ToC - for previous parts.
Switching to a weekly schedule so I can keep up
Next part on Monday!
Waking a Miracle -- (20/??)
White.
Mushy white swam before him, hazy, indistinct, blurred. A cloudy sky? But the blur didn't seem that puffy in texture. Perhaps someone had given him one of those white dish napkins that restaurants used for a blindfold. He blinked, and the mush got a little clearer, but it was still mostly a mess of white.
Oh. It was one of those square panel fluorescent lights that they put in the ceilings of office buildings and schools. He blinked again and became aware that he was not feeling well. His head swam and throbbed as if somebody had been using his temples as the bass drum in a marching band. Thump. Thump. Thump. He could feel the little marchers making circles.
There was a small whining sensation buzzing in the back of his mind. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Why did he feel this way? Definitely not normal. But the pain swept the worries away for the time being, and he squeezed his eyes shut, rejoicing in the darkness, before opening them once again, experimentally.
Everything felt like lead. He knew his limbs were indeed there, and still quite attached. But moving them was an impossibility. He became more and more aware that yes, he was awake, and he was horizontal under a fluorescent light, but that was really about the best he could do. It was as if his torso and limbs were dipped in wet concrete.
A singsong of pain careened through his veins, almost convincing him back into the welcoming darkness of unconsciousness, but with a heaving breath, he surfaced again into clarity. He felt bad. Real bad.
What was going on? He couldn't recall...
Wait. Yes he could.
There was a big warehouse. And Lois. Yes. Lois. What had Lois been doing? Something about skepticism. Yes, she had wanted to know where her skepticism had gone. But why would she want to know that?
Krypton!
Events came wobbling back in a woozy, drunken sequence, and he remembered, new images coursing through his head with each furious blink. From the moment he had laid eyes on his ship, to the moment where he had a sensation of someone watching him, to the moment where he realized that Lois *knew*. Everything. Just from the one look she had given him. That slack-jawed look of utter amazement and horror. Lois *knew*. But what had been the truck that'd hit him near the end? He'd gone from the horror of Lois knowing his secret, to being on the floor in throbbing agony in the space of minutes. And hadn't there been voices? He was sure there had been voices. Or maybe it had just been Lois in triplicate, compliments of this horrible headache.
For a nanosecond, he almost was fascinated that he even *had* a headache, but then he decided he felt far too awful to care or be grateful for this supposedly 'normal' experience. Somehow, he didn't think this was a normal headache. Nor was it normal to be unable to move. He tried again and got a twitch, but for the most part he was Jell-O. His nerves felt raw and wasted, as though somebody had scratched them away slowly with sandpaper. Twinges and twangs of agony seemed to pulse through him with every heartbeat.
Actually...
In the haze of pain and confusion, he hadn't really noticed before...
He stretched out with his hearing, only to be rewarded with a dull buzzing. Muffled. Like through cotton. All he could hear was what he could hear already. He squinted, trying for anything from his eyes, x-ray, heat, anything, with no results.
As he realized his powers were gone, a cold well of fear began to form. He was here, wherever 'here' was. Here, and at the mercy of his captors. There was no escape. This definitely was no normal headache. No normal muscle ache. Everything was rapid fire sensation. Muscles were protesting fitfully even though he wasn't even attempting to move around at this point -- he understood a lost cause when he was presented with one.
The world started to get murky again, but only for a moment.
Powers gone. After so long trying not to use them, he should have been happier, he thought with a wry wince. Nope. Definitely not happy about this development. He wasn't going to think about whether they would even come back at this point -- that was a worry for a safer time. He rocked backward into an arch as another spasm rent him.
What had caused this? What was *causing* this?
He blinked again as a strange shadow eclipsed the light overhead and plunged him into another tumble of confusion. "Don't tell me you passed out on me again," a voice growled, low, dangerous. It reverberated strangely in the room -- must be small -- and it reverberated even more strangely in his head. But he recognized it. Definitely.
