Fic: Summers (5/7) Clark Kent, Scott Summers [rated teen]
Mmmrph.
Um, the final chapter in this fic might not be posted for a couple weeks as I try to decide if I should extend this story or turn it into 2 parts with a shorter "sequel" set 10 years later. And here I thought I was doing well with the chronological writing.
Fandom: Superman/X-Men (comicverse)
Characters: Clark Kent (Superman, Kal-el), Scott Summers (Cyclops)
Rating: Teen for strong language
Summary:There was a boy who fell from a burning plane and landed in a farm in Smallville, Kansas. He was adopted by a kind, old couple who could not have their own children. But they had plenty of experience raising boys who fall from the sky.
Disclaimer: Scott Summers (Cyclops) is the property of Marvel Comics, created by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby. Clark Kent (Kal-el, Superman) is the property of DC Comics, created by Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster. This work is for entertainment only; no money is made. Gosh darn it.
Author's Notes: All the chapters are available at my website but for those who want to read on LJ, I'll be updating it regularly at least twice a week if not more. It's just a coding thing.
=^o.O^=The Kents approached the idea of adoption slowly, knowing Scott dreamed of reuniting with his younger brother. They also wanted to give him time to adequately grieve his parents which wasn't easy to gauge. True, Clark was also quiet but every emotion appeared on his face whereas Scott frequently pulled on a blank expression that could mean anything from "I'm doing long division in my head" to "I'm having a traumatic flashback."
When they asked for his opinion, he asked for time to think about it. The librarian later told Clark that Scott asked to information on foster-to-adopt programs and a list of famous adopted people. It only added to Clark's hypothesis that Scott was really an old man trapped in a child's body.
His parents advised him to hope but also prepare for disappointment. Clark tried, he really did, but he already thought of Scott as his brother. He liked teasing Scott when he fell asleep during morning milking, or the walks to school when they talked about everything or nothing. Just the freedom to openly discuss his powers and the mysterious artefacts that came in his ship was a joy; Scott's matter-of-fact acceptance helped him accept himself more. Not that his parents slacked in that department but Scott was From Outside, to use a term from his infancy. People From Outside might hate or fear him because of his powers.
Scott's curiosity permeated everything from farming to Clark's powers to the technical details of the new high school computers, all contained in a mind like an ever-expanding steel trap. Clark purposefully made mistakes on his schoolwork to draw attention away from himself; Scott prided in his smarts and could be a cocky SOB about it, too. When he got his headaches, roughly once every six to eight weeks, he never tried to take advantage of his sick days. He had little coordination; he always dropped the ball on a long pass and Martha took away his egg duties until such a time when he could trek back from the chicken coop without tripping and breaking half the eggs. Clark couldn't love a brother-by-blood more.
With each month that passed, Clark felt physically ill imagining Scott gone, or worse, dead because Clark hadn't arrived in time to save them from the plane crash. Yet knowing this, he didn't want to take Scott's hope of finding Alex away. The best he could do was imagine adopting Alex as well. Two brothers...
Scott Summers officially became Scott Summers Kent late in April, nine months after his plane crashed in Smallville. Old enough to be self-conscious, Scott insisted on a small celebration-- just family, Sheriff Lang and Lana, and Scott's friends in school, Chloe and Hank, fellow classmates in the gifted program. At lunch time, the kids had to be dragged away from Chloe's contribution to the party: a Nintendo which connected to the television and simulated the video games at the arcade. Rather, Chloe and Scott played the game; Hank wanted to crack the console open to study the components. When everyone went home, the family visited the Summers' crash site, this time to put up a birdhouse at the nearest hedgerow. A plaque on the birdhouse said, "In loving memory of Chris & Kathy Summers. For all you have given us, we are eternally thankful."
By the time Christmas rolled around again, Smallville ready dubbed them "those quiet Kent boys."
