Fic: Elseworlds (3/5)

[bagheera_san]

Man, I can't believe it's *snowing* outside. For two days now. It didn't snow this much in winter! *hates winter*

Here's the next part of Elseworlds! (warnings etc all for this part)

Title: Elseworlds - Five Identities Lex Luthor And Clark Kent Never Had (3/5)
Rating: R
Length: 24591 words
Warnings: character death (not Clark or Lex), graphic violence, angst
Genre: S1 AU (from Pilot on)
Summary: "Elseworlds" is what DC calls its AU comic stories in which cracky stuff like "What if Bruce Wayne was a pirate?" or "What if Clark Kent and Lex Luthor grew up as brothers?" happens. This is in the vein of that, with the theme of: What if Clark and Lex became other heroes and villains than Superman and, well, Lex Luthor?
Note: Thanks a million times to my beta averaird :)

Part One: Old Friend
Part Two: Two Sides Of A Coin



3. I Shall Become

Metropolis

Perched on the roof of the Metropolis museum, still as one of the marble statues, the Batman waited for his prey.

The park in front of the museum was badly lit and quiet at night. It was Phelan's favourite spot for transactions like this. A couple of nights ago, he'd watched the corrupt cop beat up some thug in the cover of the bushes. This time, it wasn't a thug. It was another cop; he even wore the uniform, and had parked his police car in front of the museum.

Phelan looked nervous tonight. They weren't close enough to the bugs the Batman had planted and he couldn't make out their conversation. Then suddenly, the bug did catch voices, but they didn’t belong to Phelan or the cop.

It was a woman's laughter, quiet and gentle.

Three people passed under one of the few streetlights in the park. For a second, the Batman caught a glimpse of red hair and he clenched his hands tightly around the binoculars. After that it all went too fast, far too fast, far too familiar.

The woman and the man at her side passed under the streetlamp and back into the shadows, trailed by a tall youth with the wide eyes of someone who visited the city for the first time in his life. He stopped, right under the cone of light, and then startled as there was a gunshot.

Batman, too, startled, and quickly scanned for Phelan. The cop had fallen, and was clutching his side and Phelan was panting with excitement, his gun trained on the man.

The couple had stopped still, and now the man was started forward and the woman gave a yelp of fright, trying to hold him back. Batman threw away the binoculars and fired his grappling hook at one of the trees. As he jumped off the building, another two shots rang through the night, followed by a loud, anguished yell.

Even without the bug's tinny noise in his ear, Batman would have understood the words.

"Mom! Dad!"

Shot. Shot. He let go of the line and plunged to the ground, catching his fall in a roll and jumping to his feet as another shot rang out. Running over soft grass, the Batman saw Phelan fire at the boy until his magazine was empty and then Phelan turned and made a run for his car.

Batman stopped dead. The boy still stood.

A blink later, the boy was crouched over his parent's fallen bodies, trying to wake them. But they were dead, both of them killed with deadly precision. Phelan was a formidable shot. He couldn't have missed the boy.

Police sirens rose from the city, disturbing the quiet after the shots. Batman glanced at the street, then back at the boy, who still showed no signs of being wounded. He wanted to go and help, but the Batman wasn't designed to help. The Batman was the shadows, the night, fear personified.

The wail of the sirens on his heels like the sound of furies, the Batman melted back into the darkness and fled.

*

Montana

Raindrops ran down Clark's cheeks. He was long clean of the soot and the pain that clung to him. Now he was cool and smooth as one of the red apples hanging in the trees above him, the clear drops pearling off him as they did off the fruits. The trees had at first given him shelter and food, but now the taste of apples was washed from his mouth, and the earth was wet except where he lay curled on the ground, protecting the remainders of his home.

What was left fit into a backpack. Photographs, his Dad's reading glasses, his Mom's hairbrush. Things he had gathered without much sense. It didn't matter what they were. They were home.

This morning, he had woken up in the barn, curled into a ball in the hay, like a cat. At first, Clark hadn't remembered. He had wondered if this was another weirdness, like floating in his sleep. And then he had seen his hands, and the dark blood crusted on the sleeves of his shirt. His good blue shirt, the one he had worn the night before, to go to the city…

There were tears, but they turned to salty steam as his eyes heated up with pain and then started shooting fire, beam for beam, matching Clark's sobs. The hay caught fire, then the roof of the barn.

Clark hadn't cared. He had knelt in the fire, letting the flames lick at his face, and wished they could consume him. But they didn't. Clark was like a block of stone, untouchable.

But then the cows had begun to moo low in fright, and the sound had raised the echo of his Dad's voice drilling into him what to do in the case of a fire.

People first, Clark. Then animals. Then all the rest.

So Clark got up, his eyes squeezed shut to force this horrible new power down, and by the sounds alone managed to find the cows and carry them out of the burning barn. The rest he ignored. His things up in the loft didn't matter. The wood chipper, the tractor, the hay that had to last all winter - without his parents, none of it mattered.

When the cows were safe, Clark had watched the barn burn for a long time, until it collapsed in on itself in a huge cloud of fire and smoke and splintering wood. That was when he had realised that the smoke would be seen in town and there'd be people coming soon, firemen and policemen and… they'd take him away.

Just like with the cows it was his Dad's voice that got him to move. Always be careful, Clark. People can't know about your powers. They'd be scared of you and they'd try to take you away.

Clark didn't care if they took him away or not. The really scary thing about that idea had always been that he wouldn't see his parents again. It didn't matter now.

Except that wasn't true. It didn't matter to Clark, but it had mattered to his parents. They had always been so protective about him and that was so stupid, so wrong, because Clark was the one who should have protected them, because for some reason he was faster, and stronger and tougher than anyone else and why should that be if not to protect people…?

