Lois & Clark Forums Forums Fan Fiction Lois & Clark Fanfic Savior (Prologue, 1-4/15)

Savior

By Bek

Rating: PG-13



Summary: As night falls on an old abandoned warehouse just outside Metropolis, Lois finds more than just a front-page story when she helps rescue a man who’s been imprisoned and subjected to unthinkable torture for nearly fifteen years. What will become of him as he’s thrown into a world he hasn’t seen since his too-short childhood? And how will Lois reconcile her complicated feelings for him as their friendship grows?

Author’s Notes: This story is something I’ve been working on for a while now, although the final five chapters or so just came together in the last week. It is a bit heavy, and I’ve been told I should add the warning that although I really, really broke Clark (as you’ll see in the first few chapters), I do put him all back together by the end of the story. Really, I promise!

It seems like I’m a broken record, repeating this yet again, but I’d like to thank KSaraSara for all of the encouragement in the last couple months. And for the last-minute read through and help with a couple sections. And for commiserating with me over summary writing!

The story has 15 chapters (~62,000 words), and my plan is to post several chapters per day to try to get it all up by the end of the year. Sorry if some of the chunks are big! I tried to divide them up more according to the content, and it made sense.

The rating is solidly PG-13 for some descriptions of violence and torture.

Thank you all for your encouragement, and I hope you enjoy this one!







A sharp pain like nothing he’d ever felt spread through the boy’s body, radiating from a single point in his left shoulder. The hammer dropped from his hand, clattering loudly on the frozen ground, and the boy screwed his eyes shut as his legs gave out. His knees hit the solid earth, and he struggled for breath.

“Dad?” His voice sounded weak, but it could have just been that everything around him buzzed. Loudly. Or it could have been the stabbing of a million tiny needles at his temples. He doubled over, clutching at his head, as the pain intensified.

“Clark? Son, what’s wrong?” He recognized his father’s voice, but it was muffled, like his own voice.

Then, through the haze, several things happened at once. Shouting erupted not far away, and his dad’s voice boomed with anger in the young boy’s ears.

“Who the hell are you, and what are you doing on my property?!”

If he hadn’t been so engulfed in pain, the boy would have been quite taken aback at the mild curse word leaving his dad’s lips. However, not a moment later, a scuffle broke out next to him, and four rough hands hoisted him up off the ground, sending spasms of sharp pains through his head, chest, arms, and abdomen. He forced his eyes open, but immediately regretted it as the afternoon light intensified the feeling. The million tiny needles were now knives. Razor-sharp knives, slicing him from every direction. Vaguely, he saw men in black army gear—a lot of men—and a bunch of black SUVs. And his dad, being hauled at gunpoint several feet in front of him. And his mom, down the hill, rushing out of the house and screaming his name.

“Mom!” he cried, and he attempted to struggle. He was usually strong. Stronger than most boys his age. But now, he could barely move, and the solid hands gripping him did not yield. “Let me go! Mom! Help!”

The boy felt tears streaming down his cheeks. Before he could cry out again, he was shoved into the back of one of the vehicles, and another sharp pain pierced him, this time in his right shoulder.

And the world went black.






“Ms. Lane?”

Lois Lane looked up from her computer screen, and her inquisitive brown eyes met the bespectacled gaze of an older woman who stood nervously a few feet from her desk, clutching a purse tightly between her hands. That’s what the name placard says, she thought sarcastically, but she held back the retort. The woman looked genuinely anxious, and something else that Lois couldn’t explain flashed in the woman’s eyes. Lois cleared her throat.

“Yes, I’m Lois Lane,” she replied tersely, swiveling her chair to face the woman. “Can I help you?”

The woman’s bright blue eyes darted around the room before settling back on Lois. A tear escaped from the corner of her eye and slid down her cheek, and the woman quickly reached up and wiped it away. Lois’s curiosity was sufficiently peaked. She stood and grabbed a chair from the desk next to hers, offering it to the older woman, who sat appreciatively.

“I-I don’t know if you can help me, Ms. Lane, but I’ve tried everything else, and—” The woman’s hands moved to cover her mouth, and she stifled a sob. She shook her head briefly, as if to shoo away her sadness, and then raised her eyes back to Lois. “My name is Martha Kent, Ms. Lane, and I came here to ask your help with finding my son, Clark, who was abducted from our home in Smallville, Kansas fifteen years ago.”

Lois blinked several times as she processed the woman’s words. Many thoughts raced through Lois’s mind, but she tried to keep her expression neutral.

“Mrs. Kent, I appreciate your candor, but why do you think I can help you? That sounds like a job for the police. I’m sorry that you’ve traveled such a long way,” Lois said quietly, reaching out to take the older woman’s hand in her own. The trembling, cold fingers in her hand gave her pause. Something about this woman… She shook her head. “I mean… Can you tell me about your son?”

Martha’s tired, sad eyes lowered to her hands, and she pulled away from Lois for a moment and reached into her purse. She handed Lois an aged photograph of a young boy, maybe ten years old, with a huge toothy grin. His dark hair fell loosely over his forehead, and his eyes… Lois stared at the picture, her fingers absently tracing around the edge of the image.

“Clark Jerome Kent,” Martha murmured, pulling a tissue out of her purse and blotting her eyes underneath her glasses. “He was a happy boy. He loved everything about life. He…he loved to go fishing with his dad and help me bake apple pies in the summer. And he was smart—always straight A’s in school. The teachers loved him. He was kind and funny and…”

Her voice trailed off, and Lois looked up from the photograph. The woman stared at her hands again, a faraway look in her eyes.

“Mrs. Kent?”

Martha flinched and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Sorry, Ms. Lane—”

“Please, call me Lois.”

“Lois. Sorry, I-I miss my boy so much. I saw the article you wrote in last Sunday’s paper. The one about the missing children. And I thought—well, I don’t really know what I was thinking. I suppose I’ve come an awfully long way to ask for your help. But the police won’t reopen his case, and I’ve gotten nowhere trying to get the FBI or DOJ to listen,” she rambled.

Lois handed her back the photograph, which the older woman carefully placed in a folder in her purse, and then lifted her coffee mug. The empty mug reminded her that she’d been about to get up for a refill. She frowned and set the mug back down.

“Mrs. Kent, I—” She sighed. This is going to be a long day. “How about I get us some fresh coffee, and you can tell me more about your son?”

“Thank you, Lois. I would appreciate that very much.”

Lois stood and moved away from the desk, her coffee cup in hand. Across the bullpen, Perry White stepped out of his office. His eyes met hers, then darted to her desk and back. The Editor-in-Chief raised his eyebrows for a moment in a questioning gesture, but Lois just shrugged. She’d tell him about it later, or not, if it turned out to be nothing. A fifteen-year-old cold case of child abduction really didn’t seem like it could end well.

