Previously On Specimen S:
"Well, let's cut straight to the chase," the judge said, pulling a file from a stack sitting to her right side. "I have called every single person that I know who could possibly help us with this case. For a long time, I didn't hear much from them. But this afternoon, I finally got word."
Please, Clark thought. Please let me stay here with the Kents.
"There were some who questioned my decision to fight for you. There were some who refused to look past your previous adoption denial, and the reasons why."
Oh no, Clark thought.
But the judge smiled. "Then there were others who felt as strongly as I do about this case. And I am more than pleased to announce that your request has been granted. All we have to do today is fill out some paperwork, and Clark will be your son, legally. I've asked the Sheriff to bear witness."
The words exploded in Clark's mind.
Son. Legally.
He was going to be able to stay with Jonathan and Martha. And not only that, but they would truly be his parents. He was a permanent part of their family now. He could barely concentrate as they filled out the necessary paperwork, though he was proud to be able to sign his own name. With swift, sure strokes, he set the pen to the paper and signed the places Judge Orin pointed out, alongside his new parents.
It didn't take quite as long as he thought it would, and soon the judge was putting the papers away again. Clark was elated. He was practically floating, he felt so relieved. He couldn't stop smiling, couldn't stop the chuckles that escaped from him as the judge talked with them.
"Looks like you are all set," the woman told them, after putting the file in a different stack than she'd initially taken it from. "Congratulations," she said, shaking Martha and Jonathan's hands. "You two are now parents. And you, young man, are officially Clark Jerome Kent."
Martha and Jonathan profusely thanked the woman, then hugged each other, drawing Clark into their embrace as well. Clark felt himself swept with emotions. They brought tears to his eyes, and he let them come, feeling no shame in them. Before, in his old life, he'd shed plenty of private tears, when he was alone in his cell at night. But now, for the first time in his entire life, his tears sprang from the greatest happiness he'd ever known.
"We're all finished here," the judge said. "You'll be getting a copy of Clark's new birth certificate in the mail shortly."
"I'd say this calls for a celebration," Jonathan said. "Let's go get some dinner out. Thank you, Cathy. You have no idea how much this means to us."
"You know," she said, smiling gently at the new family, "sometimes, I have to make the difficult decision to break families apart. But this...I really do love i]this[/i] part of my job," she said, smiling now at Clark. "I love being able to put families together."
"Thank you," Clark said, his words feeling too simple to properly express his gratitude. "For everything." On an impulse, he embraced the woman in a grateful hug.
"You're very welcome. I trust you'll take good care of your parents." She winked at him.
"I'll be the best son the world has ever seen," he promised her.
Judge Orin laughed. "I'm sure you will be."
As they left the courthouse, Clark felt like his feet barely touched the ground. All the months of worry were over. All the tension was gone from him. He had the one thing he wanted in his life. He had a home. He had a family. He had a mom and a dad who loved him fiercely.
He felt like he could take on the entire world.
***
August 16, 1979
"Go long, son," Jonathan said, a grin lighting up his face. "Farther. No, no. Farther."
"You sure, Dad?"
"Absolutely."
"All right..."
Clark backed up even further, his eyes on Jonathan the whole time. He finally felt that he was probably at the edge of his father's reach. The man let the football fly, and Clark was surprised to find himself running after the ball. He easily outpaced it and positioned himself. The ball sailed right into his waiting arms. Clark smiled and tossed it back, carefully reigning in his strength so as not to hurt Jonathan.
He'd been strong when he'd escaped Trask's compound, less than a year before. But he had steadily been getting even stronger. At first, it had thrilled him. He felt just like Hercules, who he'd read about in one of the dog-eared books he'd borrowed from the Smallville library. But as the days progressed and his strength grew, it became a hindrance. Everything seemed so fragile and he grew paranoid of breaking things. Already, he'd broken three chairs, seven pieces of lumber as he and Jonathan had repaired the broken fence at the entrance to their property, and countless pencils as he'd concentrated on his home-school work. He wondered when his powers would finally plateau, so he could find his limits and learn to deal with them more effectively.
"Nice catch, Dad," he said, as the ball easily came to rest in Jonathan's arms, against his chest.