The man he had come to think of as an apparition in this whole mess. A mess he was starting to remember more and more quickly as moments passed and clarity began to catch up with him and latch into his brain.
Trask.
The well of fear that had begun to form earlier took on a fuller shape. He was helpless. At Trask's mercy. And likely, so was Lois.
Lois. Where was she?
He made a sound. "What?" he had meant to say, although it was probably more of a gurgling groan than anything else. At least it sounded that way to his cotton-laden ears.
There was a blur to his right. The light flickered as a flesh-colored obstruction passed through the corner of his view field. And then there was a smashing, stinging sensation on his right cheek. The light snapped to the right as his face whipped to the left. He blinked tears away.
"Listen to me, Alien!" Trask yelled. "Did you think you and that whore could investigate us and not get caught? What is she? Is she your alien consort?"
The words became indistinct and mashed, all into one long litany. Even Trask's ever-present hand couldn't keep Clark's mind from wandering. Something was muddling his thought processes, he slowly came to realize. Maybe it had to do with the ache that was searing his joints the more and more he came reluctantly awake. Or the plodding dump trucks that were smacking into the sides of his skull in tandem.
After several more long moments, he had the strength to lift up his head and look around. He was lying flat on his back on a table. Not a lab table or anything. Just a plain, fake-wood table. The kind that often inhabited office buildings. His feet hung off the end because he was too tall.
There didn't seem to be any other furniture in the room. Only Trask. Who was holding a glowing green thing about the size of a matchbox in the hand that wasn't doing the slapping. Blurry though his vision was, the glow was quite distinct, and haunting, pulsing on and off in a vaguely regular rhythm as though it were breathing. Despite Trask's endless, crazed ranting, he must have noticed the object of Clark's attention. He stopped yelling, and moved the green thing clutched in his hands closer.
The pain increased from a dull hum to a horrific roar as the clenched green blob came closer to Clark's face. BAD. He veered away, but suddenly his head was in a vice grip -- Trask -- and he was forced to look at it. It. Hovering right over his eyes, blurring even further until it was all he saw, like a glowing lime eclipse. He felt like his eyes were getting gouged. "Are you looking at this?" Trask asked.
Clark was sure he made a pained gasp, but he could almost hear nothing in the roar at this point. Whatever that was... it hurt.
"This, my friend, is your home. Surprising, the damage it can do, isn't it? The lab guys say that because of its origin, the radioactivity it emits actually affects you. How it got here is anyone's guess."
His home? But that would mean... Clark blinked in the strange green glare, opting not to respond. Unable to respond. He was sure if he opened his mouth it would only let a strangled moan escape.
His home.
A piece of his exploded planet had ended up on Earth, somehow. And now, he thought with a wince, it was killing him. Or the experience was just bad enough that he *thought* it was going to kill him. Another wave of hurt undulated through him. He was willing to bet on the former.
And another wave... His eyes rolled back and he was granted a dizzy respite until his conscious thought swam back like a riptide.
"A shame," Trask was rambling, an insane gleam in his eyes. "We don't want you. Your planet *obviously* doesn't want you. Just who exactly wants you?" Trask's tone held no small amount of glee, but thankfully pulled the strange rock back.
Clark gasped with the small relief, and Trask grinned maniacally. "Finally," Trask said. "You'll pay for what you've done."
"I didn't--" Clark panted, knowing his words would do no good. "Kill Sarah--" Pant.
Trask's eyes narrowed into predatory slits. "Liar." His tone was low, and dangerous. Threatening. Like a dog about to snap off a finger or two from the person trying to feed it. Trask was sure that Thompson's lie was true, that much was evident.
"No--"
Another swift smash across his cheek, this time the left one, brought Clark skittering back into silent, twitching misery. There was no reasoning with this man. None. And now he was going to die here.