But something about the woman…

Yep, this is going to be a long day.



They moved into the conference room, where they could have a bit more privacy, and then the older woman began telling Lois a chilling story that started fifteen years ago. A story involving a government agency that apparently didn’t exist, a police force that couldn’t seem to do their job, and a family that had been broken apart.

Clark Jerome Kent. He would be twenty-five years old now. They’d adopted him as a child since they’d been unable to have children of their own—Martha Kent and her husband Jonathan, that is. They’d raised him at their farm in Smallville, Kansas, a tiny town about an hour outside Wichita. He’d been a perfect child—kind, smart, happy. She said he slept like an angel when he was an infant, never cried, always listened, always ate his vegetables, and loved to help with the chores.

One afternoon, shortly after his tenth birthday, Clark had been helping his father fix a broken fence rail when five large black SUVs had driven down their driveway. At least twenty men in black riot gear had jumped out of the vehicles, brandishing military-style weapons. Martha had run outside, only to be stopped by a man in a neat gray suit who called himself Jason Trask. The man had handed Martha official-looking documents which he said authorized him to take Clark. Jonathan and Martha had been held at gunpoint while Clark was forced into the back of one of the vehicles, fighting them weakly as he cried.

And that was the last time she’d seen him. They’d contacted the police immediately and then the FBI and DOJ when the police had been unable or unwilling to look into the supposed kidnapping. However, no one in either government agency knew anything about young Clark’s abduction, and there appeared to be no record of a Jason Trask working for the government in any capacity.

“I tried to do what I could, Lois,” Martha said quietly, blotting away more tears as she finished her story. “I followed up several times a week with the police and the FBI. They finally told me to stop calling them and said they would call me if they found anything new.”

Lois was silent for a long time. She flipped through the folder Martha had given her. The well-organized file contained a collection of documents, phone call records, and other notes from the woman’s fifteen-year battle. She paused abruptly as a name on one of the documents jumped out at her. Clayborn. Adam Clayborn. She knew him from work she did on another story about a year ago. Lois lifted the paper slowly, reading the lines of Martha’s neat handwriting. Clayborn had called her on July 10, 1981, five years after Clark was taken. They had spoken briefly, and Clayborn had told her he had information for her and would follow up. Lois’s eyes darted down the rest of the page, which listed phone calls Martha or Jonathan had made or received related to Clark’s disappearance. Clayborn’s name was not mentioned again.

“This man—Adam Clayborn—he never called you back?” Lois asked, setting the paper down in front of Martha on the conference table and pointing to the name.

Martha scooted closer to the table and pushed her glasses higher up her nose as she looked down at the page. She closed her eyes for a moment and then shook her head.

“No, but that happened a lot,” Martha explained. A flicker of some emotion crossed her face, and the older woman lowered her eyes for a moment. She added quietly, “Occasionally, it seemed like they’d have a new person call us just to pacify us so that I’d stop hounding them, you know?”

Lois nodded and looked back down at the paper while gathering her courage. She wanted to help this woman, but… She placed the paper back in the folder.

“Martha, I—”

Underneath the next page, the colorful photograph Martha had given her earlier peeked out. Lois inhaled sharply as she pulled out the photo and stared at it again.

His smile. His eyes. There was just something about him…

“Martha, I don’t know if I can do anything to help you, or if I can find something new. It’s been a really long time, and—”

“Ms. Lane—err, Lois, I read your article from last week, and you just helped save thirty-two children who were abducted nearly seven years ago. Now, I know Clark’s case is different and happened much longer ago, and… But, well, I just had this feeling that you could help me. I can’t really explain it. Jonathan, he said I’m crazy to come all this way, but—”

“It’s just a feeling,” Lois finished for her, blinking back tears as she watched the older woman fumble with the strap of her purse. Martha nodded, and Lois closed the folder on the desk. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment, picturing the young boy and wondering what he would look like today—that is, if he were still alive, which seemed unlikely. Lois reached forward and placed her hand over Martha’s. “I’ll see what I can do, Mrs. Kent.”



The man lay in a crumpled heap on the floor in the white room, blood seeping slowly out of a new cut on his cheek. He closed his eyes and tried to muster up the energy to move to his cot in the corner. But he felt too weak. They’d taken too much from him today.

Twisting away from the door, he curled up onto his side and clutched at his stomach. He could almost feel the bruises forming. Why had they hit him today? He must have looked at them wrong. Again. Not that they seemed to need a reason to hit him.

An unwelcoming tightness began to grow in his chest, and he immediately tensed as he felt his heart start to race.

In. Two. Three. Out. Two. Three. In. Two. Three. Out. Two. Three.

He repeated the chant in his head to help him stabilize his breathing, but it did nothing to stop the lightheadedness that always accompanied the rapid increase in his heart rate. Nevertheless, he persisted with the chant, knowing that the feeling would pass in several minutes. Then, he could hopefully force himself to crawl to his cot.

After what felt like an eternity, the dizziness faded, replaced by an intense throbbing at his temples. Moving slowly, he turned onto his stomach, placed his palms on the cold, hard ground of his cell, and grunted with effort as he pushed himself up onto his knees. His arms shook, and blood dripped from his face, the dark red blotches marring the otherwise clean, white floor.

They’d be mad about that too.

He held back tears. No crying allowed. And he hauled himself up into his cot and collapsed into an exhausted sleep.






Cold. She was so cold. Freezing really. Pretty much every body part—her toes, her ears, her fingers, her nose. Freezing. To hell with winter. Why hadn’t she moved to California last summer when her sister had offered? She could be lying on a warm beach, the sun shining down on her, an alcoholic beverage in one hand and a good book in the other. Instead, here she was. Digging through the snow along the outside of whatever this god forsaken fortress was, chasing a lead that would probably be another dead end. The fence seemed to go on forever, and the knee-deep layer of freezing white snow slowed her progress as she marched on, looking for a hole to climb under or through.

Her source had seemed pretty solid, but this time, well, she was about to give up. She was just too damn cold. She’d dressed for it, but after a half hour, even the warmest winter socks could no longer keep the chill out.

Her hand grasped the fence, and she tugged herself along another step and then another. The building off to her right was a massive warehouse, seemingly abandoned, with no windows and only an occasional door every few hundred feet. The building stretched on and on into the darkness, and Lois squinted again at the wall, trying to find the number on the next door. Fourteen. She was looking for a door labeled ‘14.’ And there should be a person-sized hole in the fence near the same spot. She grumbled to herself again as she trudged on.