He'd gone inside the house and searched the drawers for things he needed. He hadn't been sure what he needed. He hadn't been sure where he'd go. Clothes ended up in his backpack, and a box full of photographs, and half a pair of socks. There wasn't a lot of money because it was the end of the month and they hadn't yet been paid from the produce customers and tomorrow was delivery day and Mrs Higgler would call to ask why her pumpkins hadn't been delivered…

In his parent's bedroom his powers had gotten out of control again. Clark ripped the bedside table apart when he tried to open the drawer and sat shivering among the splinters and his Mom's embroidered handkerchiefs and piles of letters until he heard the sirens far too close. Somehow it all ended up in his backpack and then he had run again, with no aim at all, out of the house and past the storm cellar, the frightened cows on the eastern pasture and the corn fields. When he came to the river, he waded in to his knees and scrubbed at his hands until they were pink and clean of blood and freezing with cold that Clark couldn't really feel and he heard his Mom scolding him that he hadn't packed a warm sweater -

After that, he had run for a long time without thinking, until there were mountains and hunger was searing his stomach. So he had gone into the orchard and plucked apples. After three of them, he had lain down on the grass where he was now and closed his eyes.

The rain had woken him some time ago, but Clark felt no need to get up and seek a drier place. His body was enough to protect the backpack for now.

His body would have been enough to protect his parents. Clark had never been shot, but while going through the kitchen this morning, he had stabbed himself with a steak knife, just to see what would have happened if he had stood between his parents and the bullets.

The knife shattered into a thousand tiny splinters. There wasn't a scratch on his hand.

A man with a gun. Clark had fought freaks with superpowers, but he couldn't stop a man with a gun. There had been eternity in those seconds, eternity for him to act, and he hadn't. He hadn't even been afraid. Just… surprised.

That criminal hadn't even hesitated before shooting. But why? Just so there'd be no witnesses? Then why hadn't he shot Clark? Or had he?

Clark rolled around on his backpack so that he could glance at his shirt. It had been fresh this morning, now it was wet and muddy. He lifted up the hem slowly, baring his wet stomach. A faint little bruise right next to his navel. Another one, and a third on his chest, above the heart.

He couldn't be shot. He couldn't cut himself or even feel the shock of electric wire. He didn't get burned and he could stay under water for hours. He could see through walls and shoot fire from his eyes. He could run faster than sound and lift a horse, or a car or probably a house…

Why did he have all those powers if he didn't use them when he needed to?

But he could. He could use them. He could find the man with the gun and stop him. Hurt him. Take the gun and …

Kill.

He could do it. He had betrayed his parents already, so what did it matter if he did it again?

He thought of the fire lurking behind his eyes. Maybe that was what he had it for. Revenge. It was a weapon, far more powerful than the killer's gun.

Clark got back to his stiff feet. His wet clothes hung heavy on him, clinging to his skin. He picked an apple at random, and stared at the red fruit above him with a deep frown.

The incessant patter of rain became the murmur of a large city. His heart-beat a gunshot ringing in the dark.

Red filled his vision, and the apple exploded.

Clark turned towards Metropolis. The sun was going down over the mountains, so Metropolis had to be east of wherever he was. Once night fell, he would be able to navigate by the stars.

*

In a dingy diner in Metropolis, Clark spent what money he had on food. He was starved, and when he had stumbled into the diner, he hadn't been able to think of anything else.

Now he just felt tired and sick. He went into the smelly restroom to change his muddy shirt for a fresh one from his backpack. The face that stared at him out of the mirror was pale and hollow-cheeked like a drug addict's in an after-school special. He had grass still sticking to his tangled hair. It was a wonder he hadn't been thrown out of the diner.

He left quickly before anyone could bother to notice.

The city didn't come to rest, even in the dead of the night. Traffic was a constant ebb and flow under the cold streetlights that shut out the night sky. The web of streets confused Clark, and he spent two hours running back and forth until he found the museum.

He didn't go into the park. It was probably stupid to expect the murderer to come back to the scene of the crime, but Clark couldn't think of anywhere else to start looking. Numbly, he hunched down in the shadow besides the stairs to the museum and watched the park. From time to time, a taxi or a police car drove by slowly and each time he squeezed deeper into the shadow, hoping he wouldn't be seen. There was a bum sleeping on a bench by a bus stop across the street. Once a police car stopped and one of the officers shook the old man until he woke. He swayed as he shuffled off, his slurred curses ringing across the street to Clark.

If that had been him sleeping on the bench, the police would have seen that he was underage and taken him in. Clark had to be careful.

His eyes kept sliding shut. There was an hour, just before morning, when even the city slipped into silence. That was when it happened.

A figure emerged from beneath the trees, moving so quietly that Clark hadn't noticed its approach. Only when it skirted the pool of lamplight, Clark realized it was a cape and not the night itself cloaking the figure in shadows. The figure moved with a dangerous liquid grace, like a cat on the prowl, circling the scene of the crime, until it stilled and turned to stare into Clark's direction, as if they could see eye to eye all the way across the street and the park.

With a single fluid motion, the figure ducked and raised a hand. There was a faint, whirring sound and it lifted up into the night on dark wings, making Clark wonder if he had dreamed the whole thing.

Men couldn't fly. Float, maybe, if they were freaks.

Morning came, tired and grey as the bum, who had returned to the bench. The first bus drove by the stop. Joggers and dog walkers appeared in the park, passing by the spot where Clark's parents had died without a second glance. The light forced Clark out of his hiding place, and he walked across the city to sit down on the bench next to the bum. He would just pretend to be waiting for the bus.

How long, he didn't know. His mind was too numb to come up with a plan. Eventually he picked up one of the bum's newspapers. He'd give it back; he'd just pretend to be reading it for a while, so he didn't have to look at people. Tides of people went past him, in and out of buses and no one noticed him with the paper between them. He was invisible as the bum next to him, a nuisance only because he took up space.

"That's not exactly news."

Clark looked past his paper shield and blinked at the bright light. Bright hair. No, blonde hair. The girl raised her brows and pointed at the newspaper.

"A little behind the times, aren't we?"

She was Clark's age, probably, although she didn't look like the girls at Smallville high with her flippy hair and the bright splash of colours everywhere on her. In Smallville, nobody noticed Clark much. He was just some loser. It was better that way, because Clark was a freak and no one could know his secret.

But the girl was still looking at him with a strange glint in her eyes… hunger? No, curiosity. That wasn't good. Curiosity was always bad.

"I, uh, I was interested in that article. Didn't get to read it when the… um… the paper was new," Clark stammered, pointing at a random article with a blurry dark photo next to it. His voice sounded horrible, scratchy and dry, and he realised that he hadn’t talked to anyone in more than a day.

She peeked at the article Clark had pointed at. "Oh that. The Dark Knight of Metropolis. I thought everyone had heard about that by now."

