Meteor Freak
Episode 8: Jitters
Date: Friday, August 26, 2011.
Location: LutherCorp Headquarters, Metropolis, Delaware
Rain pummeled the glass facade of LuthorCorp's Metropolis headquarters, water cascaded down in sheets. Earl Jenkins hunched his shoulders against the downpour, his thin jacket offering little protection. He stared up at the corporate logo, his body wracked with a violent tremor. His hands shook uncontrollably, muscles spasming beneath his skin. He fumbled inside his coat pocket, fingers searching desperately for the small orange prescription bottle.
"Come on," he muttered.
The bottle slipped from his trembling grasp, hitting the wet pavement. Pills scattered across the ground, some dissolving in puddles. Earl dropped to his knees, scrabbling to collect the remaining medication. Water soaked through his pants as he gathered a few pills in his palm. He tossed them into his mouth, swallowing hard. His Adam's apple bobbed as he closed his eyes, waiting for relief that never seemed to last long enough.
Inside the LuthorCorp lobby, Will Johnson moved methodically across the polished marble floor. The buffer machine hummed beneath his hands as he guided it in smooth, overlapping paths. His headphones blasted music loud enough to be heard over the machine's drone, his head nodding to the beat.
The lobby was empty except for the security desk where a guard dozed in his chair. Will took pride in his work, even if no one noticed. Eleven years on the night shift had taught him to find satisfaction in the small things.
A muffled sound penetrated his music. Will looked up to see a figure at the glass entrance doors, knocking frantically. He pulled his headphones down around his neck and moved toward the entrance. Through the glass, he recognized the soaked man outside. Earl Jenkins, former plant worker from Smallville. He had heard rumors about Earl's breakdown and subsequent firing. Something about contamination and cover-ups.
Will approached the door cautiously. "Earl?"
"Will!" Earl pressed his palms against the glass, water dripping from his sleeves. "I need to see Lionel Luthor. I know he's here."
"Sorry, man. You know I can't let you in here."
"They did something to me at his plant in Smallville." Earl's eyes were wide, desperate.
"Earl, see, that's the talk that got yourself canned, all right? Now, if you got a problem, get some help."
"I tried, they can't do anything." Earl's voice cracked. "It's getting worse. Please, let me in."
Will glanced back at the security guard, still asleep at his post. "Earl, don't make me call security, all right? Just go home and dry off."
Without warning, Earl's body began to convulse. The tremors started in his shoulders, then spread through his entire body. His teeth chattered as he pressed harder against the glass.
"What the hell?" Will stepped back as the vibrations intensified.
The glass door shuddered under Earl's touch. Cracks spiderwebbed outward, spreading rapidly across the surface. With a deafening crash, the door shattered, sending glass fragments flying across the lobby floor.
"What the hell are you doing, Earl?!" Will shouted, backing away from the broken entrance.
Earl stumbled forward, glass crunching beneath his shoes. "If I don't get an answer, I'm gonna die."
"No, no, no, we gotta get you to a doctor." Will reached for Earl's arm, trying to steady him.
"They can't do anything." Earl's eyes were desperate. "Nobody can."
Another seizure gripped Earl, more violent than before. His arms flailed wildly, muscles contracting beyond his control. His hand shot out, fingers accidentally closing around Will's throat. With unnatural strength, Earl's convulsing arm twisted.
A sickening crack echoed through the lobby.
Will's body crumpled to the floor, neck bent at an impossible angle.
Earl stared in horror at his lifeless body. "Will? Will?"
The realization of what he'd done crashed over him. With a strangled sob, Earl turned and fled into the rainy night, leaving behind shattered glass, a broken body, and a still-sleeping lobby guard.
— Meteor Freak —
On the gravel driveway of the Kent farm, Jonathan Kent lay partially hidden beneath an old blue pickup truck. Tools were scattered around him, evidence of a morning's worth of frustrated tinkering.