Ten minutes and many curse words later, Lois’s hand rattled the fence, and it shook loose, breaking inward slightly. Stunned, she glanced over at the building. Sure enough, through the moonlight, which glinted off the thick layer of fresh white snow, she saw a green door labeled with the number ‘14.’ A sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach forced Lois to scan the area carefully before she pushed through the fence and lowered herself deeper into the snow, hoping it would provide her with some sort of cover. Progress was slow, but no alarms sounded, no lights switched on, and no dogs came barking to get her. Eventually, she covered the distance to the warehouse and sidled up against the wall, breathing heavily.

All right, Clayborn, you were right so far. She glanced at her watch. Five more minutes. She closed her eyes and waited. And waited. And waited. Her body grew colder.

Finally, a quiet click from the door next to her, the door labeled ‘14,’ startled her out of her daze. She shifted against the wall, ready to attack if the person on the other side ended up being hostile. A head of gray hair peeked out the door, and a man’s blue eyes met hers. The man was older, tall, and lanky, and he looked anxious. He glanced behind him and then opened the door a little wider.

“Ms. Lane?”

Lois nodded, still on edge. She moved slightly away from the wall to give herself a little space if she needed to run or fight. But the man didn’t seem like a threat. If anything, he seemed more terrified than she was.

“Clayborn told me that you’d help me, Ms. Lane,” the man whispered.

“Um, yeah, something like that. Danny, right?” Lois answered cautiously. Her fingers were numb with cold now, and she forced herself to stand tall against the aching in her joints.

The man nodded and stepped outside to join her. The door shut behind them, and Lois shifted back a step, her senses still on high alert. Danny shoved his hands into his pockets and shivered in the cold, then pulled out a cigarette. He offered Lois one, and she shook her head quickly. He shrugged.

“I’ve worked here for fifteen years, Ms. Lane,” the man said, his voice trembling. He lit up his cigarette and took a quick puff. “And I can’t do it no more.”

“And why’s that?” Lois prodded, watching Danny carefully as he stared out into the snow-covered forest surrounding the warehouse. He pulled his coat tighter around himself and took another puff of his cigarette.

“I should’ve quit five years ago when they gave me the chance,” he stated, ignoring Lois’s question. She frowned, but let him continue. “You see, when they first brought him in, he was just a little boy.”

“Clark?” Lois cut in, her heart beginning to beat harder in her chest. Maybe this lead wasn’t a dead end after all—not like all the others.

Danny shrugged. “Is that his name? They call him AI-1. I’ve never known any different.”

“AI-1?”

Danny gave her a look that Lois couldn’t quite interpret. A warning, maybe? Then he shifted his gaze back out to the forest.

“Doesn’t matter what his name is, Ms. Lane. All that matters is that they’ve got some real nasty stuff cooked up for him for next week, and I can’t be a part of it no more,” Danny explained. He kicked at the snow and then glanced over his shoulder at the door, as though expecting it to open. He tossed his half-smoked cigarette onto the ground and then turned to Lois. “They brought him here and said he was a threat to the world, Ms. Lane. But he was just a boy. They’ve done all sorts of bad things to him, studyin’ him ‘in the name of science,’ they say. But now…”

He trailed off again. Lois forced herself to stay quiet; she didn’t want to scare the man off. Her heart pounded, however, and her mind raced with questions.

“Anyways, Ms. Lane, I need help getting him outta here so they can let me quit. There ain’t no reason to have security here if he’s not here. Clayborn said you could help me. Clayborn was here with me at the very beginning, you know.”

Lois didn’t know that, but she nodded anyways. She needed him to keep talking so she had more time to think and process this information. Clark Kent was here. And alive.

“Yeah, but then he quit in ‘81. Said he didn’t like the direction Trask was going,” Danny continued. He shifted uncomfortably and scanned the area again. “I agreed with him, but—”

“Wait, Trask? As in Jason Trask?” Lois’s head snapped up as the name registered in her head. She’d remembered Martha Kent mentioning Jason Trask as the man who’d been in charge the day Clark had been abducted. Although it had been nearly three weeks since she’d spoken with Martha that first time, she’d also had another source warn her to “steer clear of Trask” during the course of her investigation, and she’d taken the warning to heart.

“Yeah, Jason Trask. He’s the head of this whole operation. Been here since the beginning. But look, Ms. Lane, I really don’t have much time left. I only get my five-minute cigarette break here, and Drack, well, he’ll be all over me if I’m not back in on time. I’m surprised he hasn’t broken down the door searching for me yet.”

As though to illustrate his point, a loud bang on the door behind him startled both of them, and Lois jumped back, pressing her back against the wall to stay out of sight as the door opened slightly.

“Yo, Dan, get yo’ ass back in here man. It’s time for his dosing, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let your damn cigarette break make us late. You know how much Trask hates that, man.” Danny seemed to shrink into himself at the coarse voice, and he nodded.

“Almost done. Give me two more minutes. I need the fresh air. It’s stuffy in there,” Danny complained, shifting away from Lois to draw his coworker’s attention the other direction.

“And it’s friggin’ freezin’ out there. Don’t be late, man,” Drack warned, and the door slammed shut, the sound echoing out into the otherwise quiet night.

Lois pushed herself away from the wall, letting out the breath she’d been holding.

“So, what do I do?” she asked hastily, keeping her voice low. “I have friends at the police precinct nearby. I can call them—”

“If you do that, he’s dead,” Danny interrupted. “They have a whole system set up here. The alarm goes off, and his room will be instantly incinerated. They don’t want to take any chances of him escaping.”

Lois didn’t like the sound of that at all. She lowered her eyes to the ground as she wracked her brain trying to come up with a plan. But Danny started speaking again, his voice dropping lower still.

“Look, I got a plan,” he said nervously. He pulled a folded-up paper from his pocket and handed it to her, his hands shaking. “It’s all there. We do need the police, but only after he’s safely out of the building. I wrote it all down. I have to go. Tomorrow night, 11 p.m. That’s when Drack has his dinner break. That’s our best shot. It’s all there, Ms. Lane.”

And then he disappeared quickly through door 14, leaving Lois shivering in the cold snow, holding a piece of paper with the plans for Clark Kent’s rescue from…whatever this was. Lois stuffed the paper in the pocket of her coat and hurried back through the snow the way she’d come.



The feeling had finally returned to her fingers by the time she pulled her Jeep up to the curb outside her apartment building an hour and a half later. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the folded paper. Frowning, she shoved it back into her coat. Patience, Lane, she told herself. She scanned her surroundings, checking again that she hadn’t been followed, and then hurried inside.

Several minutes later, a fresh, hot cup of coffee in her hands, she settled at her kitchen table, notes and file folders spread out all around her, and set the paper from Danny in front of her. Unfolded, it was no more than a regular notebook page with a bulleted list of instructions in barely legible handwriting. But as she read through, she found herself nodding and trembling at the same time. He’d thought through everything, she realized. But it was risky. And she still really had no idea what was going on inside the walls of that building.