Jonathan nodded and sent the ball back. It arced as it flew over the dusty yard. But Clark was distracted. He could smell his mother's apple pie just coming out of the oven. It smelled heavenly, making his mouth water. He turned his gaze toward the house for the briefest of moments. In that same instant, the football sailed by his head, bounced awkwardly on the ground, and came to rest under Jonathan's truck.
"Sorry," Clark called over. "My fault. I'll get it."
He walked to the truck and squatted down, looking for the ball. It was just under the rear of the vehicle. Clark reached for the ball, grabbed it, and stood back up. He pulled on the bumper of the vehicle as he did so, for what reason, he was never really sure. The entire back end of the truck lifted into the air. Clark dropped the ball in surprise, his mouth hanging open. He'd known he was getting stronger, but he'd never expected this, not even in his wildest dreams.
"Son?" Jonathan said, concerned, jogging over.
"I...I..." was all that Clark could sputter.
"It's okay, Clark."
"No, it's not," Clark said, setting the car flat on the ground again, trying to be careful with it. "I hate this. I'm a freak, Dad."
"No, you're a very special boy, that's all."
"I am a freak," he pressed. "I'm scared to touch anything. I'm afraid to touch you and Mom. I'm a disaster waiting to happen. A ticking time bomb. Maybe Trask was right to want to keep me locked up," he finished in a whisper.
"Don't ever talk like that," Jonathan said firmly. "What Trask did to you is an unforgivable crime. What he wanted to do with you is monstrous beyond words."
"But, Dad..."
"No buts. Now, you know me. I'm not one to get preachy. But, I'm a firm believer that we all have gifts and talents. It's how we use them that's the key." Jonathan ushered Clark to the porch steps. They both sat, Jonathan with his hand on Clark's shoulder. "You have these powers, these gifts, and I believe that you'll find a way to control them. It may take time, but one day, I believe keeping control will be as natural to you as breathing."
"You really think so?"
Jonathan nodded. "I do."
"Why me?" Clark softly lamented. "All I want is to be normal. But...I never will be, will I? I'm not human."
"Clark, you're more human to me than some Earthlings I can think of. And I don't have all the answers," Jonathan said quietly. "I mean, Trask's file told us the reasoning behind your abilities. How the sun fuels your Kryptonian body and makes these powers manifest. But why it has to be that way...I don't know. Maybe you're meant to have them, the same as some people are meant to be good at math, or at sports."
"Yeah, but people can get jobs using their skills in math, Dad. I'm not sure how being able to lift a car will ever serve me any good. Unless I want to get work as a sideshow freak."
"I don't know. But I have a strong gut instinct that you'll figure it out someday. Come here, give me a hug."
Clark paled and his nervousness came back. "I...can't."
"Sure you can."
"I don't want to hurt you by accident."
"You won't."
"Aren't you afraid of me? I'm afraid of me. Every time I go to sit down, or pick something up, or throw a ball, I'm terrified that I'm accidently going to pulverize it."
"No," Jonathan said. "I'm not afraid. I trust you."
Jonathan reached over and embraced his son. Clark went board-stiff at first, but after a moment, he relaxed and gently returned Jonathan's hug. He let out a quavering breath as he did so. Maybe his father was right. Maybe he would get the hang of his strength with some hard work and patience.
***
November 2, 1979
Clark Kent stood staring at the smoldering ruin of what had once been his father's work shed. The smoke curled lazily even as the rain beat down. Guilt tore at his heart as he sulked behind the living room window, his hair and clothes still dripping wet, despite the layers of towels his mother had wrapped him in.
It had all been his fault.
He hadn't meant to start a fire. He really hadn't. But it had happened anyway. He just couldn't understand why his parents weren't furious with him. They had lost a lot of tools and several of his mother's paintings that had been in varying stages of completion.
He'd been helping Jonathan in the shed. Jonathan had been sharpening his axe in preparation to split some more wood to last through the winter, now that a large oak had fallen over on the western-most edge of their property. Clark had been trying his own hand at painting, and not succeeding at all, if he was any judge. He'd been concentrating so hard that his heat vision had kicked in.
One minute, he'd been trying to paint a picture of their farmhouse at night. The next moment, the canvas had been on fire. There had been a draft from the door, which had stood slightly ajar as Jonathan ground the axe blade on a sharpening wheel. A spark from the canvas had blown away from Clark, unnoticed, as he used his burgeoning super breath to blow out the flames. The spark had wafted onto a bale of hay, alighting it almost instantly. In the blink of an eye, the whole corner of the shed had been ablaze.