A metallic clank rang out followed by Jonathan's voice. "Son of a gun!" He slid out from under the truck, sitting up and sticking his injured finger in his mouth in pain.
Inside the farmhouse kitchen, Martha prepared to leave for the weekend. "What else? Oh, don't use the upstairs bathroom. It's backed up. I have to snake the pipes," Martha called out to Clark, who rummaged through the refrigerator.
"Where's the leftover pizza?" Clark asked, bent over as he searched the shelves.
"Fridge, second shelf. You can nuke the chili for dinner." Martha turned to find Clark wearing headphones, bobbing his head slightly to the music. "Clark?" When he didn't respond, Martha reached over and gently removed one earphone. "Some clue you actually heard me."
Clark smiled sheepishly. "Upstairs bathroom off limits, after nuking the chili dinner."
Martha returned the smile. "Glad to see your hearing hasn't changed."
From outside, Jonathan's voice carried through the open kitchen window. "Clark! Can I get a hand out here, please?" Clark jogged outside to where his father waited beside the truck, wiping grease from his hands with an old rag. "Hey. Son, would you, uh..." Jonathan gestured toward the rear of the truck.
"Sure," Clark replied, understanding immediately what his father needed.
"Thanks." Jonathan watched as Clark effortlessly lifted the back end of the truck with one hand, holding it steady, eating the pizza with his other hand. Jonathan made the necessary adjustments underneath. "Truck picked one heck of a day to snap an exhaust hanger."
Martha emerged from the house carrying a small overnight bag. "Okay, I left the number of our hotel on the nightstand. I think that's everything."
"That ought to do it," Jonathan said, stepping back from the truck. Clark lowered the vehicle gently to the ground, not even breaking a sweat. He clapped his son on the shoulder. "I'm definitely raising your allowance."
"If you need anything—"
"Call," Clark finished for her. "Mom, it's a couple of nights in Metropolis. I'll be fine."
Jonathan wrapped an arm around Martha's shoulders. "I'm sure he'll be fine. And soon, madam, so shall we be."
Clark's eyes widened. "Oh, I almost forgot. Sorry." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out an envelope with "Mom and Dad" handwritten on it. "Happy anniversary."
Martha's expression softened as she took the envelope. "Sweetheart." She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Bye-bye."
Jonathan smiled proudly at his son. "Thanks for the card. Hey, think fast." He tossed the grease-stained rag at him.
Half an hour later, Clark, Chloe, and Pete walked up the concrete steps of Smallville High where students milled about in clusters.
Pete nudged Clark with his elbow. "What are you gonna do now that you're officially home alone?"
"I was thinking of having a few people over," Clark replied, adjusting the strap of his backpack.
Chloe stopped in her tracks, her eyes widening. "Do my ears deceive me or is Clark Kent actually suggesting a party?"
"A small gathering," Clark clarified. "You guys, a few other people, Tyson, maybe even Lana."
"Speaking of Tyson." Chloe gestured to the sidewalk where a familiar figure trudged toward the school, head down, hands stuffed in his pockets.
"He's still so down. Look at him, usually he's the most lively of us."
"If a girl like Kara broke up with you, you'd be down too," Pete said. "Losing the prettiest girl in school."
"Hey?" Chloe shot Pete a look.
He continued unabashed. "Who's also a billionaire?"
"I'm telling Jodi," Chloe threatened.
"Come on, don't be like that," he protested.
Clark watched Tyson approach, understanding the weight of his friend's mood. It was thanks to him that Clark had learned Kara was his cousin. He was thankful for that knowledge, even as he missed her already. Tyson must feel the same way, given their brief but intense relationship.
"Eight o'clock," Clark said, refocusing on his friends. "And remember, the key word is small."
Chloe broke away from Clark and Pete, making a beeline toward Tyson. His usual confident stride replaced by a listless shuffle. She fell into step beside him, but he barely acknowledged her presence.
