd dragged along for the ride.
Clark had told her to back off. Numerous times. Been quite explicit about how bad Trask was. Why would Thompson be different?
She looked at his pale form again, wondering. What could have caused such a reaction like this? He had been panicked before he had collapsed, and from her experience he was indeed prone to panic attacks, but... no panic attack did this. Not that she had ever heard of anyways. No, he was sick, somehow. Some unseen force, one carried or administered by Trask, had felled him. She combed her memories for anything. A spark. A glimmer. Any indication of what had been done, and came up blank. Things were a blur from the moment Trask had come into the picture. She had been too dulled with shock to think straight. Wait. Maybe it had to do with that rock Thompson and Trask had been talking about? Could be...
Despite her fear, she felt a cool determination that Trask and Thompson would pay for this, somehow. She would make them. If she had to move heaven and Earth, perhaps come back to haunt Perry and explain the story after they'd killed her, she would do it.
But she would worry about that later. She would worry about *all* of that later. She had to find a way out of here, and she had to find it fast.
The door that locked them in was a simple one. There wasn't even a deadbolt or a special lock. Just a regular old metal handle stood between her and freedom -- the angular, rectangular kind often used in office buildings, with the small keyhole in the joint where the handle met the part that connected to the door. The grip, perhaps an inch wide, forked out, parallel to the floor for about four inches. Just a stupid handle with the kind of lock she could pick with a credit card, if she had one. But Trask had kept her purse before dumping her in this godforsaken place. A missing credit card was all that stood between her and freedom. Well, and the fact that there was no way in Hell she was leaving Clark with these paranoid delusional psychos, she didn't exactly know where in the building she was, and there were probably a large number of guards between her and wherever freedom was. But that wasn't the point.
The handle began to turn, seemingly of its own volition, and quicker than she thought possible, she scooted to the corner the door would open into, and flattened herself against the wall, ready to pounce. There was a mumble of voices, somewhere beyond, followed by a caution-filled silence that hung in the air like a drape, as though the people outside were listening intently. There was a click, and the door began to open, but only traveled back along its arc an inch, maybe two, before coming to a long pause, and she was frozen in hypertension.
"Miss Lane, really." It was the unmistakable growl of Thompson, condescending to the last. The door shoved open so fast, she didn't have time to react. The oncoming door hit her hard, and she rocked back into the wall on the balls of her feet, slamming against it painfully. There was a loud, thunderous crack, and a neat hole formed in the door slightly above the handle. The wall beside her hip crumbled a little, dripping dust and pieces of sheet-rock like blood, and she wobbled forward to see what had happened as the door swung back along its arc. A bullet had embedded itself in the sheet-rock behind her, six inches to the left of her now heaving side. She stilled in abject panic. "Why don't you come out from behind the door before I enter, and we can have a civilized conversation, hmmm?" Thompson added.
With a raw rumble of anger, she slammed her foot out and thwacked the door into George Thompson with a hard, merciless shove. There was a nasty thud as the sound of something hard hitting something marginally softer careened back toward her and jackknifed off the walls in a vicious echo. She smiled triumphantly as a small curse fell from his lips and he growled, "Are you quite through?"
She heard the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked, and thought better of repeating the gesture, creeping out from behind the door, her hands raised in the air to show she wasn't planning anything. "Sorry, my foot slipped," she grunted as she came into full view. She tried not to look at Clark too plaintively.
George Thompson stood there looking rather annoyed, a Glock in his right hand, and a quartet of guards behind him. He made a minute gesture to the guards, and two of them came out in front of him and corralled her against the wall, their own guns drawn menacingly. She was a fighter, but she wasn't stupid. She let them pin her. The other two guards wormed their way in, and walked over to Clark's prone form.
"What are you doing?" she hissed, as one took hold of Clark's limp arms, and the other his legs.
Thompson smiled. "Merely taking him somewhere more comfortable so that I may deal with you."
She resisted the urge to fight, another flare of panic bursting like a flowery explosion in her chest as they dragged Clark out of the door and away. The sound his body made as it was dragged along the spotless floor was sickening, like the slither of a snake in the grass. Her heart ratcheted in her chest as his foot caught on the doorway and the guards cursed before they yanked him completely out of view. Where were they taking him? This was it. They wouldn't split them up for another reason. Thompson was going to kill her, and Clark would be dead soon too.
No. There had to be some way out of this. There was still time to escape. There had to be.
Thompson raised his gun, and she froze.
"I suppose you think I'll be using this on you in short order."
"Well, yes," she whispered breathlessly as she let her gaze flit to the Glock and then back to his steely gaze. "The thought hadn't escaped me..."
Thompson didn't move the gun into a less offensive position, and he cracked a smile that certainly didn't extend to his eyes. "I'm the good guy here, Miss Lane. If you will just give me a chance."
"A chance?" she asked, incredulous. "You kidnapped me and Clark. You're holding us hostage with loaded guns. One of which you *shot* at me. You own some crazy xenophobic alien police force. You murdered a woman and blamed it on Clark. Trask is Darth Vader to your Emperor, endlessly tormenting an innocent man to the point where I've had to badger him all week just for one measly clue or two about you. And you expect me to give you a *chance?* What do you think I am, galacticly stupid?"