Clark desperately tried to glean what the article was about. 'More eyewitness accounts of Metropolis' mysterious vigilante,' caught his eyes and he quickly looked up and asked, "So do you believe it's a hoax?"

His distraction seemed successful, because the girl looked positively ecstatic to be asked. "No! I know it seems weird, but I've talked to a bunch of people who have seen him prevent crimes. I've even got a few photos at home, better ones than that -" she pointed at the blurry photo in the newspaper, "where you can really see the shape of the cape and everything. I guess whoever it is must be a real weirdo, but the criminals he caught are real. They say he calls himself the Batman . The police doesn't want it to get out into the public too much because they're afraid of copycats getting themselves into trouble, but as far as I can tell he's been in the city for at least a year."

Clark's thoughts moved at snail's pace behind her excited chatter, but one word out of the flood of information caught his attention.

"Cape?" he asked. "You said he wears a cape?"

"Did you read the article or what?" She asked with a roll of her eyes. "Yeah, he wears a cape. A black one. Maybe he thinks he's Zorro, who knows?"

"I think I saw him," Clark said slowly. "Maybe. Unless it was a copycat."

"Really? When? This isn't just a pathetic attempt at a pick-up line, right?"

"Last night," Clark said. Scepticism didn't seem too developed in the girl, because she looked intrigued. "Over there in the park."

"Last night? Did you, like, sleep on the bench, or what? No, wait, don't answer that." She grimaced. "You look like you did. Most of the eye-witnesses are bums. He probably isn't afraid of being seen by drunks. You're not a drunk, right?"

Clark stared at her. This was all too much for his tired brain. His stomach roared for food and according to a random girl, he looked like he slept on a bench. He wished he had.

"You look a little young for a drunk. How old are you? Eighteen?"

That was good. If Clark looked like eighteen, at least he didn't look like a runaway. "Uh, yes?"

She grinned. "Liar." Then she glanced at her watch and then glared at the time table. "I think I missed the bus. Do you want to drink a coffee with me and tell me of your encounter with the mysterious vigilante, Mr Park Bench?"

She was sharp and asked too many questions. It would be much safer to leave now. But Clark had nowhere to go. "I'm kinda broke."

She rolled her eyes. "I figured that. Coffee's on me. So what's your name?"

Clark got up and followed her in a daze. She was short and he felt gangly and awkward next to her. "Cl - Clarence."

"Don't worry, you can tell me your real name, 'Clarence'. I protect my sources. I'm Chloe Sullivan."

"Sources?"

"I'm a reporter," Chloe declared proudly.

Clark accepted that, even though she looked rather young for a reporter. Maybe she just wished she was, like he wished he was eighteen. She led him away from the park and a couple of streets down to the Starbucks across from the Daily Planet. As they went in, Clark got a glimpse of the golden globe on top of the newspaper building. Reflecting the early morning light, it looked as if the sun itself were sitting on the roof.

Chloe turned around as they went through the doors. Inside it was crowded and noisy, smelling of coffee and all kinds of sweet aromas, and everywhere there were people in suits and fashionable clothes, with hair out of magazine pages and laptops open on the tables in front of them. It was nothing like the Beanery, but Clark preferred it to Smallville's popular coffee shop. All the cool kids in Smallville went to the Beanery, but Clark hadn't got any friends and it was lame to sit alone at a table, so he'd only been there twice with his Mom.

The Beanery would have reminded him of her, but this place was nothing like the Beanery. In this place even the cheerleaders and quarterbacks would just have been lame hicks.

Here at least he had Chloe to drag him around.

Chloe got him something with a lot of white foam that smelled sweet and of almonds, and after looking pitifully at him ordered a blueberry muffin as well. The coffee didn't resemble coffee very much and the muffin was greasy and bad and Clark was okay with that. As long as it didn't remind him of home, he was okay with anything.

"So, Clarence, you were sleeping on your bench and then?"

Not quite what happened, but it was as good an explanation as any as to why he was near the park. Clark felt a little less brain-dead now.

"Not much. I saw a man with a cape moving around in the bushes. He seemed to be looking for something, maybe. Then he noticed me and stared at me for a moment and then he just vanished into the dark. It looked like he was flying." Now she probably regretted having bought him a coffee…

Surprisingly, Chloe just nodded. "I think he uses a grappling hook."

"Yeah, I heard something like a fishing line being cast right before he lifted off the ground..."

Chloe scrunched up her face in a grimace of disbelief. "You heard that? All the way from the bushes? What are you, a dog?"

"I, uh…"Clark stared at the muffin crumbs on the table. His Dad would kill him for talking about this stuff - but his Dad wasn't here. His parents were dead. This wasn't Smallville. He could talk about stuff and if she got suspicious, he'd just vanish. "I grew up on a farm. It's quiet there, I guess your hearing just gets sharper than with all the noise. In the city."

Chloe narrowed her eyes at him and took a sip from her coffee. "I think I know what the Batman was looking for in the park. A murder happened there the night before, a cop and a couple from out of town."

Clark sat completely still. He was sure there wasn't any sign of shock on his face, because there couldn't be. He didn't feel any. But she was still looking at him, watching him, seeing right through him.

"Kinda strange though, to sleep practically next to a murder scene. Were you watching it?"

She was taking him apart and he let her. The coffee sat warm in his belly, but everything else was hollow inside.

Her eyes widened. Clark could practically see things falling into place for her. "You saw the murder happen! You're the missing kid. Your name's not Clarence - you're Clark Kent!" Chloe looked more shocked than he felt. "Jesus. Why didn't you go to the police? I read in the newspaper there was a fire at your place and there are all kinds of rumours. People think you've been kidnapped!"

That surprised Clark, in a detached kind of way. He hadn't thought that people would be looking for him.

Chloe still stared at him, looking more worried than shocked now. "My God. I'm sorry. You must be in shock. That's so… you need to go to the police, Clark. Please. I'll go with you if you want me to - "

"The third man. You said he was a policeman?" Clark hadn't realized that before. He could scarcely remember that night.

"Yes, but - you aren't looking for the murderer, are you?"

"Chloe," Clark pleaded.

"Jesus." She ran a hand through her hair and stared at him. Her eyes wandered to her bag and a single glance with x-ray vision revealed a cell phone. Clark got up.