"Earth to Tyson," she said, waving a hand in front of his face. "Houston, we have a problem."
Tyson blinked, finally focusing on her. "Hey, Chloe."
"That's the most enthusiasm I've heard from you in days." She studied his face, noting the dark circles under his eyes. "You look like you haven't slept."
"I've been busy." He gestured vaguely. "Working on the theater renovations."
"At three in the morning?"
"How did you—"
"Mrs. Fordman mentioned seeing lights on when she was closing up the hardware store," she linked her arm through his. "You can't renovate your way out of heartbreak."
"I'm not heartbroken."
"Right, and I'm not a naturally curious reporter." She pulled him toward a bench away from the main entrance. "Sit."
He complied, dropping onto the bench with a sigh. "I'm fine, Chloe."
"You're about as fine as the Torch after Coach Walt." She sat beside him. "Clark's having a party tonight. You're coming."
"I don't think—"
"That wasn't a question," she cut him off. "Look, I get it. Kara was special. What you two had was special. But she's gone to Metropolis, and you're still here, walking around like someone stole your puppy and your ice cream on the same day."
His lips quirked up. "That bad, huh?"
"See? You can still smile." Chloe nudged his shoulder. "Come to Clark's tonight. We'll eat junk food, watch bad movies, maybe play some games that don't involve electricity or super strength."
"I don't know if I'm good company right now."
"That's exactly why you need to come. You've been there for all of us. Let us be there for you. Besides, I have it on good authority that Lana might be there."
Tyson raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to set me up with Lana now?"
"No! Well, maybe," she grinned. "Is it working?"
"Chloe, I'm not looking for another relationship."
"Who said anything about a relationship? I'm talking about friendship, connection, not sitting alone in an empty theater with nothing but your thoughts and power tools."
"You're not going to let this go, are you?"
"Have you met me?" Chloe stood, pulling him up with her. "Eight o'clock, Kent Farm. Bring chips, soda, or whatever, but mostly bring yourself. The real you, not this mopey shadow version."
"Fine," Tyson conceded. "But I'm not staying late."
"We'll see about that," she beamed triumphantly. "Now come on, we're going to be late for first period, and I refuse to let Mr. Summers give me detention again for tardiness."
As they walked toward the school entrance, Tyson felt something loosen in his chest. Maybe Chloe was right. Maybe what he needed wasn't more time alone with his thoughts, but time with the people who had somehow become his friends in this strange new life.
— Meteor Freak —
He arrived at the Kent Farm near sunset, pausing at the end of the gravel driveway. The modest yellow farmhouse vibrated with bass that he could feel from fifty yards away. Cars lined both sides of the long drive, spilling onto the grass, haphazardly parked. Colored lights flashed through the windows, silhouetting dancing figures against the curtains.
This was definitely not the small gathering Clark had described.
He carried a cardboard box, filled with a bag of chips and a few two-liter bottles of soda. Thinking he was bringing too much, now he was suddenly feeling like he'd shown up to a hurricane with an umbrella. He made his way toward the house, stepping around a couple making out against the side of a pickup truck.
The front door stood wide open, music pouring out. Inside, bodies packed the living room, dancing and shouting over the pounding rhythm. The air smelled of sweat, too much cologne, and spilled beer.
Just inside the front door, Chloe and Clark huddled together, surveying the chaos with matching expressions of disbelief. She spotted Tyson first, her face lighting up as she waved him over.
"So, this is what you call a small gathering, right?" Chloe yelled over the music, shooting Clark an accusatory look.
Clark ran a hand through his hair, looking simultaneously overwhelmed and resigned. "Do you even recognize half these people?" He turned suddenly toward a group of boys roughhousing near the fireplace. "Hey, watch the glass!"
The warning came too late. A crystal vase that had survived decades on the Kent mantelpiece shattered against the hardwood floor, eliciting cheers from the rowdy group.
Tyson winced. "Martha is going to kill you."