#
Farm life never allowed for a true holiday but if ever there was one, the winter season would be it. Feeding livestock and milking the cows in below freezing temperatures didn't bother Clark. Winter calmed him. Something about frost and ice crystals or the way the occasional snowfall blanketed the land. He wondered sometimes if it was genetic; other than his blanket and the ship itself, the sole artefacts from his birthplace resembled ice crystals. In the winter, he had time to sit up in the hayloft with a mug of spiced milk to study those artefacts, write in his new journal (the one Scott gave him last Christmas was filled by May) or think about the wonderfulness of having Lana as his girlfriend (for seven weeks, two days and six hours last count). Scott called the last activity mooning; occasions when he did so were some of the few times Clark actually wanted to hit him.
That afternoon, his pa's angry voice broke the quiet. Jonathan Kent rarely showed a temper but when he did, even the Hubbards' bull stud backed away.
"I told you before; I'm not selling," said Pa.
"Mr. Kent, be reasonable." The second voice has a silken undertone to it. "You have two growing boys, really smart kids from what I hear around town, shoe-ins for university in Kansas City or heck, even the Ivy Leagues. But with your place mortgaged to the hilt--"
"And who gave you the right to look into my finances?"
"Mr. Kent, all of Smallville is mortgaged to the hilt. Small, individual farms just ain't cutting it in the modern world. Not with the rising cost of seed, gas and all-hell else. If you sell this land to us, you don't have to worry about those costs. We'll subsidise everything."
"The answer's still no. Kents have owned this land since 1867--"
"The way things are going, you'll be the last generation. Now, I'm sorry to be blunt, Mr. Kent, but I'm trying to save your life."
"Hrmph."
"I am, sir. They told me you were a proud one and I said, 'Maybe so, but he's strikes me as a family man, first.' From everything I've seen so far, I know I'm right. My company's offering to give you a generous price but I promise you, if you go on this way, you're going to be bankrupt in eighteen months. You sell to us, you can still live on the land for a modest rent. Otherwise, the bank will foreclose on the house and the farm. Where'll you live then? Where'll your boys live? If the state hears about that, so close soon after adopting your younger one, they'll take them away--"
"Don't you dare threaten my family!"
There was a crash and Clark pulled himself close to the edge of the hayloft, heart hammering, to see if Pa needed help. His father stood, tense, hands in white-knuckled fists, while several feet away, a businessman type, Mr. Grant, sprawled half on his back on the barn floor. Mr. Grant appeared to have tripped back over a sawhorse and grazed his fine suit on a till blade.
"I could sue you for assault and battery!" he snarled.
"I didn't touch you, you liar," Pa snarled. "And if that's the type of dealings your company has when it's trying to butter people up, you've more than convinced me to stay far away. Now get off my property before I call the sheriff."
Mr. Grant got up shakily. "Tamonson's lawyers will be in touch within the week, Mr. Kent. We take care of our employees. You'll be lucky to be bankrupt by the time the case comes through."
"Get. Out."
As soon as Mr. Grant turned out of sight, Clark jumped down from the hayloft.
"Did you hear all of that?" his pa asked, his tone still angry.
"Yessir. I was in the loft writing."
Pa closed his eyes briefly. "Well, you can go on and forget you heard it. It's not for you to worry about."
"But Pa, if the farm's in that much trouble, I should be helping. I can get work."
"You work on school and the chores. Let me and your ma worry about everything else."
Clark couldn't lie to save his life so he just didn't speak. "Tamonson's bought up a lot of the other farms. They came to school for a presentation. They called it farming of the future."
Pa snorted. "Factory farming isn't farming. Sure it's shiny and makes a lot of money, but those all those poor creatures crammed into a tiny space, fed who only knows what and injected with all sorts of things isn't good. Not for the animals and not for the people eating them." He shook his head. Tension slid away from his face, leaving weariness. His pa suddenly looked old. "Go on inside, Clark. Scott's looking for you."
Clark shuffled back to the house, stopping often, half-determined to walk right back into the barn to tell his pa... what? His strength couldn't lift the farm whole to another county and it wouldn't be right to bully Tamonson's employees, either. He could take them all and run to any part of the world but his parents were farmers. If leaving was an option, Pa would've taken Mr. Grant's offer. None of his newfound powers-- heat vision, increased blowing capacity, and hyperacute senses-- could produce money unless he gave himself up to a lab or started a freak show. The latter might be an option if things got bad enough. He hoped not; Clark hated to be the centre of attention.