"Thank you for the coffee."

She jumped up, grabbing his arm. "No, wait! I'm going to tell you about the cop, alright, just sit down! This is crazy. But. I'm not going to call the police, okay? Just talk to me, Clark."

He could leave, anytime, faster than she could reach for her phone. Nobody was going to believe an excitable cub reporter anyway. Clark sat down again. Chloe gave him a wobbly smile.

"See, that's better. Do you want another muffin? You must be starving." She reached for her bag and Clark was almost up and away again when she pulled out a folded newspaper and her wallet. "The article's all over the front page, you can read about it there. I'm just going to buy that muffin, right? And you're staying here."

She walked to the queue at the counter, miraculously avoiding to bump into anyone despite looking over her shoulder rather than ahead of herself. Clark looked at the newspaper on the table. When he turned it around, there were photos. Mom and Dad, an image that had stood in a frame on the dresser by the door. It didn't belong in a paper, splashed all over the front page, like his parent's worst nightmare. Right next to his own, smiling face… at least the boy in the picture looked nothing like the reflection he'd seen in the mirror the last time he looked.

He forgot to read while staring at the pictures and when Chloe returned with another muffin and a little plate with cookies, she gently took the newspaper away and watched him eat.

"I'm sorry about your parents, Clark. But finding their murderer won't bring them back. Leave it to the police, or the Batman if you think he's more likely to find anything."

Clark waited until she faltered with a shaky sigh. "Alright. You're not going to listen to me. I guess I'd do the same if it was my Dad. So you want to know about the dead cop?"

"The murderer was arguing with him," Clark explained. "I think he was threatening him. Then he shot him. That's when… when he saw us."

Chloe raised her brows. "Wow. The police has a totally different idea of what's happened. They thought the cop was trying to stop the murder." She picked up a piece of Clark's cookies. "If he was arguing with the murderer, then maybe he knew him. He might be the best lead in the case… Clark?"

He was running already, a blur among the masses. He wished he could have thanked Chloe, but keeping her out of this had to be enough of a thanks.

*
23:21 pm
GreyGhost has logged in

batgirl: we've got to stop meeting like this

GreyGhost: You wrote that you had information about the Kent case.

batgirl: and it took you long enough to reply. what's with only being around at night? no internet connection in your coffin?

GreyGhost: You, on the other hand, were online while you should have been in class. Skipping school?

batgirl: i hate that you know my identity and i don't know yours. though, i know you named yourself after an eighties toon show. how am i supposed to trust you as a source?

GreyGhost: Because my info is always correct. The case?

batgirl: thought it would interest you. innocent couple murdered - right up your alley. i met the boy

GreyGhost: Clark Kent?

batgirl: yeah. sat on the park bench right next to the crime scene. it’s a wonder the police hasn't picked him up yet. although i didn't recognize him either at first.

GreyGhost: Did you talk to him?

batgirl: what's your offer?

GreyGhost: Same case, different info. Enough for a story, if you're lucky.

batgirl: bought him a coffee. he's pretty upset, but doesn't seem hurt. he didn't tell me anything about where he's been the last 24 hours, but i think he's trying to find the murderer. he says the murderer argued with the cop and shot him before he even noticed the kents. that puts a big fat hole into the planet's story of the valiant cop trying to defend the innocent tourists.

GreyGhost: It does and it fits with what I have found out. The cop was involved in a corruption affair at the MPD together with a Detective Sam Phelan. They're taking money from Morgan Edge.

batgirl: proof?

GreyGhost: None, yet.

batgirl: great

00:04 am
GreyGhost has logged out.

*

Clark spend the rest of the day exploring the docks and the riverside neighbourhoods, sometimes following police cars and trying to come up with a plan. If he had at least had a computer, or a phone… but he didn't.

Around dusk he gave up and decided to find a dark corner somewhere to sleep. He was practically walking blind and deaf and possibly in circles. It was impossible to orient himself at the stars, because they were blotted out by the yellow sheen of the city lights in the sky.

He was hungry again, too. Sooner or later he needed money. People in the city didn't just invite you in for dinner, especially if you looked like a bum. But how was he supposed to get money? He couldn't work because he was underage and had no paperwork at all - he could rob a bank, of course, nothing easier than that with his powers, but Clark would feel horrible if he so much as stole an apple. Which he had, in the orchard, but it was different stealing from stores.

Of course, he felt horrible already, so sooner or later the temptation to steal would probably win.

The first place Clark tried to sleep was a back alley with dumpsters and cardboard boxes all around - too perfect a place not to already be inhabited, it turned out as the locals chased him away. He wandered back into the livelier parts of the city to find a bus stop or a park, but the presence of cars and the occasional person walking by made him too nervous to settle down.

Then finally he found a part of the city that was full of old factory buildings and warehouses, only to discover that most of them had been refashioned as hip clubs and less reputable establishments. The later it got the more the streets filled with flashy, expensive cars and their equally expensive owners. The people Clark saw weren't like the kind of cool kids in Smallville that only made him feel dorky and dull, but looked like something scandalous out of a TV show. The looks he got here were different, cool and assessing and occasionally hungry or interested. And in the darker corners, there were people who looked like they might be doing drugs, or selling drugs, or even selling themselves - Clark wasn't too sure and he didn't want to know. He was only glad that nothing could hurt him, because he was sure that sooner or later, something or someone would try.

It had to be past midnight now and the city was still only growing livelier. There was a hole on the sole of his left sneaker and his hair felt filthy. He was miserable, but pleasantly numb with it, so completely exhausted that no energy for grief or anger or even worry was left.

A car had been following him for a while, not the girl in front of him as he had assumed, because she had turned left and the sleek black sports car was still there, driving slowly along the curb. Clark stopped and waited what would happen. In movies this only happened to girls - and definitely not girls in torn, dirty jeans and flannel shirts. Maybe they wanted to ask for directions… yeah, sure.

The car stopped with the motor still running, a silent purr that was even smoother than any of Pete Ross's expensive cars, and one tinted window rolled down almost noiselessly. The inside of the car was curiously dark except for the glow of the dashboard, but the driver's hair was a shade of red that couldn't even be hidden by the night. He had a full head of it, and was younger than Clark would have thought. He looked mostly harmless - of course, to Clark, anybody was harmless - and not at all like the kind of guy who kidnapped young boys and girls. Maybe he was a drug dealer. Clark didn't have too clear an image of how those were supposed to look.