Lois reached over to a folder sitting on her right—the folder Martha Kent had given her three weeks ago. She opened it up and pulled out the photograph of the young Clark Kent, and then, as she had several times in the last few weeks, she set the photograph in front of her and just stared at it.

Danny had said the boy was supposedly a threat to all of mankind. But to Lois, he looked just like a normal kid. A happy, kind, decidedly normal kid. So why had they taken him in the first place? And why had they kept him there so long?

She sipped her coffee and shifted her focus back to the list of instructions from Danny. A big asterisk marked one of the notes on the page, and Lois frowned. If she was interpreting his handwriting correctly, the note said, “Dosed at exactly 10 p.m. every night, so will be difficult to move. Bring help.” Dosed? With what? And how difficult to move? Otherwise, the plan seemed solid. She needed to make some phone calls. Timing seemed to be most critical.

She picked up her cell phone, hesitated for only a second, and then dialed a number.

“Henderson, it’s Lois. Sorry to call so late. I need your help.”



The door clicked open behind him, and two sets of footsteps approached—one heavier, one lighter. Closing his eyes tightly, since they hated when he made eye contact, the man turned onto his back and lay quietly, passively on the cot, his right arm tight against his side. The cool air drifting in from the hallway through the open door passed over his naked body and almost made him shiver, but he held himself still.

Don’t move.

Without uttering a word, the two men stopped next to his cot. As always, he felt a tiny flicker of fear in the back of his mind. Maybe tonight would be the night. Maybe they’d finished with him.

An evil man’s words from long ago echoed in his head.

“One day, we will have learned all we can from you, and then, we will kill you. A long, slow, painful death fit for the disgusting abomination you are. You will wish you’d never come to Earth. Dirty alien.”

Those were some of the last words that anyone had spoken to him, besides simple commands like, “Sit,” and “Don’t move.” He heard that one a lot. And if he disobeyed…

The man screwed his eyes shut as a sharp pain speared his shoulder. But he didn’t cry out or pull away. He knew better. The blonde heavyset man liked to hurt him, and the man who smelled of cigarettes never intervened. Pain spread through his body from the drug they’d injected. Just like every other night. For as long as he could remember.

He tried to focus on anything else, but he knew it was futile. The pain was all-consuming, overpowering any other thoughts. Soon, he heard the door click shut, and he knew he was alone again. He gave in and turned back onto his side, curling up and wrapping his arms around himself. The pain would fade after a while, but it never really left him anymore. They made sure of that.

Time passed, and, as he knew it would, the sharp pain dulled into a distant throbbing ache. He opened his eyes carefully and stared at the plain white wall less than a foot from his face. How many hours had he sat staring at this wall?

His mind started to wander, and his eyes closed again as he imagined a world filled with bright colors. Blue was his favorite. The sky was blue. Wasn’t it? He thought so. And red, blood was red; that was his least favorite. Definitely. Although… He hesitated. Blood wasn’t really red, red. It was a dark red. He liked bright red, he decided. Yes. Bright red, like… An image of a tree filled with bright red circular fruits popped into his mind. And a smell. Sweet and crisp. Apples. That’s right. Apples. Apples were red. He liked that red. Not blood red.

There were other colors too. Green was a good one. Green like grass and trees. Yellow, too. Yellow was…a house. Yellow houses. A feeling of comfort and familiarity washed over him, though he wasn’t sure why.

A sound from behind him interrupted his color game, and he felt his body tense as the smell of cigarettes wafted into the room. A single set of footsteps approached clumsily, and he felt the person lean over him.

“She’s comin’ for you tomorrow,” the hoarse voice of the cigarette man told him. “Tomorrow night. Then I’m gonna be done with this. Don’t say nuthin’. Not that you talk anyways. But be good and keep quiet, and tomorrow you’ll get outta here.”

And then he was gone.

The man shifted onto his back, his color game forgotten as fear gripped him. Who was coming for him? She? A girl? He hadn’t seen a girl since…his mom. No, he wouldn’t think about his mom. He couldn’t. He shouldn’t. A tear threatened to fall.

No crying, or else.

With a weak, shaky hand, he reached up and wiped the tear from his cheek.

No crying, or else.

He pushed all thoughts of the cigarette man’s words out of his mind. No one would be coming for him. Not after all this time. They’d forgotten about him and moved on; he was sure of it.

Orange. Oranges were orange. He laughed to himself. Orange oranges. Ha. And the sunrise. That was orange and pink. Purple also—there were purple flowers. They bloomed as the Sun rose in the morning. Purple and pink and yellow flowers in a brown wooden box sitting on the porch of a yellow and white house. The blue sky dotted with clouds, and green fields of grass sweeping out around in all directions.

Tears streamed down his face.

No, no crying. His hands covered his eyes, and he turned to face the wall again. The plain white wall. No more color game, he decided. And he shut his eyes, turning everything black, as he willed himself to go to sleep.





The snow had all melted thanks to much higher temperatures during the daylight hours, and the full Moon lit up the sky, providing some light to help as they stumbled through the woods.

However, Lois’s hands still shook as she snuck along the fence line, carefully keeping an eye on the time. Her earpiece buzzed, and a familiar voice said, “We’re all in place, Lois. Ready to go when you give the word.”

She tapped the transmitter on her wrist and then responded, “Thanks, Henderson. Five to ten minutes, about.”

Behind her, a muted curse, followed by a loud crash made her flinch.

“Ouch! Lois, you didn’t tell me there would be killer trees out here,” a hushed voice complained. Branches and twigs snapped as her companion pulled himself back to his feet.

“Shh, Jimmy, keep quiet, please,” Lois grumbled. “We’re almost there, and we only have a couple minutes left. We can’t be late. Come on!” Keeping low to the ground, Lois pushed back the fence at the same spot as the previous night, just across from door 14. She motioned Jimmy Olsen through ahead of her and then followed. The two snuck across the open space, and Lois held her breath until they made it safely to the wall. She looked again at her watch. 10:58.

“Jimmy, be ready. I don’t know what shape he’s going to be in,” Lois whispered, turning briefly to her companion. He nodded and shouldered the backpack she’d given him.

“Got it, Lois,” he replied.

She bit her lower lip and turned back to the door. 10:59.

Not more than a minute later, the door clicked open. Next to her, Jimmy pressed himself back against the wall tighter, and Lois held her breath as the door inched outward slowly. Danny poked his head out, his gray hair covered with a black beanie and his blue eyes anxiously darting around. Lois stepped away from the wall a tiny bit as Danny looked nervously over his shoulder, blinking several times.

“She’s here, just like she said,” Danny commented in a low voice. He turned to Lois. “He’s really out of it tonight. They were tough on him today. Lots of blood draws. I hope you brought help, Ms. Lane.”