"Get in line," Clark muttered. "I'm going to kill myself first."
Chloe plucked some chips and soda from Tyson's hands. "I'll put these somewhere safe. Though I doubt there's anywhere actually safe in this house right now."
He scanned the room, recognizing faces from school mixed with people he'd never seen before. The football team occupied one corner, passing around what looked suspiciously like beer in red cups. A group of cheerleaders had commandeered the couch. Even the chess club had shown up, looking thoroughly out of their element but determined to participate, and hopeful that Clark would keep them from getting picked on.
"How did this happen?" he asked, leaning close to Clark's ear to be heard.
"Pete," Clark answered simply. "He told a few people, who told a few more people, and then someone posted the address on social media."
"Where is Pete now?"
Clark gestured vaguely toward the football players. "Last I saw, he was mixing something in the punch bowl that I'm pretty sure wasn't Kool-Aid."
A commotion near the stairs drew their attention. A boy Tyson recognized from his English class stumbled toward them, his face pale and sweaty. He collapsed into the chair next to Clark, swallowing convulsively.
"Dude, I think I'm gonna hurl," he groaned.
In a blur of motion too fast for anyone to notice, that even Tyson could barely track, Clark disappeared and reappeared with a mixing bowl from the kitchen, placing it under the boy's face just as he emptied the contents of his stomach.
"Thanks," the boy mumbled miserably, clutching the bowl.
Clark patted his shoulder awkwardly before standing. "I'm going to try to clean up some of this mess," he told Tyson, then headed toward the kitchen.
Tyson followed, navigating through the crowd with his supply box. He found Clark attempting to restore some semblance of order to the kitchen, gathering empty cups and wiping spills from the counter.
"Need help?" he offered, grabbing a dish towel.
"Thanks, but I think we're beyond help at this point." Clark sighed, surveying the disaster zone that had once been Martha Kent's spotless kitchen. "My parents are going to ground me until I'm thirty."
"At least," he agreed, tossing a handful of cups into a garbage bag.
Clark froze suddenly, his attention drawn to something behind Tyson. Following his gaze, he turned to see Lana Lang standing in the doorway, looking beautiful in a simple white top and jeans. She wore a small smile as she observed Clark's futile cleaning efforts.
"Pretty cool party," she said, stepping into the kitchen.
Clark straightened, nearly dropping the plates he'd been stacking. "Lana, thanks. It's kind of impromptu. I figure sometimes you just have to kick back and blow off some steam." They caught the sarcasm in his tone. Clark might be many things, but a willing party host was not one of them.
Lana glanced around at the chaos. "If I had a hundred people trashing my house, I'd be a little freaked out."
"After the first few dishes, you kind of get used to it," Clark replied with forced nonchalance.
"I don't think I'd be brave enough to risk it."
Clark's expression softened. "I don't know, Lana. I bet you're braver than you think." He hesitated, then asked, "So you're flying solo tonight?"
Tyson busied himself with wiping down the counter, trying to give them some privacy while remaining close enough to eavesdrop.
"If you're asking about me and Whitney?" Lana replied. "I am capable of enjoying myself without him. And we still need to really talk."
Before Clark could respond, a loud crash echoed from the living room, followed by shouts and laughter. This sound was different from the earlier glass breaking; heavier, more substantial.
Clark winced. "Excuse me," he said to Lana, hurrying out of the kitchen to investigate the latest casualty of his not-so-small gathering.
As he left, Lana sidled up next to Tyson, bumping him playfully with her shoulder. He was too strong for her to actually move, but he shifted, playing along. The kitchen felt suddenly smaller with just the two of them amid the chaos of spilled drinks and scattered snacks.
"Chloe asked me to check on you," Lana said, reaching for a clean dish towel to help with the cleanup.
He sighed, continuing to clean the counter. "I'm fine. I don't know what everyone is worried about."