He wondered distantly where Lois was as Trask stared at him and let the rock-thing -- Kryptonite, he supposed, since it was from his home planet -- do the damage for him. He had completely lost track of her in the vague scuffle that had followed Trask's entrance into the warehouse. He seemed to remember her calling his name, off in the distance, as though she were standing on the precipice at the other side of a canyon. But he was sure it had been a whisper, not a shout. There was also the soft, fiery sensation of her hand touching his shoulder, gentle, fleeting. Pleasant. She must have been alive and well at some point after he'd blacked out. But...
Where was she now?
The worry didn't help as he was sent into another paroxysm of agony. And on top of it all, he felt cold, and yet sticky with sweat. It was a miserable existence.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
The words pierced his conscience and slammed around inside his aching head so harshly that he jolted on the table, not from pain, but from surprise. Thompson, it seemed, had arrived, and Clark didn't know whether to sag with relief, or be even more worried.
Trask scoffed, indignant. "I'm testing the rock. What does it look like?"
"He was not to be harmed yet," Thompson replied as he brushed at the sleeves of his suit, like he had just finished with some other dirty work. His eye contact, tone, and posture all indicated Trask was not as 'in control' as Thompson would have liked, and Thompson was speaking as if Clark were not even in the room.
"He's not dead." Trask shrugged, a small smirk marring his otherwise serious features.
Thompson circled the table, looking Clark over like a piece of meat. "But he can't look like that for the press conference! Are you mad?"
Yes, his tone said it all. Thompson didn't quite know what to do with Trask, almost like a man who had bought a baby python at a pet store and was overwhelmed to discover one day that it had grown to several feet long and was perfectly capable of eating more than rats.
Trask looked for a moment like he was going to protest, but eventually shrugged with the barest of motions, the slickest of smiles, and turned to leave. The Kryptonite disappeared into his pocket, the green cast that had slicked over the walls disappearing with it. Thompson watched closely.
"I'll be back..." Trask growled over his shoulder, glacial cold gripping his tone. Clark was sure it was directed at him.
"Don't count on it," Thompson said under his breath as the door clicked shut behind Trask's retreating form. Even Clark wasn't sure if he had heard it or not, but it didn't matter, much. The sensation of his nerves being put in a garbage disposal was gone, replaced by only a wretched but dull ache, like an aftertaste. It was unpleasant but tolerable. Clark panted in relief.
"What..." Clark began, stopping in the middle to catch his breath yet again, "Are you doing?" His body still felt like it was going to turn to mush, assuming it hadn't already.
"Quite frankly, Mr. Kent," Thompson began with a sigh, "That really doesn't matter. What *does* matter, however, is the fact that I have Miss Lane locked away and secured."
Silence for a moment, save for the snap-buzzing of the overhead light. Clark subverted back the panic that threatened to overcome him.
Lois was alive. Think about that. Not the part about her being in custody. ALIVE is important!
Something inside of him just wasn't listening.
Clark struggled to sit up. He shoved his elbows back behind him along the cool table and ratcheted upwards. Little black spots started to appear in his vision and he furiously blinked them away. "Did you hurt her? Is she okay?" he demanded.
Help her! Save her! the voice was yelling. Screaming. *Demanding* Like a mosquito buzzing past his ears, unwilling to be ignored.
Various scenarios involving Lois dead or in the process of dying began to flit through his head. She had entirely too much knack for trouble, he could tell that and he'd barely known her a week so far. Actually, she was probably holed up in a room similar to this one, screaming her head off at whoever had the misfortune of being her guard, but that was beside the point.
"Relax, Mr. Kent. Miss Lane is and will remain perfectly fine..." Clark felt a sinking sensation. That tone indicated a 'but' coming along. Continuing, Thompson didn't disappoint. "As long as you cooperate. I do trust you understand my meaning."
So that was that then. Thompson wanted a favor. Perhaps abuse Clark's special abilities before killing him. Hypocrite. Anger started bleeding in overtop of the panic that had settled.