He'd gotten his father safely out of the shed before going back in. He'd tried using his breath to snuff out the flames. But the fire had been intense and his newest power had been unreliable at best, coming and going in fits and starts. It had taken him far longer than he'd thought it would. By the time he'd gotten the fire under control, half the shed had been scorched. Clark still counted himself lucky that it had been raining heavily. The pounding raindrops had helped to quench the fire until, between it and his own efforts, the blaze had died.
He felt horrible, standing there, watching the rain beat down. He'd ruined everything. Why did Jonathan and Martha even put up with him? He was a walking disaster area. Trask and the rest of Bureau Thirty-Nine had been right to be afraid of him. He could probably - no, definitely - kill someone without meaning to, if he wasn't careful. How could these simple farmers trust him as easily, as wholly, as they did? He couldn't understand it.
He'd thought he'd gotten most of his powers under control. His heat vision had been one of the more difficult ones to summon up, until now. He'd always needed to work so hard to use it. But now, it had all of a sudden become frighteningly easy to call upon. He'd need to work extra hard to find the right balance within himself, to ensure that nothing like this ever happened again.
"Mom...Dad..." he said, turning away from the smoldering ruin beyond the window. "I can't tell you how sorry I am."
"Oh, honey, it's not your fault," Martha tried to soothe him.
"It is my fault," he asserted. "I'm the one who started the fire."
"It doesn't matter," Jonathan said, shaking his head. "All that matters is that we're all okay."
"But that's just it!" Clark said. "How easy would it have been for you to get hurt out there, Dad? Nothing can hurt me, except for that stone Trask has. But I can so easily hurt others, even without meaning to."
"Clark..."
"No," he said firmly, shaking his head. "I can't keep going like this. Maybe it's best if I...I don't know...go away for a while, until I'm sure that I'm not a threat to anyone anymore."
"Clark Jerome Kent," Martha said, her voice turning sharp. Clark winced to hear his full name used like that. "Don't you even dare to entertain the notion of running away. We're your parents. You're our son. We'll help you get through this."
"Mom..."
"No. Not another word about it," Martha said, crossing her arms and effectively shutting the conversation down.
Clark sighed. After a moment, he dragged his hand through his sopping wet hair. "Well...then..."
"Yes?" Jonathan prodded.
"I have to find some way, I guess, of reminding myself of these powers. Sometimes, I forget. I stare too hard at something and x-ray right through it. Or I wind up setting things on fire," he said, unhappily shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
"Like a string around the finger type of reminder?" Jonathan asked, plucking his glasses off and using the edge of his shirt to clean a spot off one of the lenses.
"Or a pair of glasses," Clark said, watching his father's movements. "If I had to remove a pair of glasses from my eyes in order to use my abilities...that might just do the trick. And the added weight and upkeep of frames might just remind me enough so that I don't accidently use them right through the lenses. Plus, I'd fit right in with others. You and Mom both wear glasses. So does half of Smallville. Who would imagine that I have the vision powers that I do if I'm pretending to be near-sighted?"
"You might be on to something," Jonathan said, smiling and putting his glasses back on. "Tomorrow morning we'll take a look in the basement. I think I might have some old frames in a box. Your mother makes me keep everything. I know I have some leaded glass down there too. We'll make you a pair of glasses from that. The lead should help prevent you from x-raying through things, at the very least."
"Sounds like a plan," Clark said, smiling for the first time since the fire had flared into life. "And after that, I'm going to help you rebuild the shed."
***
July 28, 1984
Clark was terribly, terribly nervous. In just a few short weeks, he would be heading off to college, to study his one true passion, journalism. He was excited, of course, to pursue his dream of one day becoming a reporter. And he was more than ready to play college football. Already, he could hear the roar of the crowd in the brisk fall air, cheering on their favorite team and players. He could almost feel the solid weight of the football as it crashed into his arms as he caught it. But to do so, he would be leaving behind the people he loved most. And that made him very uneasy.