"Maybe because you've been walking around school like a zombie?" she suggested, her voice gentle rather than teasing. She picked up a few abandoned cups and tossed them in the trash bag. "Or because you've been holed up in that theater at all hours instead of hanging out with your friends?"
"I've got work to do," he defended himself, but his tone lacked conviction. "The renovations won't finish themselves."
Lana leaned against the counter, studying his face. "You know, when my parents died, I spent a lot of time in the cemetery. People thought it was morbid, but it was my way of processing." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Everyone has their own way of dealing with loss."
"Kara didn't die, Lana. She just moved to Metropolis."
"Loss comes in many forms," she replied. "Though I have to say, I never expected to see you so down about a girl. You always seem so... confident."
"I'm not down about a girl," Tyson protested, but his half-hearted tone betrayed him.
"No?" Lana raised an eyebrow. "So all those sighs and that brooding look are just for show?"
Despite himself, Tyson felt a smile coming on. "I don't brood."
"Oh, you definitely brood." Lana laughed. "You've got the whole mysterious new guy thing going on. Girls love that, you know."
"Is that right?"
"Absolutely." She nodded with mock seriousness. "In fact, I've heard at least three cheerleaders wondering if you're available now. And Felice Chandler was asking about you in chemistry."
"Felice Chandler? The one who set her lab partner's notebook on fire?"
"Accidentally," Lana clarified, eyes twinkling. "She was distracted because you walked by."
Tyson snorted. "Now I know you're just making stuff up."
"I'm serious!" Lana insisted, moving closer to him. "You have options, Tyson. Plenty of them. Kara may have been special, but she's not the only fish in the sea. Or meteor rock in the field, as we say in Smallville."
"I've never heard anyone say that."
"They could. You haven't been in town long." She shrugged, and her smile was infectious. "My point is, you won't be alone forever. Unless you want to be, which would be a waste of all that..." She gestured vaguely at him. "Whatever it is you've got going on."
"Whatever I've got going on?" Tyson repeated, amused despite himself. "That's quite the compliment."
Their laughter mingled, creating a bubble of warmth in the chaotic kitchen. For the first time in days, Tyson felt the heaviness in his chest lighten slightly.
"You know," Lana said, her expression turning thoughtful, "I should spend some time in the theater helping you out. Since you did help us by allowing Aunt Nell to keep her shop."
"It's not a big deal," Tyson replied. "You don't need to if you don't want to."
Lana tilted her head and batted her eyelashes exaggeratedly. "Don't want to spend extra time with me?"
He snorted and said playfully, "Laying it on thick there, huh, Lana? I must be in pretty sad shape if you're fishing for compliments."
Lana moved closer, her shoulder brushing against his as they continued cleaning the kitchen counter together. "You know what I think?" she asked, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"What's that?" Tyson replied, finding himself leaning in to hear her better over the music.
"I think you're using that theater as an excuse to avoid everyone." She picked up another cup, her fingers briefly touching his as they reached for the same piece of trash. "Especially girls who might be interested in you."
Tyson raised an eyebrow. "Girls like who?"
"Girls like..." Lana paused, pretending to consider. "Well, there's Felice, as I mentioned. And Mandy from the cheerleading squad. And..." She looked up at him through her lashes. "Maybe some others who are a little more subtle about it."
"Subtle, huh?" Tyson couldn't help but smile. "I must be missing all these signals."
"Clearly." Lana laughed, the sound light and genuine. "For someone so observant about other things, you can be pretty oblivious when it comes to this."
Tyson blinked. "Lana Lang, are you flirting with me?"
"I'm so bad at this. It's a lot harder being on this side." She grinned. This was different from her usual reserved demeanor, and he found himself enjoying this side of her. "Is it working?"
"I don't know," he teased back. "I might need more evidence to make a proper assessment."
Lana took the dish towel from his hand, setting it on the counter. "Well, I could help you with your theater project. Just the two of us, alone, surrounded by all those old movie posters and vintage seats." She stepped closer. "I'm pretty good with a paintbrush, you know."