"What do you want me to do?" he snapped. At least the world was getting less blurry, and much less painful.
Thompson raised an eyebrow. "Honestly, I want you to help me."
Silenced ticked by for a few seconds.
Thompson wanted help. It was laughable. Ridiculous. More anger began to flood in, anger that had been shoved back behind a wall of terror for years. "You must be joking," Clark responded.
"I want to bring Bureau 39 down as much as you do," Thompson shrugged, gesturing grandly. "I have all the evidence to bring Trask to justice, which I will provide at the press conference today. What I need *you* to do, is convince Miss Lane not to print anything, and, of course, cooperate such that Trask will believe I'm bringing you along for a public roasting."
Clark had managed to get himself fully upright now. The room wasn't spinning anymore. His powers were still a complete loss, however, and everything ached as though his nerve endings had been strung through a cheese grater. Wincing as he experimentally flexed his left arm, and then his right, he stretched a bit. Pain shot back through the muscles, but he kept a straight face. To his credit, Thompson was giving him full mobility, and didn't appear to have any lack of trust. There were no guards to back the elder man up.
"And where will that leave you?" Clark asked, glancing at the door, not five feet away from him. If he were to lunge--
Another twinge in his muscles curbed that thought.
"Well, in a few weeks, President, I hope," Thompson answered.
A masthead symbol for oppression, leader of a country known for its freedom of expression. The irony wasn't lost. Clark glanced at the door again, debating. There was no way he would be able to get to it feeling the way he was.
He looked back to Thompson. Back into his slate-gray eyes. There was humanity there. He hadn't really taken the time to study Thompson, but now that he was upright and not racked in pain, he was being a little more analytical. Thompson was old. Old and frail and human. Not some omniscient beast that Clark had imagined.
And suddenly he felt the well of fear that had been collecting begin to dissipate, and the anger was all that was left behind. Pure. Empowering. With a sneer, Clark shot back, "You disgust me."
Thompson raised an eyebrow, apparently not expecting such a snippy response. He raised his hands, palms forward in a universal symbol of placation. "All of this will end if you just cooperate," Thompson responded, his voice dropping in volume and tone. Soothing. A true politician. It only made Clark mad, but Thompson, for all the politician in him, didn't give up. "Trask has been after you your whole life. I would have thought you of all people would want to stop him. Just think. You could be free of him forever. You could be Miracle Man again, if you so chose."
"I want to stop him," Clark snorted. "But not at the expense of letting another killer go free."
And it was true, Clark noted with wonderment, now that he was focusing carefully on it. He didn't want Trask merely stopped. He wanted a hand in it. The feeling was like a slow fire burning. Where had this mindset generated? Earlier in the day he'd wanted nothing more than for Lois to back off and everything to go away. He'd been terrified.
And yet, ever since he'd taken to the air, things had been gaining a clarity he'd never noticed before. Since Lois had found him in the stairwell, he'd resigned to the fate of helping her investigate, instead of stepping in her path and using his own willpower to back her off. Not that his willpower would have been a match for Lois, but, he'd just stepped aside with a grin, despite the fact that he'd thought he was going to his doom.
And then, as he'd gone towards his ship, it'd all started piecing together--
"You too with the murderer thing," Thompson shook his head. "Really, I've killed no one."
Lois must have been alive enough to toss that particular accusation at him. Clark found himself grinning like a fool despite his dire situation. Well. Thompson was fairly old. Definitely not overpowering. Maybe Clark *could* subdue him.
When he shifted and his vision started to black out a bit, he hesitated again.
Maybe that wasn't such a great idea.
Ironic that he finally had courage and no physical faculties to back it up.
Hmmm. What would Lois do? Probably make more sarcastic remarks.
"I'll believe that when you let me go," he taunted, not caring what response he provoked. Not caring anymore, except that this man had to be stopped, somehow.