Lois’s stomach lurched. Lots of blood draws? What was this place? She shook herself mentally and nodded quickly to Danny, tugging Jimmy from his place against the wall.

“We’ll manage,” she insisted, crossing her arms over her chest to hide her shaking hands.

Danny frowned, but then nodded and moved back inside for a second. The door opened fully, and Danny pushed a wheelchair out into the cold, dark night. Its occupant was dressed in only a light blue hospital gown. No socks. No shoes. No coat. No pants. Nothing. He was pale, as though he hadn’t seen the Sun in years, which he maybe hadn’t, Lois realized, and his dark hair was cut short, military style. His bare arms were covered in bruises and needle marks, and a deep cut ran across his cheek, down to his jawline. He was gaunt and frail.

She knelt down next to the wheelchair.

“Jimmy, give him your coat, please,” Lois instructed quietly. “And the shoes and socks from the backpack.”

“Of course, yeah,” Jimmy agreed, immediately stripping his coat off and handing it to Lois.

In the doorway, Danny nervously glanced over his shoulder and shifted from foot to foot. He cleared his throat. Lois looked up at him briefly, but then back to the man sitting in the wheelchair as she struggled to get the coat wrapped around his broad shoulders.

“The police—when will they be here? And they’re gonna arrest me, right? So’s Trask don’t think I’m involved. Like I wrote in the plan?” Danny’s voice was hushed but shaky. He slipped a foot back inside the door and peeked down the hallway.

“Yes. They’re just down the road, waiting for my signal to go. We just need to get him safely away from the building, into the woods. Five minutes, tops,” Lois responded. She tried to keep the anger out of her tone, but she couldn’t. “You couldn’t give him pants or a coat or anything? He’s going to freeze. Jimmy, hurry with those socks, please.”

Jimmy mumbled a quick “yes, ma’am” and pulled a pair of thick wool socks and tennis shoes from the backpack, then crouched down and tugged the socks onto the man’s feet. The man flinched at Jimmy’s touch, and his eyes opened about half way, revealing dark brown irises. He started to lift a hand off the wheelchair, but then seemed to think better of it.

Danny inched his way back in through the door, muttering something while continuing to glance behind him. Finally, Lois stood and tapped the transmitter on her wrist.

“Five minutes, Henderson. We have Clark, and we’re about to leave into the woods. He’s in bad shape. Have the ambulance meet us at the spot along Route 22, like we discussed. My Jeep is parked there.”

She waited for an affirmation that her message had been received, and then helped Jimmy finish tying the second shoe. Her eyes darted from Jimmy back to Danny, and the older man nodded before disappearing back into the building. The door clicked shut quietly behind him, and Lois exhaled shakily.

“Y-you c-called me Clark,” the man rasped. He opened his eyes again, a little wider this time, and raised his chin slightly to look up at her. Her breath caught in her throat as their eyes met. He was definitely the little boy from Martha’s photo. But his eyes were haunted, dark, and scared—nothing like they’d been before…

Despite their need to hurry, she knelt down beside him again and gently put her gloved hand over his. She smiled at him and said softly, “Your mother told me all about you, Clark. She loves you very much.”

He closed his eyes again, and a single tear fell down his cheek. From the other side of the wheelchair, Jimmy cleared his throat, and Lois looked up at him sharply. Jimmy raised his eyebrows and tipped his head toward the forest. Right. They needed to hurry. Of course.

“I know it will be hard, Clark, but we need your help to get you out of here. Okay?” Lois spoke gently, squeezing his hand in hers, and the man nodded in understanding.

Together, Lois and Jimmy managed to hoist Clark to his feet. He was easily taller than both of them, maybe around six feet; despite this, he was quite thin and weighed relatively little, and they managed to make the trip from door 14 to the broken fence fairly quickly.

“Hold him up, Jimmy, and I’ll pull back the fence,” Lois instructed.

Hurriedly, she grabbed the edge of the chain link and pulled with all of her strength, creating a hole large enough for both men to squeeze through. Thankfully, Jimmy was stronger than he looked, and though Clark leaned on him heavily for support, they passed through with relative ease. Lois followed them a moment later, looped her arm back around Clark’s thin waist, and led the way into the dark woods.

“Lois, are we far enough away? Henderson?” Jimmy huffed as they trudged through the mud up a small hill, branches crunching beneath their feet.

“Yeah, I think so,” Lois replied. She slipped slightly on the wet earth, but caught herself as her arm tightened around Clark. She slowed to a stop and raised her left hand up, tapping the transmitter against her chin to activate it.

“H-Henderson?” Clark asked, his teeth chattering. He listed slightly toward Jimmy, who grunted with the effort of holding up the taller man. “S-sorry, I—”

“It’s okay, man, I got you,” Jimmy assured him, steadying both of them.

“Shh, both of you, I—Henderson, it’s a go… Yes. Thank you.” Lois tapped the transmitter again and then shifted her weight better to support Clark. “Just a little farther up this hill, and we’ll be there, Clark. You’re doing great.”

The three began moving again. Progress slowed as Clark became weaker, his breathing heavy and labored, but Lois gently encouraged him, and they pushed forward. Behind them, Lois heard sirens and an alarm, followed by shouting, but she didn’t allow them to stop. Finally, they reached the top of the crest, and flashing lights of an ambulance greeted them.

“Here! We’re here!” Jimmy called out, waving his free arm.

The loud noise and bright lights seemed to startle Clark, and he recoiled slightly, causing the group to stumble backwards. However, Lois and Jimmy steadied him and pushed forward. Three EMTs lifting a gurney met them after about another hundred feet or so.

“Ms. Lane?” the man in the lead asked, motioning to his companions to set down the gurney.

“Yes,” Lois replied quickly. She felt Clark trembling, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or from fear, and when she glanced at him, he was even paler than he’d been earlier. His eyes were screwed tightly shut, and his breathing was ragged and irregular. “Please, please help him.”

The EMTs took over, helping Clark onto the small bed and quickly covering him with a blanket. Lois reached out and took his hand as the EMTs began carrying him the rest of the way up the hill to the road, where the ambulance waited, and Clark opened his eyes weakly to look up at her.

“Th-thank you,” he stuttered feebly, and his eyes closed again.

Jimmy hurried up beside Lois as they finished the trek, his hands tucked under his arms for warmth. Lois glanced at her companion, and when their eyes met, she smiled at him, mouthing “Thank you.” Jimmy just nodded, clenched his jaw, and continued trudging up the hill.

As they reached the road, Lois’s earpiece beeped to life, and Henderson’s voice came in loud and clear.

“It’s done, Lois. Two men arrested, and my officers are confiscating everything. And your source was right. One room, which looked like where they kept him, it was completely destroyed before my men even got all the way into the building. How is he?”