By the time he reached the back door of the house, he had almost convinced himself to drop out of school and find a job out in the urban centres like Kansas City or even out of state like in the big cities like Metropolis. Scott looked up from the kitchen table when he entered, brow furrowed over his school books.
"What's wrong?"
Clark explained what he'd overheard. As he expected, Scott's face went blank.
"Pa shouts?"
"Sort of. He'd never hit anyone. But if I'm not supposed to worry about it, you shouldn't either. Pa said you had something to show me?"
"Oh yeah. Here." Scott tossed a spaceship crystal at him. "I figured out how to get sound and visual. I'm pretty sure it's in sync but since it isn't in English, I can't be sure."
"What did you do?"
"I rubbed my nail on one side, really slow."
Scott demonstrated. A low-pitched sound emanated from the crystal, rather pleasing like muted violins warming up. The crystal glowed and cooled then a beam of light projected an image on the ceiling. It looked like a crest or a sigil, a broad, yellow diamond with a letter S or a figure 8 in the centre. Unlike normal projectors, the image was three-dimensional and floated in the middle of the air. Trilling, rolling syllables filled the kitchen while geometrical glyphs circled the base of the sigil. Clark moved the crystal around until the image moved down to eye level.
"How did you know to use sound?" asked Clark.
"I just messed around."
"You just didn't want to do language arts again."
The corners of Scott's mouth tipped up in a smile. "Maybe. But I solved something about your past which, in the grand scheme of things, is much more important. It doesn't sound like anything I heard before and we were transferred all over the place."
"Shhh, I'm trying to listen," said Clark.
"Do you understand it?"
He couldn't. Not really. But something about the sounds felt familiar. Clark approached the image. The S-shaped stroke slithered, making the marking a bit difficult to distinguish. He reached out. The sigil passed through his hand but, after one twisting circuit, the S-shape glowed dark blue. Clark's wrist went cold. He tried to pull away. He couldn't.
"Um. Scott." He yanked at his hand again, futilely.
Scott came around and pulled at his elbow. Still nothing. "This is bad."
"What did you do when you touched it?"
"I wasn't stupid enough to stick my whole hand in it!"
Clark glared at him. Scott blinked back. Okay, now was another time he really wanted to hit his little brother. The figure 8 slid a few more times around his arm before fading. As he scuttled back, images coalesced from the fading lines of the diamond-shape. A man's head-- or a being that looked like man-- spoke using the same rolling and trilling as the initial image. Clark closed his eyes and strained to remember. After half a minute of talking, the disembodied head stopped talking and stared at them as though waiting for a command.
"What now?" Scott asked.
"I have no idea," replied Clark. "Um. Thank you. Continue. Please?"
"Play. Fast forward. Rewind," said Scott. "Translate to English."
The head spoke again. The sounds were similar to its first spiel; it had repeated itself. It did this twice more before disappearing. The crystal's glow dimmed.
Scott huffed, sounding much like Pa. "Well that was useless."
"What are you talking about? This is great! We know the crystals can do things, they have information. That's more than I've ever been able to do." He ruffled Scott's hair. "I suppose I can help you with your language arts now."
"No, no, we can figure out the crystal more."
Clark already fished Scott's novel from his backpack. "The earlier you do it, the faster it'll be out of your way. What do you have to do?"
"Write a book report." The way he said it, the phrase might as well have been "stick a white-hot poker in my eye."
"How long?"
"Four whole pages!" Scott whined. "What am I supposed to write about for four pages? There are mutated rats who help a mama field mouse from getting squashed. The end."
"Four pages isn't that much."
"Says the guy who can write a hundred words a minute. You like writing and you're good at it. When you write things, people want to agree with you because you make things make sense. This book--" Scott stabbed it with his finger-- "is like watching a Disney movie."
"Because an eleven-year-old is way too old for Disney," Clark teased.