Thompson finally seemed to realize he was at an impasse, and his political look of appeasement disappeared behind his normal, cold veneer. "What a quandary we're in," Thompson said. "You won't believe me until I let you go, and I can't let you go until you believe me. The same thing happened with Miss Lane."
Well that was one-hundred-percent genuine Lois.
"Yeah, what a quandary," Clark commented wryly. "Imagine that."
Thompson looked extremely angry at this point. Obviously Clark was not behaving as planned. Not as submissive now am I, huh, Clark thought. The voice that always seemed to chime in about his cowardice was quiet indeed. Mostly it was just buzzing about rescuing Lois still.
"Well, Mr. Kent. We still have a few hours before I have to go to the conference. I'll give you a little while to think my proposition over."
Clark quirked an eyebrow. "And what if I don't agree still?"
Thompson's face turned a bit pink, as though someone had splattered just the faintest bit of blush across his cheeks. It was the least amount of composure Clark had ever seen the man with. No, Thompson was definitely not very happy. "I don't think anyone will miss you," he growled. He peered at Clark once more and let loose a disdainful snort before exiting.
The door slammed behind the retreating politician, and Clark found himself grinning of all things, even as the lock clicked into place, ominous and unforgiving. He swung his feet over the side of the table. Might as well test to see how bad that was.
It wasn't.
Things swam a little bit, and for a moment he thought he was going to pass out as seeping black tendrils gripped his vision, but the aches were slowly dissipating as time went on. His balance wasn't great at all until he took a few laps around the table and tested it out. Muscles complained for a bit until they once again got used to motion. The more circles he did, the less he felt like he was going to fall over.
He imagined it was like a hangover was supposed to feel.
So.
He wasn't in fighting shape, but he wasn't in horrible shape either. What next?
He again pictured what Lois would do. She'd have probably kneed her guards in the groin and took off at a run. Except Clark didn't have guards. Thompson was obviously a bit overconfident about how badly Clark had been incapacitated, and how much of a fight he would offer, regardless.
Clark went over and tested the handle on the door. Definitely locked. He twisted it a little harder, hoping some vestige of his strength remained, and that the thing would snap off. But no such luck -- it remained firmly stuck in place.
What would a normal person do in this situation? He couldn't very well hope to slam through the door -- that would make too much noise and he didn't know the layout of the area. He checked, just in case. No special vision to help him. And besides, even if he *had* vision still, he doubted he would get very far with the lead paint.
He did a full turn, examining the room he was in. What tools did he have to work with? Just his glasses, it seemed. There was nothing on the table he could use. Wait.
He shuffled back to the table and looked at the corner closest to the door. Must be an old table. The laminate surface was peeling back, just enough for him to get a grip on it with his fingers. He clawed at it and struggled with it until he managed to worm his index and middle fingers underneath it. Then he yanked up. He worked the laminate backwards until he had a triangular piece, perhaps the size of an index card. Then he started twisting at it until it ripped off. It would do.
He approached the door and jammed it into the crack between the door and the wall, working it, hopefully, between the lock and the stop. It stuck strangely, and for a long time the lock didn't seem to want to move. Perhaps the laminate was too thin and flexible? It was definitely a lot more flexible than a credit card. He glared at his handiwork in consternation.
Well, what now? Maybe there was a way to make the material more stiff...
He didn't have time to debate further, however, because as he jiggled the laminate some more in frustration, the lock finally decided to give way and the door popped back toward him. In surprise, he lost his grip on the makeshift lock pick, which in turn lost its purchase in the jam and slipped to the floor with a splat sound. He jumped out of the way as the door yawed slowly backwards along its arc with a barely audible moan. There, standing with her hand out as though she had just opened the door herself, was Lois. She popped her gaze down to the piece of table that now lay resting at his feet, and then looked back at him.
"Well," she said, "I was going to rescue you, but this works too."
*****
TBC...
(end part 20/??)