Lois smiled as she tapped the transmitter on her wrist. “He’s with us here at the ambulance. Going to the hospital now. Thank you, Bill. I appreciate this more than you know. I’ll see you at the hospital later.”

Lois let go of Clark’s hand as the EMTs loaded him into the ambulance. The man’s eyes flew open, and a look of panic spread across his thin features. Quickly, Lois jumped up into the ambulance after him and took his hand again.

“I’m right here, Clark. I’m right here with you,” she assured him, her voice low and soft. She looked out the back of the vehicle, where Jimmy stood, his arms still wrapped tightly around himself to try to keep warm. With her free hand, Lois reached into her pocket and pulled out her keys. “Jimmy, will you drive my car to the hospital?”

“Yeah, of course,” he replied without hesitation. She tossed him the keys, and he caught them easily. He nodded to her and then hurried around the ambulance toward Lois’s Jeep.

Within less than a minute, they were speeding down the icy road, heading toward the city. The two EMTs in the back with Lois and Clark worked efficiently. They took his vitals and hooked him up to an IV saline drip. He stayed passive, but Lois felt his hand trembling in hers, and she knew he was terrified. She squeezed his hand gently and occasionally whispered that everything was going to be okay. Both EMTs eventually settled back into their seats as Clark’s vital signs appeared to be stable, and Lois saw the lights of the city greet them up ahead.

“Almost there. You’re doing great,” she told him again.

Still holding his hand, she reached up with her other hand and brushed a smudge of dirt off his forehead. His eyes fluttered open momentarily, and he seemed to try to smile at her, but the effort was too much. He closed his eyes again.

“How much longer?” she asked the nearest EMT, her voice quiet.

“About five minutes, Ms. Lane,” he answered. “Just up around that bend there.”

Lois nodded and settled back into her seat a bit. She allowed her eyes to close as the ambulance bumped along down the road. The hard part was done. This man, who had been held captive for fifteen years, was now safe. He could see his parents again, sleep in his own bed, eat home-cooked meals, make friends…

Oh God, she thought. Her stomach lurched, and she sat up and stared at him. Maybe the hard part was not done, she realized. Maybe the hard part was just beginning.

She took a deep breath and rubbed the back of his hand with her thumb.

Yes. The hard part was just beginning.



Her hand was his only lifeline. Everything else was bright and loud and unfamiliar and scary. And so he held her hand and tried to ignore the rest of the world. Her skin was soft and warm, and his fingers tightened ever so slightly around hers.

He was shaking; he could feel it. Trembling uncontrollably. He knew she could feel it, too, but somehow he knew she’d understand. He could tell from her voice. Her soothing, calm, in-control voice.

She’d called him Clark.

He’d almost forgotten that was his name.

But now, thanks to her, he remembered. He was Clark. Clark Kent. His parents were Martha and Jonathan Kent. From Smallville, Kansas. However, that was about as much as he remembered.

He screwed his eyes shut tighter as gloved fingers carefully cleaned the wound on his cheek and began applying a bandage. And a tiny prick in his arm was followed by a cold sensation spreading up into his chest. He opened his eyes just enough to see a needle taped onto his forearm. Fear seized him. What were they drugging him with now?

But then the woman—Lois, they had called her—she squeezed his hand again and told him, “Almost there. You’re doing great,” and he relaxed slightly. She wouldn’t let them hurt him. He knew it. Somehow, he just knew it.

Brown. Deep brown. That was the color of her eyes. Maybe his new favorite color. Yes, definitely.

He felt a gentle touch on his forehead, and startled, he opened his eyes. She smiled at him. A smile. How long had it been? Could he still smile? He tried, but he suddenly felt exhausted, and he closed his eyes again.

“How much longer?”

“About five minutes, Ms. Lane. Just up around that bend there.”

Words. Talking. The voices around him sounded so foreign. There was no anger in them. No disgust. No hatred.

And he’d spoken himself for the first time in…years, maybe? He wasn’t sure. His voice had worked, just like it should. Sort of. He’d fumbled a bit. Stuttered? Yeah, he thought that was the right word. But he’d spoken. And people around him talked to him and to each other. And the woman—Lois—she’d mentioned his mom. She’d said…

He suppressed a groan as pain and heat coursed through his abdomen.

Don’t move.

Freak. Alien. Abomination.

He forced himself to lie still on the gurney, his fingers still wrapped in Lois’s warm hand, as the vehicle bumped down the road. A monitor beeped to his right, and then another gloved hand touched his neck, pressing against him for a moment.

“What was that?” Lois asked quietly.

“His heart rate spiked up over 200 for a bit,” a man’s voice answered. “Probably nothing, but we’ll keep an eye on it.”

“Okay.”

After a moment, Clark felt her hand tighten in his again, and he turned his head slightly toward her. Her beautiful brown eyes gazed back at him with concern. She was worried about him. Not angry or disgusted. Not furious that he was looking at her. Not mistrusting or spiteful.

She smiled at him again. And he closed his eyes and thought that he’d maybe never seen anything so beautiful in his life as her smile.

“We’re pulling up to the hospital right now, Clark,” her sweet voice told him, and indeed, he felt the ambulance slow as it rattled and bumped along. “Your parents are on their way from Kansas, but it will take them a few hours to get here.”

“O-okay,” he croaked. His throat felt dry, and he tried to swallow, but a sharp pain caught him in the chest, and he froze again.

Don’t move.

Freak. Alien. Abomination.

Lois didn’t think that, did she? He felt her fingers start to slip out of his, and he tightened his hand in hers. He couldn’t let her go. He didn’t want to be alone with these unfamiliar men with their needles and beeping monitors and gloved hands.

“P-please d-don’t leave me. P-please st-stay. Please,” he stammered.

“I’ll stay here with you, Clark. Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.” Her voice drifted to him as though through a dense fog, and he latched onto it and held her hand as tightly as he could.

“Th-thank you.”

He wanted to look up at her, to see her beautiful eyes and kind smile again, but the gurney started to move, and he forced his eyes to stay shut. Voices echoed around him. Explanations that he didn’t understand. A gloved hand touched his shoulder, and a cold instrument pressed into his chest. He wanted to shrink away from it. He didn’t want them to touch him. But fear held him still.

Don’t move.

And then someone pressed a hand into his side—his bruised side where they’d hit him several days ago. Pain flared up again, white hot shards stabbing through his belly. And, once again, the world went dark.





Lois tapped her pen against her notepad, her fingers gripping the black plastic firmly. With a frustrated sigh, she looked across the room again to the man sleeping calmly in the hospital bed, several warm blankets still draped over him. Monitors beeped, providing evidence of his steady breathing and heart rate, and Lois found herself staring at the numbers on the screen, not for the first time. 123/78. 84 bpm. 97.3°F. 98% O2 saturation. Steady, stable, and within normal range.