Scott made a face at it. "I wish I could do my book report on something interesting like that NIMH place."
"Why don't you?"
"It's not one of the questions."
"You're allowed to make your own theme up, you know. It shows creativity and motivation. Motivation means moving or acting on your own instead of being told to or forced to," Clark explained in response to Scott's puzzlement. "Why are you interested in NIMH?"
Scott shrugged. "I don't know. They're like the people we're afraid of, the ones who'll find out where you come from and do things to you because... y'know, because you're you. I mean, they helped the rats be smart but what did they do to the rats to make them smart? And did the rats think it was worth it? And do any of the rats want revenge? They're smart enough to do serious damage"
"I think you have the makings of a book report," said Clark. "Write that all down. I'll check it over when you're done."
He would do well to take his own advice, Clark thought to himself as he cracked his World History book open. He could do his paper on the suggested topics, few of which really piqued his interest. Or he could compare current economic condition of an American farming community against other points in history. Or even other countries currently. He had a chapter in his US Government class that could help.
"My, this is a sight to make a mother's heart full: my two boys hard at work with school." Ma smoothed down Clark's cowlick and pressed a hand against Scott's back. "Looks interesting."
Scott stuck his tongue out.
"Or not." She turned to Clark.
"Final paper," he said. "I'm thinking of doing something about comparing how political systems or eras support agriculture."
"That sounds like a big topic. I'm sure you'll handle it well. Are you going to talk about economics also?"
Clark turned his head up to his ma, one brow cocked up in query.
"You'll find money pushes a lot of politics, now and centuries ago," Ma elaborated. "Follow the money flow and you'll understand why and how certain systems work. What's that look for, Clark Joseph Kent? You think I only have a Rolodex of recipes in my head?"
"Of course not!" Clark denied. "I just didn't know you were interested in this kind of stuff. Pa never is."
Martha sat down. "Did I tell you how I met your pa?"
"In university."
"That's right. In university where he dragged me away from the riot police."
That made Scott drop his pen as well.
"I was in a student protest. It got ugly on both sides even though it was supposed to be peaceful. Those of us who didn't want anything to do with the violence got clumped up in the mob by the police and the rioters. Jonathan dove in and pulled us out." She smiled, her gaze folding back to her youth. "Lord, and did I ever tear a strip in him, thinking he was being sexist, having to protect the little woman."
"Was he?" asked Scott.
"He was. But he ripped right back into me and said if I didn't want his help, he'd hand me a couple of rocks and throw my skinny self back in with the best of luck."
"I wouldn't have thrown you back in," Pa interjected as he slipped his house shoes on. "You were a hundred pounds soaking wet with a gash on your head. Probably seeing double."
Ma stretched up to receive his kiss on her cheek. "I was seeing you, mister. You were awfully cute."
Clark's ears burned. "I always thought you lived your whole life in Smallville, Ma."
"Oh no. I was tricked. Your pa told me that a big city girl had no business talking against-- what was the phrase I used, sweetheart?"
"'Backwards hickville pendantics,'" Pa answered.
"Oh yes. That's a lovely phrase, isn't it? I'm sure I was very pleased with myself for coming up with it. He said if I had no business talking against backwards hickville pendantics if I never experienced a real hickville. He offered to show me Smallville as an example. None of the boys in college ever came up with a move that smooth. Which just goes to show you, boys, there's book smarts and there's street smarts and there's no way to judge who'll have either. Or both."
"Mom didn't like protesters," said Scott. "She said they're as spoon-fed as any government lackey but they wore more fashionable clothes. What's a lackey?"
"A mindless follower," Clark said. "I'm pretty sure it was one of your vocabulary words last month. So, you came to Smallville and changed your mind about everything, Ma?"
Pa laughed. "Lord no! We decided to stop talking politics to save our marriage."
"In the end, you have to look at intent," said Ma. "Most people want the same things; they just go about it in different ways. What your pa and I have in common deep down, our values, are alike and our love gives us the energy and the patience to work through some of the surface stuff that rub us wrong. A lot of energy and patience."
Pa leaned down to smooch Ma.