"Is that right?"
"Mmhmm. And I make mediocre coffee for breaks." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture that drew his attention to the graceful curve of her neck. "Plus, I've been told I'm decent company."
"Decent?" Tyson echoed, finding himself genuinely smiling for the first time in days. "I think you're selling yourself short."
"Oh?" Lana tilted her head. "How would you describe my company then?"
"Well, I'd say that you're selling yourself short on how good you are at flirting. But I can't blame you. You're pretty enough that you never had to practice—"
Before Tyson could finish, a commotion erupted from the living room.
"Oh shit, coach is here. Bail, bail!" one of the football players yelled, his voice carrying over the music.
The sound of scrambling feet and hurried whispers filled the house as people rushed for exits. Lana looked toward the doorway, then back at Tyson with an amused expression.
"Wow, he really outed himself," she said with a laugh. "You gonna run?"
Tyson shook his head, leaning casually against the counter. "Nah. I'd rather stay right here."
Lana's smile widened, and she moved a fraction closer. "Good choice."
Coach Teague strode into the kitchen, his expression stern as he surveyed the mess.
"Tyson!" he called out sharply.
When Tyson turned fully, he revealed Lana standing beside him. Coach Teague's demeanor shifted instantly, his authoritative stance softening slightly.
"Miss Lang," he acknowledged with a nod, clearing his throat awkwardly. Then he turned his attention back to Tyson, his eyes narrowing. "Head home, Tyson. When the cops inevitably come, I don't want you getting busted. We have a game tomorrow."
Tyson squinted at the coach's reaction to Lana. He crossed his arms. "I'm homeless. No worries, Coach, crashing here tonight. I haven't had any drink, unlike our defensive line." He gestured toward the living room, where several players were attempting to sneak out the back door. "Plus, Clark's going to need help cleaning up. If his parents come home to this, he'll never play football again."
Jason mulled it over for a moment, his gaze moving between Tyson and Lana. Finally, he nodded. "Fine," he said curtly, then turned and left to wrangle the defensive line without another word.
They heard a loud noise outside. Lana gestured, indicating that she wanted to go see. Tyson followed her through the kitchen door onto the back porch, where they found Pete standing with Clark watching fireworks pop off in the sky.
"Clark, man, how cool is this?" Pete exclaimed.
Clark looked more stressed than excited. "Pete, why didn't you just call the cops? It would have been a lot easier."
"Hey, I can't claim credit," Pete said, raising his hands defensively. "It wasn't my idea."
Lex Luthor, dressed in a black shirt and slacks, looking entirely too sophisticated for a high school party, announced, "It was mine. Call it a party gift. I hope you like it."
Clark shifted uncomfortably. "It's great, just..."
"Don't worry about the police," Lex interrupted with a dismissive wave. "It's covered. I know this kind of party can make or break a reputation, and I wanted to make sure yours was a hit." His eyes flickered with amusement. "I hear you're taking a tour of my plant on Monday."
Chloe appeared beside them. "It's a class field trip," she clarified.
Lex turned to her with a smirk. "What'd you do wrong?"
"It's that bad, huh?" Clark asked, looking increasingly worried about what awaited them at LuthorCorp.
Tyson watched the exchange with interest, noting how Lex seemed to enjoy keeping Clark slightly off-balance. There was friendship there, but also something else—a power dynamic that Lex clearly relished. Beside him, Lana stood close enough that he could feel the warmth of her arm against his in the cool night air.
The back door opened again, spilling light and music onto the porch. A brunette in a short red dress stepped out, immediately making her way to Lex's side. She moved with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how good she looked. Diamonds glinted at her ears and throat, real ones, not the costume jewelry most people in Smallville wore to dress up.
"There you are, Lex," she said, her British accent adding an air of sophistication that seemed wildly out of place at a high school party. "I was beginning to think you'd abandoned me to these... charming locals."