She stood and stretched her arms up over her head as she tried to suppress a yawn. Henderson had come and gone, as had several other law enforcement officers, including two FBI agents, who had informed Lois that Jason Trask and several of his associates had been killed during an altercation with local authorities as they’d tried to board a plane to Russia. Danny and Drack had been arrested, questioned, and released, and Henderson’s team was still working with the FBI to confiscate all of the documents, samples, and other evidence left at the warehouse. Jimmy had stayed for several hours, supporting Lois and answering any questions the law enforcement officers had thrown at him, but he’d finally gone home to take a shower and get some sleep. Lois, however, couldn’t leave. She’d promised Clark she’d stay with him until his parents arrived, and although they’d managed to get seats on the first available flight from Kansas, they weren’t due in for at least another couple hours.

Which meant Lois should have plenty of time to get her story written for the afternoon edition of the Daily Planet.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. 5 a.m. No wonder she couldn’t think straight. She reached into her purse and pulled out a half-full bottle of water and a granola bar, then sat back down. The granola bar tasted stale, but she ate it anyways, and she downed the rest of the water in one long gulp. Then she stared again at her blank notepad.

Words. Words. Words.

None would come.

She didn’t usually have writer’s block. Actually—she paused and tilted her head sideways, scrunching her eyebrows together as she considered—she didn’t think she’d ever had writer’s block before today. But the problem, she knew, was not about finding the words to write the story. It was about deciding how much of this story to tell.

Her eyes drifted again to the man sleeping not more than three feet away. He snored softly in his sleep, and occasionally, his eyes twitched as though he dreamed. How would he see the world now, as a grown man who’d had his childhood taken away from him? How would he react to seeing his parents again? How could he ever have any sort of normal life after this?

Henderson had questioned Danny for over two hours, he’d told Lois. The man had given them details on everything—from the first days Clark had been held captive just about fifteen years ago, to the most recent experiments they’d been running on him. AI-1, they’d called him. “Alien Invader #1.” They’d thought this man, who’d only been a young boy at the time of his abduction, was an alien, sent to Earth to establish a base of operations in preparation for a much larger invasion. They’d pumped him full of a green chemical, which they called GK-1, prepared from an odd glowing green meteorite; the treatment had rendered him weak and sick. And they’d experimented on him in every way imaginable. For fifteen years. Never let outside. Never allowed to have books to read, toys to play with, music to listen to. Never given a hug. Never treated with any sort of kindness. And she’d also seen his scars and bruises as the nurses had changed him into a fresh hospital gown and cleaned him up. Surgical scars covered his abdomen, chest, and back, and scars from injuries marred his arms, face, and legs.

A tear slipped down Lois’s cheek, and she hastily wiped it away and lowered her gaze to her notepad again. She couldn’t write all of that. No, she needed to keep the article short. Bare bones. No crazy details about Trask’s delusions or the torture this man had been subjected to.

Resolved, she uncapped her pen and started writing.



A soft knock at the door startled her awake, and Lois sat up abruptly, her pen falling out of her hand and to the floor. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and looked up at the nurse who had entered the room. The woman smiled at Lois.

“Sorry to disturb you, Ms. Lane, but I need to check on Mr. Kent here,” she explained, her voice a low whisper. She shuffled over to the monitors and picked up Clark’s medical chart, which sat in a holder next to the bed.

“No problem, Nurse Anne,” Lois answered, her voice also low. “Guess I finally drifted off. It’s been a long night. Or morning. Or—” Lois glanced over at the clock again. 6:45 a.m. “Yeah, it’s been long.”

Nurse Anne smiled again and took down a few notes on the chart before checking the IV glucose and saline, which were still sufficiently full. She then spent a couple minutes listening to Clark’s breathing, which thankfully didn’t wake him, and turned to leave the room. She paused in the doorway.

“You’re kind to stay here with him, Ms. Lane. From what I understand, he’s been through hell.”

“I promised him I’d stay,” Lois replied quietly. She leaned over to pick up her pen and then glanced at the woman standing in the doorway. “And his mother. I promised her too.”

The nurse just nodded, then said, with a small smile, “I’ll bring you a cup of coffee and a sandwich. You look like you could use something. And Susan brought donuts today. She always gets the best. Let me guess—chocolate-covered old fashioned?”

Lois smiled and scooted back into the chair more. “You’re good. Anything with chocolate is a win for me. Thank you, Anne.”

From the hospital bed, Clark shifted in his sleep, mumbling incoherently. Lois glanced almost nervously at the monitors again. 119/75. 86 bpm. 97.4°F. 98.5% O2 saturation. Steady and stable still.

She set her notepad and pen down on the side table next to her chair, stood, and closed the distance between her and Clark with a single step. He was still pale, still gaunt, still bruised. But now he was safe. Her hand, almost of its own volition, moved to his forehead, and she gently caressed him, her fingers running over a small scar at his hairline. He mumbled in his sleep again and leaned into her touch slightly. With a quick intake of breath, she pulled her hand away. What was she doing? She had no right to touch him without his permission. Holding his hand, maybe. But touching his forehead? She watched as the muscles in his jaw twitched, and then she backed up and sat in her chair again, picking up her notepad to finish her story.

Twenty minutes later, now fed, caffeinated, and somewhat energized, she took photographs of her notepad pages with the completed story and texted them to Perry White, her editor. They could have the handwriting transcribed, and the story should be published in the afternoon edition. “Not page 1,” she requested in a subsequent text. “Please, Perry. He doesn’t need publicity.”

A few minutes later, her phone buzzed with a notification. The short message from Perry simply said. “You got it. Good job, Lois. Get some sleep now.” Lois chuckled to herself and then stood again and moved to the window.

The Sun shone brightly in the early morning sky, and outside, the world moved. Traffic drove freely on the highway, which was visible from Clark’s third-story room, and people walked along the sidewalks below, crowding around the busy bus stop as a city bus pulled up to the curb.

A groan from behind her startled Lois, and she turned around hastily, nearly bumping into the side table and spilling her coffee. Clark’s eyes were screwed tightly shut, and he raised a shaky hand to cover his face.

“Clark, hey, what’s wrong?” Lois asked gently, stepping toward him cautiously to avoid alarming him.

He opened his eyes slowly, but inhaled sharply and closed them again.

“It-it’s r-really…bright,” he fumbled. He turned his head away from the sunlight and frowned. “My head—my head hurts. Can you t-turn off the—the…the lights, p-please?”

His stuttering speech was punctuated by pauses, and Lois wondered whether he’d carried on any sort of conversation in the last fifteen years. She immediately moved back to the window and closed the curtains and then dimmed the regular lights in the room as well.