Thompson sighed, his gun still staring unblinking into her midsection. She eyed it, but doubted that she would be able to kick it out of his hands, not with the two guards restraining her. She was quite stuck. And quite dead, most likely, especially if she made the wrong move here.
"First of all, Miss Lane," Thompson replied, beginning to tick his points off on the fingers of his free hand. "It was you and Mr. Kent who chose to break into my property. Kidnap is a strong word considering your unlawful entry onto government-owned premises. And if you hadn't attempted to subjugate me when I entered the room, I wouldn't have shot at you at all."
His middle finger raised alongside his index finger. "Second of all, I don't own Bureau 39. I discovered it recently and have been trying to bring it down ever since, although I can't say your interference has helped in that area."
Up went his ring finger, in an odd bastardization of the scouts' honor sign. "And third, have you any proof of this supposed murder? I dare say I don't even know *who* you're talking about. And as for Trask, I have no control over the man's actions. I've been trying to get rid of him for years, though he used to be a dear friend I will admit."
The buzz of the overhead lights seemed to grow more ominous.
"You killed Sarah Trask!"
"Ah yes." Thompson frowned. "I investigated that case for my dear friend, Jason. It's a shame the perpetrator was never caught."
"Never caught because it was you," she growled.
"We all must have our villains, Miss Lane. It makes sense of the crimes committed. I wasn't the murderer of Sarah Trask, but I can understand what may lead you to think that way."
"Right." She glowered. Thompson, however evil he happened to be, was definitely not stupid. She glanced wistfully at the door, but Thompson didn't seem to care about her wandering attention.
"I was shocked to discover all the horrible dealings of this agency. I swear to you, Miss Lane, my only intention is to bring down the true criminal. Bureau 39 is detestable. It must be destroyed. The conflagrations in Metropolis last year have gone without punishment for far too long."
To Thompson's credit, he was an exceptional actor. His spiel had almost sounded genuine. Almost. But not quite. And in his admission that the fires were the result of Bureau 39, he had made his fatal error. She had already sort of decided that they had been the reason that Miracle Man had retired from service. And now she was sure. Another damning clue to file away in her mental collection. "We all must have our villains," he'd said. Her stomach churned as she started to truly grasp Thompson's plan.
"If you're such a good guy," she countered, "Then why don't you let me go?"
She had no hopes that he would comply with her request. But he didn't seem to mind conversation, so cocky was he. And the more information she could get, the better.
"Because, first I need you to agree not to print any of what you find in the future, or have already found regarding this situation. That will be for me to do."
She rolled her eyes. "You have *got* to be kidding me. You actually think I'm going to fall for this load of crap?"
"You'll come around." He gave her a rather unnerving grin, like a wolf smiling down on some delectable prey.
But she was no lamb. "When you let me go, with Clark alive and in tow, I *might* agree not to roast you alive in a 72-point header on the front page."
Her threats seemed to brush off Thompson like a transient gust of air. Completely ineffective. "I'll give you time to think it over." He turned to leave.
"Sure," she spat. "Be sure to come back when I'm DEAD from starvation. Because that's about the soonest I see myself not printing this."
He came to a full pause, and turned back around to face her. If she had had any doubts before of his true intent, the malicious grin that slithered across his face quelled them. "I'm sure, Miss Lane," he said in a guttural, dangerous tone, "That can be arranged if that's what it comes down to."
Her two guards released her and exited after Thompson. The door clicked behind her, and she was left in a shocked, dim silence. She tried to stop her hands from trembling. Despite her brave, snappy comebacks, the conversation had thoroughly rattled her.
This. Was. Bad.
She knew now exactly what Thompson was planning. She'd pieced it together from the various snippets she'd heard.
Thompson was going to hold a press conference. He'd said as much. The fake speech supported it. But. He wasn't going to say what Trask expected him to say.
Trask expected him to malign Clark in public as a true alien threat.
But Thompson wasn't going to do this at all. He was going to explain that Bureau 39 had been the force behind the fires in Metropolis, and countless other crimes. And he was going to pin it all on Trask. Thompson would then look like a hero. Trask, the unsuspecting -- but necessary -- villain, would get crucified.
But where did that leave Clark? Thompson had said that the Clark Kent problem would go away. What did he mean by that? With Trask finally out of the way, Clark would be out of the picture as well? Somehow, she just didn't think that was the case, especially not with her in custody. She had to be a rather unknown factor that they hadn't been planning on.
So what were they going to do with them?
That was still a mystery.
A mystery that frightened her.
She *had* to get out of here. And she *had* to save Clark.
Lois stared at the bullet hole over the door handle for a long set of moments. Slowly, a plan had begun to hatch. A crazy one. But it would never hurt to try.
She was suddenly very, very happy she had opted to change into sweats and sneakers before she'd come on this little jaunt.
She reached down to her white Keds, and began to work a shoelace free.
*****
TBC...
(End part 19/??)