Scott scrunched up his nose. "Ugh. I gotta do my homework."
Um, the final chapter in this fic might not be posted for a couple weeks as I try to decide if I should extend this story or turn it into 2 parts with a shorter "sequel" set 10 years later. And here I thought I was doing well with the chronological writing.
Fandom: Superman/X-Men (comicverse)
Characters: Clark Kent (Superman, Kal-el), Scott Summers (Cyclops)
Rating: Teen for strong language
Summary:There was a boy who fell from a burning plane and landed in a farm in Smallville, Kansas. He was adopted by a kind, old couple who could not have their own children. But they had plenty of experience raising boys who fall from the sky.
Disclaimer: Scott Summers (Cyclops) is the property of Marvel Comics, created by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby. Clark Kent (Kal-el, Superman) is the property of DC Comics, created by Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster. This work is for entertainment only; no money is made. Gosh darn it.
Author's Notes: All the chapters are available at my website but for those who want to read on LJ, I'll be updating it regularly at least twice a week if not more. It's just a coding thing.
=^o.O^=The Kents approached the idea of adoption slowly, knowing Scott dreamed of reuniting with his younger brother. They also wanted to give him time to adequately grieve his parents which wasn't easy to gauge. True, Clark was also quiet but every emotion appeared on his face whereas Scott frequently pulled on a blank expression that could mean anything from "I'm doing long division in my head" to "I'm having a traumatic flashback."
When they asked for his opinion, he asked for time to think about it. The librarian later told Clark that Scott asked to information on foster-to-adopt programs and a list of famous adopted people. It only added to Clark's hypothesis that Scott was really an old man trapped in a child's body.
His parents advised him to hope but also prepare for disappointment. Clark tried, he really did, but he already thought of Scott as his brother. He liked teasing Scott when he fell asleep during morning milking, or the walks to school when they talked about everything or nothing. Just the freedom to openly discuss his powers and the mysterious artefacts that came in his ship was a joy; Scott's matter-of-fact acceptance helped him accept himself more. Not that his parents slacked in that department but Scott was From Outside, to use a term from his infancy. People From Outside might hate or fear him because of his powers.
Scott's curiosity permeated everything from farming to Clark's powers to the technical details of the new high school computers, all contained in a mind like an ever-expanding steel trap. Clark purposefully made mistakes on his schoolwork to draw attention away from himself; Scott prided in his smarts and could be a cocky SOB about it, too. When he got his headaches, roughly once every six to eight weeks, he never tried to take advantage of his sick days. He had little coordination; he always dropped the ball on a long pass and Martha took away his egg duties until such a time when he could trek back from the chicken coop without tripping and breaking half the eggs. Clark couldn't love a brother-by-blood more.
With each month that passed, Clark felt physically ill imagining Scott gone, or worse, dead because Clark hadn't arrived in time to save them from the plane crash. Yet knowing this, he didn't want to take Scott's hope of finding Alex away. The best he could do was imagine adopting Alex as well. Two brothers...
Scott Summers officially became Scott Summers Kent late in April, nine months after his plane crashed in Smallville. Old enough to be self-conscious, Scott insisted on a small celebration-- just family, Sheriff Lang and Lana, and Scott's friends in school, Chloe and Hank, fellow classmates in the gifted program. At lunch time, the kids had to be dragged away from Chloe's contribution to the party: a Nintendo which connected to the television and simulated the video games at the arcade. Rather, Chloe and Scott played the game; Hank wanted to crack the console open to study the components. When everyone went home, the family visited the Summers' crash site, this time to put up a birdhouse at the nearest hedgerow. A plaque on the birdhouse said, "In loving memory of Chris & Kathy Summers. For all you have given us, we are eternally thankful."
By the time Christmas rolled around again, Smallville ready dubbed them "those quiet Kent boys."