"It's not a good place for a kid like you to be wandering around at night," the redhead said almost conversationally, giving Clark a lingering look from head to toe. "Not as many criminals as you probably believe, but a lot more cops than you think. I'm not one of them." He gave Clark a smile that fell just short of cocky.

"What do you want?" Clark felt rude.

"Since you're already ignoring the warnings about not talking to strange men, how about getting into the car?" The smile turned ironic, as if the speaker didn't quite believe his own words.

"I'm not -”

"I have a place where you can crash. All I want is for you to listen to me while we drive there. If you're not convinced by the time we're there, at least it's a better part of town."

Clark stared at him, wondering how the man could possibly be serious about this. If he was a pervert, he was a pretty self-confident one and if he wasn't, then he was probably a madman.

He rounded the car and got inside. It wasn't as if he couldn't leave any time and since he wasn't going to get to sleep anyways, at least he got to sit down - and wow, sitting was no adequate word for this seat, even if the leg space was too small. The leather felt more comfortable than any bed Clark had ever slept in -

"That was rather easier than I had thought," the driver said bemusedly but then stepped onto the gas so hard that Clark was pressed into the seat as they suddenly accelerated.

It was hard to estimate how tall the guy was, but he looked pretty fit under his grey shirt and black pants, as if he might possibly be a man with a chance at overwhelming Clark - if Clark had been normal. There was something spare and lean about him and the way he held himself was different from anybody Clark had ever seen, graceful and restrained at the same time, as if there was a poised energy in him waiting to be released. He was beginning to reconsider his impulsive decision to get in the car.

"Let's start with a story. It begins twelve years ago, when I was nine years old. My father was a very rich man and I was his only heir, so he was grooming me to be his successor even at that tender age." Judging from the car, he was a rich man, too, but the way he told the story sounded grave and somehow ironic at the same time, as if it were a fairy tale. "One day he took me with him to the countryside, where he was doing business. I was bored and wandered off into a cornfield, so he went after me. We were only a few hundred metres apart when he was killed."

Clark cast a wary glance in his direction, but he was staring ahead, a hard grip on the driver's wheel and not a trace of irony in his voice anymore.

"I was lost and scared to death, but after running a while I hit a road and was nearly run over by a car. It belonged to a local family, who picked me up and safely returned me to my mother."

It wasn't at all the kind of story Clark had expected and he didn't know what to say - or if he was supposed to say anything at all.

"That's not all of it. Because I wasn't the only child the family picked up that day. There was another boy, a boy without parents, whom they wanted to adopt. I'm not sure why, but for some reason they couldn't go through legal channels, so they accepted my mother's offer of help, even though it wasn't quite legal. I'm Lex Luthor. You're the child my mother helped to adopt, Clark."

"How did you - ?"

"Your name and picture are all over the papers," Luthor replied calmly. "People are looking for you. I was looking for you, because I hoped to find you before the police or child services did, but I didn't actually expect to be so lucky. Your parents found me when I was in need and I found you. I guess you might say it was destiny."

Clark's head was spinning with all the information. Questions kept popping up and he had the feeling that they weren't the right questions, that he was missing some crucial part because his mind was slow with gnawing hunger and exhaustion. And then there was Lex Luthor, who might be his self-appointed saviour but who was still undeniably on the weird side.

And what was all that talk about the adoption not being legal? His parents had never said *anything* about that. Why would they do something illegal just to adopt a child - what if it had to do with Clark's freakish powers? What if Luthor's mother knew about that? What if Luthor knew about them?

"Mr Luthor, I don't need -”

"My help? You're fifteen years old, Clark. You have no home, no money and you're a stranger in a big, dangerous city. To me it looks like you do need my help. And please, call me Lex." He reached for the glove compartment - he was wearing fingerless gloves, why would anyone wear gloves in a car? - and pulled out a fat envelope, tossing it into Clark's lap.

Clark picked it up and peeked inside. There was money, more than Clark had ever seen in one place, a small folded map, a key and a passport. "I can't take this."

Lex went on as if he handed out ridiculous sums of money and fake passports every day. "The key is for my place, all you have to do is show it to the personnel and they'll let you in, anytime. I want you to sleep there tonight and I hope you'll stay until I have taken care of your adoption papers, but if you decide that you'll keep on running from everyone, then I want you to take the money and the ID."

Jesus. Clark's life was like the definition of messed up right now, but Luthor was a complete lunatic. Who gave a stranger - a minor! - this much money, the key to their place and a fake ID and then let them run away with it? Clark felt almost rational in comparison.

"What's wrong with my adoption papers?" Aside from them being illegal, of course. Clark still couldn't believe it.

Lex ran a hand through his red hair, pushing it out of his face. "What my mother did for your parents was enough to fool a doctor or your high school, but she wasn't exactly a criminal mastermind. At the moment, your birth certificate and adoption papers wouldn't stand up to the scrutiny of, say, the police, or child services. And they're pretty easy to trace back to my company. It'd be much more convenient for me if I could change that before the police has a look at them."

The city had changed around them as they drove, first over the river, then through downtown Metropolis, and finally into a neighbourhood were the houses were older and with much larger spaces between them, rich gardens with trees and wrought iron gates surrounding luxurious villas. At the end of the road a large structure loomed on top of a small, probably artificially created hill; at first Clark thought it was an old church, but then it looked more like a little castle, a part of a fairy-tale transplanted into reality. They drove straight towards it and Lex pressed a button on the dashboard. The iron bars of the gate slid open noiselessly.

Clark knew that this was the point where he was supposed to get out of the car and make a run for it. Even if Lex Luthor was trying to help him and hide his illegal machinations from the law, sooner or later he was going to call the police. And Clark still had to find the killer and that was much easier when he didn't have a bored rich lunatic looking over his shoulder.

He remained sitting in the soft embrace of his seat and wondered if he could just fall asleep in the car. Lex probably wouldn't be able to move him if he did.

"Nice place, isn't it?" Lex drawled as they breezed up the driveway to the ominous castle. "It's supposed to be the Luthor ancestral home, but it's really just a random Scottish castle. My father planned to have it shipped over and rebuilt somewhere in Kansas. When he died, my mother did it anyway, out of sentimentality."