Lex's expression shifted subtly as he placed his hand on the small of her back. "Victoria Hardwick," he introduced her to the group. "Victoria, these are my friends."
She surveyed them with polite disinterest, her gaze lingering a moment longer on Clark. "How lovely to meet you all."
"Victoria's father runs Hardwick Enterprises," Lex explained, though his tone suggested he wasn't particularly enthusiastic about making the introduction.
"One of LuthorCorp's chief competitors," Victoria added with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She placed her hand possessively on Lex's arm. "I'm just visiting. Smallville is so... quaint."
Chloe's journalistic instincts visibly perked up. "What brings the daughter of Sir Harry Hardwick to our little town? Business or pleasure?"
Victoria's smile tightened. "A bit of both, perhaps." Her fingers traced a small circle on Lex's bicep. "Lex and I are old friends from boarding school."
"Very old friends," Lex clarified.
"Sorry I took so long," she said. "Someone overflowed the bathroom."
Clark's eyes widened in horror. "I'm officially dead."
Lana stifled a laugh beside Tyson, leaning closer to whisper, "I think Clark just realized his parents might actually kill him when they get home."
He nodded, watching as Clark's face cycled through various stages of panic. "Should we keep helping him clean up?"
"Probably," Lana agreed. "But not right away. This is too entertaining."
Lex was now explaining something to Clark about the proper way to tap a keg, while Pete looked on eagerly. Victoria seemed bored by the whole affair, examining her manicure and occasionally glancing at her watch. Chloe continued taking photos, no doubt planning a feature for the next issue of the Torch.
"So," Tyson said quietly to Lana, turning slightly to face her. "About that theater project..."
"I'm free Thursday after school. Unless you've got football practice?"
"I do. Maybe afyerward, say 6:30?"
"Perfect," Lana replied. "It's a date."
Someone behind them asked, "A date?" They turned to find Whitney standing on the porch, his letterman jacket hanging open, hands shoved in his pockets. His expression was carefully neutral, but the tightness around his eyes betrayed his discomfort.
Tyson kept his tone casual. "Escaped Coach Teague, huh? Lana's going to come help paint the theater some. I'm pretty bad at decorating, better with the hardware and renovation." He tried shifting the conversation away from Lana. "How's your head? Make it through the Met U tryout?"
She shot Tyson a grateful look, relieved he'd explained the situation so she didn't have to. The tension in her shoulders eased slightly as Whitney's focus moved to football.
"It went fine," Whitney replied flatly. The brevity of his answer made it clear he wasn't interested in small talk. After an uncomfortable pause, he asked, "Lana, can we talk somewhere private?"
The phone rang shrilly inside the house. Tyson seized the opportunity, backing toward the door. "That's my cue," he said, using the offered out. "See you guys around."
Whitney gestured toward the barn. "Can we?"
Lana nodded reluctantly and followed him across the yard. The party sounds faded as they entered the barn, climbing the wooden stairs to Clark's loft.
"Lana, what's going on?"
She crossed her arms. "I told you that I needed some breathing room."
"So you sneak off to a party without me?" Whitney's voice rose slightly.
"I didn't sneak," Lana countered, her own irritation building. "I live next door, I walked." She took a step forward, challenging him. "And why are you mad at me? Is it because it's Clark's party?"
"That or I walk in to see you making dates with Tyson. Take your pick."
"He's heartbroken because Kara broke up with him," she explained.
"So you offer to be his rebound?" Whitney's words came out sharper than he'd intended, making his jealousy transparent.
"I tried to cheer him up because we're friends." Her voice was more stern now, her expression sterner as patience wore thin.
As if responding to the tension between them, the loft began to rattle. A small tremor shook the wooden floor beneath their feet, causing the lamp to flicker and books to slide from their shelves.
Back inside the farmhouse, Chloe was talking to Clark, oblivious to the situation developing in the barn. "We'll clean it up tomorrow—"
Lana interrupted their conversation as she called from the doorway. "Clark! You better get out here."