#
Farm life never allowed for a true holiday but if ever there was one, the winter season would be it. Feeding livestock and milking the cows in below freezing temperatures didn't bother Clark. Winter calmed him. Something about frost and ice crystals or the way the occasional snowfall blanketed the land. He wondered sometimes if it was genetic; other than his blanket and the ship itself, the sole artefacts from his birthplace resembled ice crystals. In the winter, he had time to sit up in the hayloft with a mug of spiced milk to study those artefacts, write in his new journal (the one Scott gave him last Christmas was filled by May) or think about the wonderfulness of having Lana as his girlfriend (for seven weeks, two days and six hours last count). Scott called the last activity mooning; occasions when he did so were some of the few times Clark actually wanted to hit him.
That afternoon, his pa's angry voice broke the quiet. Jonathan Kent rarely showed a temper but when he did, even the Hubbards' bull stud backed away.
"I told you before; I'm not selling," said Pa.
"Mr. Kent, be reasonable." The second voice has a silken undertone to it. "You have two growing boys, really smart kids from what I hear around town, shoe-ins for university in Kansas City or heck, even the Ivy Leagues. But with your place mortgaged to the hilt--"
"And who gave you the right to look into my finances?"
"Mr. Kent, all of Smallville is mortgaged to the hilt. Small, individual farms just ain't cutting it in the modern world. Not with the rising cost of seed, gas and all-hell else. If you sell this land to us, you don't have to worry about those costs. We'll subsidise everything."
"The answer's still no. Kents have owned this land since 1867--"
"The way things are going, you'll be the last generation. Now, I'm sorry to be blunt, Mr. Kent, but I'm trying to save your life."
"Hrmph."
"I am, sir. They told me you were a proud one and I said, 'Maybe so, but he's strikes me as a family man, first.' From everything I've seen so far, I know I'm right. My company's offering to give you a generous price but I promise you, if you go on this way, you're going to be bankrupt in eighteen months. You sell to us, you can still live on the land for a modest rent. Otherwise, the bank will foreclose on the house and the farm. Where'll you live then? Where'll your boys live? If the state hears about that, so close soon after adopting your younger one, they'll take them away--"
"Don't you dare threaten my family!"
There was a crash and Clark pulled himself close to the edge of the hayloft, heart hammering, to see if Pa needed help. His father stood, tense, hands in white-knuckled fists, while several feet away, a businessman type, Mr. Grant, sprawled half on his back on the barn floor. Mr. Grant appeared to have tripped back over a sawhorse and grazed his fine suit on a till blade.
"I could sue you for assault and battery!" he snarled.
"I didn't touch you, you liar," Pa snarled. "And if that's the type of dealings your company has when it's trying to butter people up, you've more than convinced me to stay far away. Now get off my property before I call the sheriff."
Mr. Grant got up shakily. "Tamonson's lawyers will be in touch within the week, Mr. Kent. We take care of our employees. You'll be lucky to be bankrupt by the time the case comes through."
"Get. Out."
As soon as Mr. Grant turned out of sight, Clark jumped down from the hayloft.
"Did you hear all of that?" his pa asked, his tone still angry.
"Yessir. I was in the loft writing."
Pa closed his eyes briefly. "Well, you can go on and forget you heard it. It's not for you to worry about."
"But Pa, if the farm's in that much trouble, I should be helping. I can get work."
"You work on school and the chores. Let me and your ma worry about everything else."
Clark couldn't lie to save his life so he just didn't speak. "Tamonson's bought up a lot of the other farms. They came to school for a presentation. They called it farming of the future."
Pa snorted. "Factory farming isn't farming. Sure it's shiny and makes a lot of money, but those all those poor creatures crammed into a tiny space, fed who only knows what and injected with all sorts of things isn't good. Not for the animals and not for the people eating them." He shook his head. Tension slid away from his face, leaving weariness. His pa suddenly looked old. "Go on inside, Clark. Scott's looking for you."
Clark shuffled back to the house, stopping often, half-determined to walk right back into the barn to tell his pa... what? His strength couldn't lift the farm whole to another county and it wouldn't be right to bully Tamonson's employees, either. He could take them all and run to any part of the world but his parents were farmers. If leaving was an option, Pa would've taken Mr. Grant's offer. None of his newfound powers-- heat vision, increased blowing capacity, and hyperacute senses-- could produce money unless he gave himself up to a lab or started a freak show. The latter might be an option if things got bad enough. He hoped not; Clark hated to be the centre of attention.