He parked the car, leaving the keys in the ignition. Clark saw why when a man in a suit and a blank expression came up to them as if he had only been waiting to hold open the door for Lex and take over the car. Clark stared at the servant - or butler, or whatever he was - who didn't give him more than a single, disinterested look and was ignored completely by Lex.

A castle on a hill with servants and a rich lunatic living there. It should have been creepy and weird, and probably would have if Clark hadn't been so tired, but it was perfect. If Clark had to be anywhere that wasn't home, then this was okay. It had nothing at all to do with Smallville, or his parents. It was like something out of this world, an escapist fantasy, and just what Clark needed right now.

He followed Lex inside, clutching his dirty backpack to himself and careful not to bump into anything in the gloomy, wood-panelled hallway. There were coats of arms on the walls and suits of armour and a stained glass window like in a church. Except for Lex and himself, there seemed to be nothing here that didn't belong in a museum.

They went up a flight of broad, wooden stairs that made no sound at all under Lex's feet and creaked loudly under Clark's no matter how softly he tried to walk. The staircase led to a gallery with dark, heavy curtains drawn closed in front of the windows and then a couple of doors. Lex opened the one on the very end and let Clark inside.

This was how Clark always imagined the room of the princess in a fairy-tale. A huge four-poster bed with drawn curtains and expensive sheets took up much of the space. There were dressers and a bed-side table with a bowl of fruit and a tray - a tray with a steaming cup of something, as if it had been put there only a moment ago. The single lamp didn't give the room much light, just like the rest of the house - castle, Clark reminded himself - it was a little gloomy, but in a more comfortable way than the hallway. Lex paused with a hand absently running over one of the dressers and gave the place a quick once over.

"The bathroom is behind that door. Take anything you need. If there's anything else, ask the help." He looked at Clark as if there was more to say, but then he just gave him a small nod. "And get some sleep."

When the door was gently shut behind Lex, Clark sat down on the edge of the bed and finally let go of the backpack - and the envelope with the money which he had forgotten about before. He looked at the steaming cup. Hot chocolate. He was almost afraid to pick it up, it smelled so sweetly familiar, but the taste was different, rich and dark with cocoa, and for the first time in days Clark felt entirely safe.

Nothing in his life was normal anymore. Nothing was even vaguely like the life before. He had been plunged down a rabbit hole and come out another person on the other side, in a magic kingdom with castles and caped crusaders and knights in shining sports cars. A comfortably unreal kingdom …

*

When he woke, the lamp wasn't on anymore, but there was light creeping in under the curtains. Although the pillow smelled good against his cheek, his clothes felt filthy as old dishrags and he was still wearing his shoes. Mom would -

The pain was quiet and sudden and more real than any Clark had felt before. His mom wasn't there anymore. They would never talk again. How could she just be gone like this -

He wanted to be dead, more than anything else, for more than one moment. Anything, just to have it all go away.

But it didn't go away, no matter how long he lay there like this. The pain only became harder, heavier, a choking weight all over his chest and deep in his stomach, mixed with anger burning behind his eyes like salt in an open wound.

And unlike the pain, Clark could do something about the anger.

He got up and concentrated before he opened his eyes until he was sure that he wouldn't set anything on fire. This new power would have frightened him back in Smallville, but now it was acceptable.

Clark would never go anywhere without a weapon again. He was a weapon. The thought was bitter and heavy and comforting.

The tray and the cup that had been on the beside table were gone. Someone had been inside the room while he slept. He looked around for anything else that had changed, but his backpack was still there next to him on the bed and the neat pile of fresh clothes on the dresser had maybe already been there the night before. There was silver clock on the bedside that table was tiny and unassuming and probably had cost more than any clock Clark had ever seen. Its hands were set to three fifteen, which meant that Clark had slept about twelve hours. It felt like he had lain dead for a week.

He was seriously hungry, but the need for a shower won. The pile of new clothes contained everything he needed, so he gathered it up and carried it all through the door Luthor had pointed out as a bathroom. There he stopped dead, baffled by improbable luxury. The installations by the opulent sink all looked shiny and modern and there was a whole lot of space that nobody could seriously need in a bathroom. The tub was a claw-footed thing right out of movie set - with a golden showerhead no less - and the floor was marble here, not parquet. The walls were panelled with the same dark maroon wood as the bedroom.

Clark's face in the mirror, however, still looked like it belonged to a bum. He even had stubble and rings under his eyes which had a kind of feverish brightness in them… he looked away and undressed quickly.

He showered as hot as the shower would go and for a long time. The bottles he found weren't labelled and there were decidedly too many of them, so he just relied on luck, wrinkling his nose at each new and unfamiliar scent.

Putting on the clothes gave him pause. It wasn't because they were all new and clearly expensive, but the fact that they fit him perfectly. And not just the kind of perfect fit that could be achieved with sizes like M or XL, these looked as if they had been made for him, the arms of the dark shirt just the right length and the jeans fitting perfectly aside from the fact that they were a tighter cut than any Clark owned.

How did Luthor - or his help - know Clark's size this well? For that matter, how had Lex found him last night? The talk about luck and destiny was clearly bullshit. Lex had looked for him and he had found him, which should have been impossible in a city that big for a single man. Had he had people looking for Clark? What kind of things could you do with as much money as Luthor obviously had?

The next little surprise came when he returned to the bedroom after shaving and brushing his teeth. Someone had taken away the sneakers with the holes in their soles and replaced them with a pair of new ones. And there was food, a rich, wonderful breakfast that Clark ate without much room for thought or remorse. When he was done he decided that at least they didn't know he preferred milk to anything else for breakfast - there'd only been coffee, tea and orange juice.

He shouldered the backpack before leaving the room because people taking away his shoes made him anxious to protect the rest of his meagre possessions and ventured into the hallway. The curtains were drawn now, but the light falling in red and yellow through stained glass windows somehow also had that gloomy quality from the night before, as if no sunlight ever truly got inside this house. There was no noise and no one in sight. Clark squinted and started x-raying the castle.