Ever since he'd stumbled into the Kents' work shed by chance one Christmas Eve, he'd never been apart from them, not for extended periods of time. Oh, he'd spent the night at a friend's house on occasion, once he was sure his powers were under control. He'd gone to school in town, spending his days in classrooms just like any other normal boy. He'd participated in sports, which had demanded that he sometimes spend the night elsewhere to play against another high school. But never had he gone so far away as he was now preparing to. Never had he spent more than a day or two away from his parents.
That wasn't even to mention the worry he had over the newest of his powers, which had manifested that morning.
He'd been asleep in his bed when he'd bumped his head. Of course, it hadn't hurt, but it had immediately woken him from his dreams. He'd opened his eyes to find himself staring down at his bed, his back against the ceiling. He'd instantly panicked, and had come crashing down on the mattress, hard. He'd been lucky he hadn't broken the bed. For a long time, he had sat there on his floor, his back against the bed, the same thoughts running through his mind over and over.
I was floating. I was floating. I was five feet above my bed and floating. What am I going to do? How will I hide this from my roommates? I can't believe I was actually floating.
And yet, now, as he stood out in the secluded back field of his parents' farmland, his fear melted away. He actually longed to experience the sensation again. Despite his initial surprise, the sensation of floating had felt really, really good. Logically, he knew it was completely and utterly unnatural. But it felt natural to him anyway.
He just wasn't sure how to go about defying gravity. With a chuckle, he thought of Peter Pan. Peter had used pixie dust and happy thoughts in order to achieve flight. But that wasn't going to help in Clark's case. He tried relaxing, but as the gray of pre-dawn retreated before the blues and pinks of a fresh sunrise, he grew only more frustrated, and his peace of mind shattered. Finally, he funneled his thoughts, trying to consciously lift his body from the ground. That didn't work either.
He was just about to give up and head indoors again to get breakfast started when his feet unexpectedly rose off the grass. Elated, Clark reveled in the sensation. He knew that, logically, it should have made him uneasy. But somehow, it didn't. If anything, it comforted him. He liked the feeling of floating there, three inches above the ground. He tried to go higher, and found it easier than anticipated. Clark's grin grew as he started to experiment with moving around.
He took it slow, at first. Up, down, forward, back. It was easy. He gradually picked up speed, wondering if his ability to travel so quickly would also work with his newfound ability of flying. He allowed himself a burst of speed, and took off like a shot. He laughed as he zoomed away, pleasantly surprised to find that it seemed like he could move even faster in the air than he could on land. He wondered how high he could go, and changed the angle he was moving in. He sharply gained altitude. The land fell away at a dizzying pace, until his house was no more than a black spot against the broader backdrop of Kansas.
His breath caught in his throat as he looked out over the land. The cultivated fields spread out beneath him like a patchwork quilt of varying colors, mostly shades of green and brown, some golden, and some black with freshly upturned soil. Roads spread out like ribbons in every direction, connecting the ant-sized houses and model-toy towns. A flash of metal caught his sharp eyes - a lone car heading into town at that early hour. Clark decided to climb even higher, pushing his newfound power to whatever limits it had.
The higher he went, the colder it became. He felt it, but it did not bother him, though his glasses started to frost over. He pulled them off and stuffed them in the breast pocket of his shirt. The air grew thinner too, and that did present a slight problem. Alien though he was, he still needed oxygen to breathe. But he had long ago learned that he was capable of holding his breath for a good twenty minutes. He did so now, as he left the last reaches of breathable atmosphere.
Soon, he was free of the Earth. He was outside the atmosphere. He was in space. All around him was vast, inky blackness, studded with stars and distant planets. He hovered, suspended in place, trapped in between the Earth and the rest of the universe. It was peaceful here. It was quiet. He strained his hearing to its very limit, but all he heard was distant echoes of the world he'd left behind. He felt that he could grow to like it here, and that perhaps it could be a place to escape to when he needed a moment to think.
He stayed for a moment, simply staring out into the vastness of the universe. Up this far, he could see far more stars than he could when earthbound. Or, at least, it felt that way to him. He looked at the moon, and wondered if he could fly fast enough to reach it, though he dared not try. He might reach it, but not have breath enough to make it back. He zoomed his vision in a bit, sweeping his eyes across the reaches of space. He could make out the reddish glow of Mars as it reflected back the sun's rays. He could see the yellowish tint of Venus.
Krypton.