By the time he reached the back door of the house, he had almost convinced himself to drop out of school and find a job out in the urban centres like Kansas City or even out of state like in the big cities like Metropolis. Scott looked up from the kitchen table when he entered, brow furrowed over his school books.
"What's wrong?"
Clark explained what he'd overheard. As he expected, Scott's face went blank.
"Pa shouts?"
"Sort of. He'd never hit anyone. But if I'm not supposed to worry about it, you shouldn't either. Pa said you had something to show me?"
"Oh yeah. Here." Scott tossed a spaceship crystal at him. "I figured out how to get sound and visual. I'm pretty sure it's in sync but since it isn't in English, I can't be sure."
"What did you do?"
"I rubbed my nail on one side, really slow."
Scott demonstrated. A low-pitched sound emanated from the crystal, rather pleasing like muted violins warming up. The crystal glowed and cooled then a beam of light projected an image on the ceiling. It looked like a crest or a sigil, a broad, yellow diamond with a letter S or a figure 8 in the centre. Unlike normal projectors, the image was three-dimensional and floated in the middle of the air. Trilling, rolling syllables filled the kitchen while geometrical glyphs circled the base of the sigil. Clark moved the crystal around until the image moved down to eye level.
"How did you know to use sound?" asked Clark.
"I just messed around."
"You just didn't want to do language arts again."
The corners of Scott's mouth tipped up in a smile. "Maybe. But I solved something about your past which, in the grand scheme of things, is much more important. It doesn't sound like anything I heard before and we were transferred all over the place."
"Shhh, I'm trying to listen," said Clark.
"Do you understand it?"
He couldn't. Not really. But something about the sounds felt familiar. Clark approached the image. The S-shaped stroke slithered, making the marking a bit difficult to distinguish. He reached out. The sigil passed through his hand but, after one twisting circuit, the S-shape glowed dark blue. Clark's wrist went cold. He tried to pull away. He couldn't.
"Um. Scott." He yanked at his hand again, futilely.
Scott came around and pulled at his elbow. Still nothing. "This is bad."
"What did you do when you touched it?"
"I wasn't stupid enough to stick my whole hand in it!"
Clark glared at him. Scott blinked back. Okay, now was another time he really wanted to hit his little brother. The figure 8 slid a few more times around his arm before fading. As he scuttled back, images coalesced from the fading lines of the diamond-shape. A man's head-- or a being that looked like man-- spoke using the same rolling and trilling as the initial image. Clark closed his eyes and strained to remember. After half a minute of talking, the disembodied head stopped talking and stared at them as though waiting for a command.
"What now?" Scott asked.
"I have no idea," replied Clark. "Um. Thank you. Continue. Please?"
"Play. Fast forward. Rewind," said Scott. "Translate to English."
The head spoke again. The sounds were similar to its first spiel; it had repeated itself. It did this twice more before disappearing. The crystal's glow dimmed.
Scott huffed, sounding much like Pa. "Well that was useless."
"What are you talking about? This is great! We know the crystals can do things, they have information. That's more than I've ever been able to do." He ruffled Scott's hair. "I suppose I can help you with your language arts now."
"No, no, we can figure out the crystal more."
Clark already fished Scott's novel from his backpack. "The earlier you do it, the faster it'll be out of your way. What do you have to do?"
"Write a book report." The way he said it, the phrase might as well have been "stick a white-hot poker in my eye."
"How long?"
"Four whole pages!" Scott whined. "What am I supposed to write about for four pages? There are mutated rats who help a mama field mouse from getting squashed. The end."
"Four pages isn't that much."
"Says the guy who can write a hundred words a minute. You like writing and you're good at it. When you write things, people want to agree with you because you make things make sense. This book--" Scott stabbed it with his finger-- "is like watching a Disney movie."
"Because an eleven-year-old is way too old for Disney," Clark teased.
Scott made a face at it. "I wish I could do my book report on something interesting like that NIMH place."