The rooms to his left were all were empty and the only one that made much sense to him was a large kitchen on the ground floor. Computer hardware stood out against his vision in a surprising amount of rooms. There was a lot more wiring in the walls of the castle than there should have been - Clark realised that there were cameras and security systems everywhere.

He looked downstairs, and there he spotted the skeleton of a man reclining on a sofa in a huge room. The person held a phone in one hand and was talking while reading something in a folder on his lap. Clark headed for the stairs.

The doors to the room were wide open, like a welcoming gesture. There was a glass desk opposite the doors. To the right of it, next to shelves with ancient looking books and vases, a tall grandfather clock stood, its pendulum still.

In front of a fireplace with a merrily burning fire, Lex Luthor lay stretched out on a black leather sofa, typing away on a laptop. Next to him on the coffee table sat a cup of some steaming liquid - green tea, from the smell of it.

Clark thought he was moving quietly, but Lex turned his head as soon as Clark made a step into the room.

He took his feet off the armrest of the couch and sat up.

"Leaving already?"

Clark glanced down at his backpack. "I was just… having a look around."

"Do you like the place?"

The question sounded bored, like Luthor was humouring him, but it didn't fit with the intense scrutiny of his eyes.

"It's… big? I'm sorry if I'm bothering you."

Lex put the laptop onto the coffee table next to the cup and a purple folder. Both the screen and the folder bore a triangular logo in purple and green. "Technically I'm working, but I'm my own master. I can put in a break whenever I want to. Have a seat, Clark."

Clark sat down across from him before he could think about it. Despite his casual, pleasant tone, Luthor was oddly commanding. The way his attention centred completely on Clark shut out everything else around them. Clark averted his eyes in embarrassment. They fell on the folder.

"Um. What do you do?"

Lex's lips quirked with amusement. "You don't read the paper much, do you? I'm the CEO of LuthorCorp. Under my father the company mostly produced fertilizer, but I'm in the process of modernising the company and directing it more towards pharmaceutical and technological research."

Clark was a little perplexed by the way Luthor was talking to him. Not like he was a kid or a stranger, but like this stuff actually mattered to him. It made him want say something that didn't sound completely clueless, but Luthor was faster.

"Sorry. I'm sure this doesn't interest you in the least. There's something I wanted to talk about, though." He rose smoothly and started pacing. "I had a closer look at my mother's transactions with your family and I noticed that your farm has apparently been struggling to survive for years. My mother seems to have offered your parents money, but instead, they put a mortgage on the farm a while ago."

Clark knew that things hadn't always been going well. There were good years and bad years and sometimes his parents worried, but in the end things were always okay. Clark didn't have to bother with these things. Now he felt completely helpless and guilty on top, because the farm was everything to his Dad and he wasn't taking care of it at all. Instead he'd burned down the barn with his freaky powers and run away and now there was a mortgage on the farm, which was like debt, which meant that he probably had to sell it, but as long as he was on the run, he couldn't even do that…

Lex stopped his pacing and looked down at him with a softened expression. "Don't panic. I know what this feels like. When my father died, my mother was completely overtaxed with all the work. I felt responsible for everything then, too. I've already made sure that your affairs will be taken care of. All you have to do is decide whether you want to keep the farm or sell it. You don't have to bother with the details."

"I… thanks… but I can't let you do all this for me," Clark stammered.

Luthor's copper brows knitted in a displeased frown. He looked angry, but only for a second before sighing. "What is it about your family that you refuse help at every turn?"

Clark looked at the ground. He felt embarrassed and intimidated. "It's not good to rely on strangers all the time. You lose your independence that way."

"You're fifteen. I think it's okay to rely on others a little."

"My Dad always wanted us to stay independent," Clark insisted. He didn't want to tell Lex that his Dad had been especially wary of rich people.

"Ah. Your Dad told you that?"

Clark nodded. He gave Lex a hard look, expecting to be mocked, but Lex remained perfectly serious, regarding Clark with new respect. "I think our fathers had some things in common, Clark. My Dad always said relying on the kindness of strangers was a sign of weakness."

"It's not," Clark blurted out, then blushed. Awkwardly, he tried to explain, "But when you can't give something in return…"

"Are you too proud to accept my help, Clark?" Lex sounded amused. Clark blushed harder. "There aren't many people who'd be thinking about that in your situation. But I understand. I think it shows strength of character."

"You do?" Clark asked.

Lex nodded, and it was impossible not to trust the graveness in his eyes. "You can't accept help because that'd mean giving up, and you need to go on fighting."

Clark blinked. He hadn't thought about why he needed to go on, but yes, that was it. He needed to do something, to find the murderer, or else he'd collapse like a house of cards and just vanish.

"You can't undo what's happened," Lex went on, looking straight through Clark as if he were seeing something else, far in the distance. "But you want to make sure that it doesn't happen again."

A tremble started at Clark's knees and crawled up his spine and down his arms, into the tips of his fingers. "How do you know?"

Lex looked down, then straight at Clark. "I lost my mother," he said, "when I was eleven. She was shot by a mugger. It happened just a few streets from where your parents were killed. We had just seen a movie and were walking back to our car… she didn't like having a bodyguard or a driver around. She always used to say that she wasn't afraid as long as I was there to protect her."

The tremble made it impossible for Clark to speak or say that he was sorry. Lex didn't seem to notice. "People were falling over themselves afterward, offering me help. A lot of them did it out of greed, of course, but some meant it genuinely. I didn't want any of it. All I wanted was to be grown up already, so I could start to change things." His face hardened and there was a grim set to his lips, as if they didn't even know how to smile. "Things look different, now that I'm an adult." He took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. "Sorry. It makes me angry every time I think about it."

Clark understood, with every fibre of his being. Anger was all that was holding him together.

*

Clark decided to stay with Lex at his castle at least for another night. He felt safe there, and now that he knew Lex's motivation, he couldn't feel bad about accepting help anymore. He could sneak out of the castle at night when no one would miss him and go looking for the murderer again, and until then, he could rest and eat and gather new reserves.

He slept another two hours and when he left his room again. He went down to the kitchen, but the cook told him that Lex had invited Clark to have dinner with him.