The word came unbidden to his mind. Which, if any, of these brightly glowing specks of light was the planet where he'd been born? Could he even see it from here? Was it beyond the reaches of the galaxy he resided in? Would he ever find a way to gaze upon his home world?
He shook his head. No. Not his home world. Earth was his home. It was the place where he'd grown up. It was where his friends were. It was where he'd found his family.
Family.
Did he still have blood relatives on Krypton? Was there a sister out there, wondering where her brother was? Was there a brother there, trying to find out what had happened to him? What of his parents? Did they wonder about him? Did they know that he'd survived the trip to Earth, an infant packed away in a tiny spaceship, sent through the endless coldness of space? Did they know he'd crashed on Earth? Had he been stolen from them, sent away by some villain? Or had his parents sent him away? Why? Had they not cared about him? Had they sent him away to escape some evil? Had he been some bizarre type of sacrifice, offered to some unknown god they believed ruled the universe?
He had no answers to these questions. And, he guessed, he never would. How was he to ever find out his origins, if he had no way of finding Krypton, let alone reaching it somehow? It made him sad, lonely, and frustrated, all at once.
He tore his gaze from the stars surrounding him and looked toward the Earth again. The world lay spread out, far beneath his feet. He could see the gentle curve of the globe, could see the land and sea as vague shapes through the haze of distance. He could see the faint distinction where the atmosphere began, could see the rim awash in a whitish-blue glow from the sun. He could see the white swirls of clouds, hanging above the Earth's surface. A flicker of light caught his eye and he looked toward it. Florida was getting a severe electrical storm, from the looks of things. And further down south, out in the ocean, a tropical storm was brewing. Clark could see the distinctive shape of the clouds.
Up this high, the world looked peaceful. It looked still. Up this high, there was no evidence of war or injustice or poverty. There was no evidence of crime or of suffering. There was no pollution up this high. Clark liked it.
And yet, being where he was, hanging in space, looking down on his home, it only hammered in the fact that he was alone. Different. Isolated. An alien.
His air supply was growing inadequate. His lungs were beginning to ache and burn. He would have to take in a fresh breath of air soon. In a way, it startled him. He hadn't realized that he'd spent so much time there already. With a mental sigh, he turned and headed back. He sped away, knowing he'd need the speed to avoid the detection of anyone who might chance a glance at the sky and see the flying man. The last thing he needed was to blow his carefully maintain guise of being just another regular guy.
He still had nightmares sometimes, about the days he'd lived as Cameron Trask's prisoner. He'd awoken more than once to find himself covered in a sheen of sweat, his heart thudding against his ribs. Though Clark knew that the police had searched for Trask, he'd never been found. Bureau Thirty-Nine had seemingly vanished into thin air. And even if Trask and his crew had been found, it didn't matter much. If Clark's true nature was ever discovered, there would no doubt be some other scientist ready to dissect him like a frog, or parade him around as the freak that he was.
Step right up! Step right up! Come see the incredible alien freak, his mind bellowed at him, in the voice of a carnival barker. See him bend steel with his bare hands! See him bounce bullets off his chest! See him levitate right before your very eyes! Step right up! Step right up!
Clark was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't realize how quickly he was approaching the ground. He tried to stop, but only managed to slow down. He scrambled a bit, but his efforts were too late in coming. He smashed violently into a large rock on the very edge of the Kents' property line, which they had affectionately named "The Boulder." The Boulder exploded into a million pieces, and Clark finally found himself stopped. He stood up, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment, thankful no one had witnessed that, with the exception of a few curious squirrels that chattered unhappily at him from a maple tree.
"Gotta work on landing," he said to himself, dusting himself off as best he could.
With that, he sped away toward the farmhouse, knowing that it had to be getting late. His parents would be getting up, and he had to get to his chores. As he skidded to a halt and entered the house, the delicious odors of his mother's cooking filled his nostrils. He inhaled deeply, committing the smell to memory. Pretty soon, he reminded himself, he'd be forced to eat less than appetizing cafeteria food.
"What happened to you?" Martha asked as Clark shuffled into the kitchen. Her eyes were wide with surprise and concern.
Clark shrugged. "Well...Mom, Dad...I've got some good news and some bad news. The bad news is, The Boulder isn't there anymore. The good news is, you've now got a couple hundred pounds of gravel up in the back field."
To Be Continued...