"Why don't you?"
"It's not one of the questions."
"You're allowed to make your own theme up, you know. It shows creativity and motivation. Motivation means moving or acting on your own instead of being told to or forced to," Clark explained in response to Scott's puzzlement. "Why are you interested in NIMH?"
Scott shrugged. "I don't know. They're like the people we're afraid of, the ones who'll find out where you come from and do things to you because... y'know, because you're you. I mean, they helped the rats be smart but what did they do to the rats to make them smart? And did the rats think it was worth it? And do any of the rats want revenge? They're smart enough to do serious damage"
"I think you have the makings of a book report," said Clark. "Write that all down. I'll check it over when you're done."
He would do well to take his own advice, Clark thought to himself as he cracked his World History book open. He could do his paper on the suggested topics, few of which really piqued his interest. Or he could compare current economic condition of an American farming community against other points in history. Or even other countries currently. He had a chapter in his US Government class that could help.
"My, this is a sight to make a mother's heart full: my two boys hard at work with school." Ma smoothed down Clark's cowlick and pressed a hand against Scott's back. "Looks interesting."
Scott stuck his tongue out.
"Or not." She turned to Clark.
"Final paper," he said. "I'm thinking of doing something about comparing how political systems or eras support agriculture."
"That sounds like a big topic. I'm sure you'll handle it well. Are you going to talk about economics also?"
Clark turned his head up to his ma, one brow cocked up in query.
"You'll find money pushes a lot of politics, now and centuries ago," Ma elaborated. "Follow the money flow and you'll understand why and how certain systems work. What's that look for, Clark Joseph Kent? You think I only have a Rolodex of recipes in my head?"
"Of course not!" Clark denied. "I just didn't know you were interested in this kind of stuff. Pa never is."
Martha sat down. "Did I tell you how I met your pa?"
"In university."
"That's right. In university where he dragged me away from the riot police."
That made Scott drop his pen as well.
"I was in a student protest. It got ugly on both sides even though it was supposed to be peaceful. Those of us who didn't want anything to do with the violence got clumped up in the mob by the police and the rioters. Jonathan dove in and pulled us out." She smiled, her gaze folding back to her youth. "Lord, and did I ever tear a strip in him, thinking he was being sexist, having to protect the little woman."
"Was he?" asked Scott.
"He was. But he ripped right back into me and said if I didn't want his help, he'd hand me a couple of rocks and throw my skinny self back in with the best of luck."
"I wouldn't have thrown you back in," Pa interjected as he slipped his house shoes on. "You were a hundred pounds soaking wet with a gash on your head. Probably seeing double."
Ma stretched up to receive his kiss on her cheek. "I was seeing you, mister. You were awfully cute."
Clark's ears burned. "I always thought you lived your whole life in Smallville, Ma."
"Oh no. I was tricked. Your pa told me that a big city girl had no business talking against-- what was the phrase I used, sweetheart?"
"'Backwards hickville pendantics,'" Pa answered.
"Oh yes. That's a lovely phrase, isn't it? I'm sure I was very pleased with myself for coming up with it. He said if I had no business talking against backwards hickville pendantics if I never experienced a real hickville. He offered to show me Smallville as an example. None of the boys in college ever came up with a move that smooth. Which just goes to show you, boys, there's book smarts and there's street smarts and there's no way to judge who'll have either. Or both."
"Mom didn't like protesters," said Scott. "She said they're as spoon-fed as any government lackey but they wore more fashionable clothes. What's a lackey?"
"A mindless follower," Clark said. "I'm pretty sure it was one of your vocabulary words last month. So, you came to Smallville and changed your mind about everything, Ma?"
Pa laughed. "Lord no! We decided to stop talking politics to save our marriage."
"In the end, you have to look at intent," said Ma. "Most people want the same things; they just go about it in different ways. What your pa and I have in common deep down, our values, are alike and our love gives us the energy and the patience to work through some of the surface stuff that rub us wrong. A lot of energy and patience."
Pa leaned down to smooch Ma.
Scott scrunched up his nose. "Ugh. I gotta do my homework."