They had Chinese food, but not like any Chinese food Clark had ever had at the Golden Dragon in Granville. To his surprise, Lex didn't eat at a big table with candles and silver spoons as Clark had half expected to find in the castle, but on his couch, in front of the TV, while idly checking the stock market on his notebook and telling Clark about all the places in China that he’d been to, which were a whole lot. And Lex had a tale for each place, about Chinese dynasties and wars and philosophers, some of whom Clark had read of on fortune cookie slips and some of whom he had never heard before. It was a lot more interesting that the TV and Clark found his attention glued to Lex's lips once he'd finished his plate, lulled by a pleasant stream of information that had nothing to do with his own life.

"You've travelled a lot," he said, sometime after his second glass of lemonade. "I've never been abroad." He could go, he realized now, everywhere he wanted to, even to China maybe, if he ran fast enough to run over water. It should be like water skiing, Clark guessed. But what would he do in China? He didn't speak Chinese, unlike Lex, who spoke not just one, but several kinds of Chinese.

He could go anywhere but where he wanted to be. Home.

Lex shrugged. "I started when I was just a year older than you. I skipped a couple of grades and finished school when I was sixteen - never went to college. Are you going to go to college?"

Clark wasn't even going to high school anymore. And he was just in junior year… he didn't like it very much there, anyway. But his parents had always said that they'd afford college somehow.

"I dunno."

"You've got good grades. Very good grades."

Clark gaped. "You know my grades?"

"I'm very thorough when I investigate someone."

Investigate. That made it sound as if Lex were a detective and Clark some criminal. Actually it was a little creepy. But then Clark guessed it made sense to look into someone's background before you took them into your house when your house was a castle full of priceless antiques.

"When you're done with my adoption papers… are you going to call the police?"

"I'd prefer it if you went yourself, once we have sorted things out," Lex said somewhat hesitantly.

Clark fidgeted. Once they had sorted things out… for Lex, that meant the adoption papers and that couldn't take very long. Not long enough to find the murderer. And even if Clark found the murderer and did what he had to do, he still didn't want to turn himself in to the police. He couldn't bear the thought of being put with a family who didn't know about his secret.

And once he had found the murderer, he would have another, more terrible secret.

"Have you decided yet whether you will stay until then?" Lex sounded not exactly hopeful, but still expectant.

"I think so." Clark glanced at the TV. The images didn't make any sense to him. "Thanks for letting me stay. And for… you know, talking to me."

Lex said nothing for a while. When Clark turned around, Lex's expression had changed, from the self-confident, smiling host to a shuttered, remote frown. "I don't have company here very often." A smile flickered through the brood. "But for some reason I enjoy yours."

Clark waited for more, but nothing came. Just that, simple and sincere. Someone enjoyed his company, even though Clark was boring and sad and depressing. He didn't know what to think or feel, but the knowledge settled down in his heart, something firm and small, a reassuring weight in a sea of uncertainty.

He feigned tiredness early in the evening so he could retreat to his room and slip out once Lex had gone to sleep. He needed to find out more about the policeman who had been shot and the only way he could think of to do that, the only person who might help him, was Chloe Sullivan.

*

Smallville

Pete had to hurry, Lana was expecting him at the Beanery and she didn't like to be left waiting. Hell, one didn't leave a girl like Lana waiting. Pete grinned. One of these days, Lana was going to let him get past first base and then -

"Pete Ross?"

Pete turned around. The locker room was empty; Whit and the guys had left already. The guy who had addressed him wasn't anyone Pete had seen before.

"Yeah?" he answered slowly. He didn't like the look of the guy.

The man reached inside his jacked and flashed a police badge at Pete. As he put it back, Pete got a glimpse of his gun. "Detective Sam Phelan, MPD. I've got a few questions for you about the Kent case."

Pete swallowed, and turned away to stuff his towel into his bag. Shit, why him? He didn't know anything about the whole thing. Nobody knew anything, the Kents had been reclusive weirdoes, just like their son. "I dunno what I could tell you, Detective," Pete said, playing dumb. "It sure is a tragedy."

Phelan stepped closer. "You could tell me about their son, Clark, Mr Ross," he said in a voice that seemed threatening to Pete. But hey, the guy was a cop, so it was probably just Pete's bad conscience making him imagine things.

"Don't really know him well," Pete muttered, stooping to tie his shoes and avoid looking at the cop. And wasn't that ever the truth. No one knew Clark Kent, except maybe that other freak, Greg, the guy with the bug obsession who'd kidnapped Lana a couple of weeks ago. "He's sort of quiet and nerdy, you know. I'm a quarterback."

When Pete looked up, Phelan was in his face. "Quit bullshitting me, boy," he hissed. "I've read your file. You did community service this year for hazing the kid."

Fuck. Wouldn't that ever stop haunting Pete?

"Yeah, so, I learned my lesson." He tried to sound tough, but his voice kept jumping an octave too high.

Phelan rolled his eyes and punched Pete in the face so hard it threw him against the bench. He yelped and slid to the floor, holding his face in agony. Phelan waited for him to get back onto his feet, then punched him again.

Pete stumbled backwards. "Fuck! Are you crazy, man?"

"Tell me about Clark Kent, Mr Ross. You strung him up in a field. How?"

Pete felt his lip. Shit. Shit, that was blood. The cop was totally off his rocker. He glanced at the door, but Phelan stood in the way.

"Okay, okay," Pete raised his hands in defeat. "I'll tell you everything you wanna know. Kent was after my girlfriend, okay? The guy's a stalker and a sicko. Every time he got near her he went green in the face like he was going to puke. So one day my buds and I decided to teach him a lesson. The scarecrowing is kind of a tradition, you know? Nothing bad, it's not like anyone's going to get hurt or anything, we'd have taken him down from the cross after the dance - "

"Nice," Phelan sneered. "Now tell me how you strung him up."

Pete gritted his teeth against the throbbing in his lip. "I told you, he always was weird around Lana. She had this necklace, turns out he's allergic to the colour green or something."

Phelan's eyes lit up with something like greed. "What kind of necklace?"

"A necklace!" Pete stared at him. Jesus Christ, what the hell did the guy want? "With a meteor rock on it. You know, from the meteor shower of '89."

"A meteor rock," Phelan repeated, an ugly grin spreading on his face, then turned on his heels, heading out.

"My Dad's gonna sue you!" Pete yelled after him. "He owns the creamed corn factory!"

Phelan's laughter rang through the empty hallway, chilling Pete to the bone.

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