“There we go,” she said. “There, is that better?” She moved around the side of the bed, pulled her chair up next to him, and sat. Cautiously, he opened his eyes. He blinked several times.

“Y-yes, th-thank you,” he replied.

He took several deep breaths as he slowly scanned the room. His eyes finally landed on Lois, and a concerned look briefly crossed his face. However, he quickly closed his eyes again and settled back down into the bed. Tentatively, she reached out and took his hand. He didn’t resist, but she felt him trembling.

“Your parents should be here any minute, Clark,” she told him, squeezing his hand gently. His eyes opened, and he shifted slightly in the bed, grimacing. His eyes were a rich chocolate color, she noted, but the dark circles underneath them betrayed his condition.

“I miss them. Mom and Dad.”

“Yeah, they really missed you, too,” Lois agreed. She smiled at him, and he narrowed his eyes for a moment before lowering his gaze to their hands, clasped together on the side of the bed.

“I’m…older now,” he said slowly. He shook his head and kept his eyes lowered. “They—they m-maybe won’t—won’t w-want m-me t-to…to…” He pulled his hand away from Lois’s almost fearfully and again covered his eyes, this time with both hands. She shook her head slowly, though he didn’t see.

“Clark, they’re going to be so happy to see you. Your mom…” Lois paused as Clark uncovered his eyes and turned his head to look at her. He looked so vulnerable, so unsure of himself that Lois had a hard time not reaching out to give him a hug. But she reminded herself that any gesture like that would probably not be welcome. She blinked back tears as she continued. “Your mom has been looking for you every day since you were taken, Clark. She never gave up hope that you were still out there. And your dad—he told me that he knew I’d find you because you are brave and strong, and you’d always keep fighting to find your way back to them.”

“He-he said that?” Clark asked in a small voice.

Lois nodded. “Yes, he did,” she confirmed. “He said he was very proud of you.”

Clark dropped his eyes again, blinking several times, and he then reached up and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a trembling hand. He shook his head as though trying to rid his mind of some terrible thought and then hastily wiped a tear off his cheek. Lois frowned with concern as the man in front of her began to shake badly. Without thinking, she reached out and touched his shoulder gently. He stilled, but his breathing remained labored and fast.

“Hey, it’s okay now. You’re safe here,” she murmured quietly. She scooted her chair a little closer to his bed, but he flinched at the sound of the wooden legs scraping the ground. He lowered his head into his hands and clenched his jaw, holding himself as motionless as possible. “Clark? What’s going on there? You’re okay now,” Lois repeated, rubbing his upper arm softly.

He shook his head. “C-can’t c-cry. Th-they s-said no crying is allowed,” he mumbled, and he almost frantically wiped the tears from his cheeks again, sniffling loudly. “No crying or else… No crying or…”

Her heart ached for him. Why was life so unfair? She shifted in her chair again and gently took his hand in hers.

“You can cry here, Clark,” she told him. His eyes were shut tightly, but she felt him respond to her words. He let out a long breath, and his jaw quivered. “It’s safe to cry here. I promise.”

A tear slid down his cheek. Then another. And then he pulled his hand away from hers and covered his eyes with both hands as he began to sob, his body shaking. Hesitantly, she put an arm around his shoulders, and he almost immediately leaned into her. Tears threatened to fall from her eyes as well, but she managed to blink them away again.

“That’s right. You’re safe here, Clark,” she echoed, rubbing his back soothingly. “You’re safe here.”



Hugs. If he thought Lois’s smile was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life, then hugs from his parents were the most wonderful thing he’d ever felt in his life.

They’d arrived just as he’d finished crying into Lois’s shoulder. And so, he’d cried more as his mother had hurried over to the side of the bed and enveloped him in a tight, warm embrace.

He almost hadn’t recognized her. And now, as she pulled back from him, tears wetting her cheeks, he still almost couldn’t remember her from…before. Her straw-colored hair was out of place, pulled back into a messy bun, and her glasses sat askew on her face. The eyes peering out at him from behind the thick lenses were bright blue and filled with love and concern. He blinked back more tears and dropped his gaze to his hands.

How could he barely remember her? It felt like betrayal. And his dad, who stood back several feet, his eyes moist, looked like a stranger. He was hefty, with gray hair and kind eyes, like his mom. But Clark couldn’t remember the man at all.

His dad stepped up next to the bed, and a wide grin broke out on his face.

“Clark, son, I—well, I just…”

The large man’s voice seemed to fail him, just as his mom’s had moments ago. His mom moved aside, and the man, his dad, leaned over to hug Clark.

And memories came flooding back to him. This same hug, over and over, in different places and at different times during his too-short childhood. A hug in the barn when he’d confessed to being upset about a bully at school. A hug on the porch of a yellow and white farmhouse when he’d been worried about his mother, who was sick with pneumonia. A hug on his tenth birthday, when one of his friends had been in a car accident and hadn’t been able to make the party. A hug in his bedroom when Clark was six and one of his pet goldfish had died. His dad’s big bear hugs.

It felt different now, of course. For starters, he was apparently twenty-five years old. Lois had told him that earlier. And so, now, his dad’s arms didn’t quite reach all the way around him, at least not like they used to. Also, there was a greater gentleness from both of them; not hesitation, but caution, Clark thought. And as the pain pulsed in his abdomen again, he realized maybe they were just trying to be careful not to hurt him.

He reached up and wiped a tear from his cheek. His eyes briefly met Lois’s, and she smiled at him warmly before stepping out of the room to allow him time with his parents alone.

Next to his bed, his parents held each other as they gazed down at him, and Clark closed his eyes to fight off the uncomfortable feeling settling in his chest. What if he wasn’t what they wanted anymore? What if they found out what happened to him and didn’t love him? He’d have nowhere to go. He wasn’t a child any longer. He was a grown adult. And he couldn’t even speak clearly in full sentences.

A gentle hand rested on his shoulder. He tilted his head slightly, allowing his cheek to touch his mother’s fingers.

“Clark, I never gave up hope, honey,” she said quietly, as though she knew his thoughts. “I never stopped looking for you. I never stopped loving you.”

“M-mom, I c-can’t… I mean, I-I j-just…”

He shook his head in frustration. He wanted to tell her that he was sorry for causing them so much pain and that he loved both of them and that he hoped they would allow him to come home. But his words wouldn’t work. His brain couldn’t seem to process his thoughts and turn them into words.

“Son, we both love you more than you know,” his dad told him, grasping Clark’s shoulder firmly.

And Clark started to cry again. That voice telling him, “No crying or else,” faded into the background, and Lois’s sweet voice reminded him, “It’s safe to cry here. You’re safe here, Clark.”

He focused all his mental energy and deliberately said the four most important words in his currently quite limited vocabulary.

“I love you, too.”