In the loft, Whitney had grabbed a pitchfork from the wall, holding it defensively as he stared at a moving heap of cloth in the corner.
"Kent, get up here," he called down.
Clark bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He turned on a flashlight and shined it at the moving heap. Whitney lunged forward, lifting the cloth to reveal a man huddled underneath, shaking violently.
"Got him!" Whitney announced triumphantly.
Clark's expression shifted from concern to recognition. "Earl!" He moved toward the man. "Hey, back off, I know him." He addressed the trembling figure directly. "Earl, what are you doing here?"
Earl looked up at Clark, his face pale and sweaty, his body convulsing with small tremors. "I came to see your dad," he managed between shakes. "He's the only one I can trust."
"He's out of town," Clark explained. "Hey, what's wrong with you?"
Clark reached for Earl's shoulder, trying to steady him as the tremors intensified. The moment his hand made contact, Clark's expression changed from concern to pain. The veins in his hand started to bulge and turn a sickly green color, spreading up his arm like poison.
He jerked back, staring at his hand in shock and confusion. The tremors in Earl's body worsened, becoming violent convulsions that shook the entire loft.
"Call an ambulance!" He shouted urgently as he backed away from Earl, still staring at his own hand with a mixture of pain and bewilderment.
Meanwhile, Tyson had slipped back inside and headed upstairs, where it was a little quieter. He picked up the phone and said, "Kent residence."
"Clark? Who is this?" Martha's voice came through clearly despite the distance.
"Oh, hey, Mrs. Kent. It's Tyson. Clark invited me, Chloe, Pete, Jody, and Lana over for movie night."
"Why is it so loud?" she asked, suspicion creeping into her tone.
Tyson leaned against the wall, thinking quickly. "It's one of those teen thriller horrors. It's the party scene right now. A pair just split off. They're probably going to get shanked while making out at any moment." He glanced down the hallway toward the bathroom, wincing at the puddle of water seeping under the door. "Clark was getting close with Lana, so I grabbed the phone so they weren't interrupted. Pretty bro move if I do say so myself." He paused before adding, "Oh, and Happy Anniversary. How's dinner? How's Metropolis?"
Mrs. Kent laughed, the tension in her voice easing. "That's very nice of you, Tyson. We're enjoying ourselves. So everything is fine?"
"I admit, I overflowed the upstairs toilet," Tyson confessed, figuring a small half-truth might sell the bigger lie.
"I warned Clark about that," Martha sighed.
"Yeah, he mentioned it. It was my bad, sorry. I'll clean it up before you get home, promise."
"I've no doubt," Martha replied, her tone warm with amusement. "Tell Clark we said goodnight. We'll be back Sunday night."
"Will do. Goodnight, Mrs. Kent."
Tyson hung up the phone and exhaled slowly, feeling a twinge of guilt. He'd never considered himself a good liar before coming to Smallville, but lately, it seemed like everyone had secrets worth protecting. He grabbed a towel from the linen closet and started mopping up the bathroom floor, listening to the commotion downstairs. The sound of someone shouting for an ambulance made him freeze. He dropped the towel and rushed to the window, peering out toward the barn where a small crowd had gathered. Something was happening, and from the urgency in their voices, it wasn't good. Tyson bolted down the stairs, nearly colliding with a couple making out in the hallway. He pushed past them and out the back door, sprinting toward the barn. As he approached, he could feel a strange vibration in the ground beneath his feet, like a small earthquake centered on the Kent barn.
Inside the elegant restaurant in Metropolis, Martha Kent hung up the phone and slipped it back into her purse. The soft lighting, white tablecloths, and crystal glasses created an intimate atmosphere far removed from the rustic simplicity of their farmhouse.
"Tyson picked up," she reported to Jonathan, who was cutting into his steak. "Said him, Chloe, Pete, and Lana were over watching a movie."
Jonathan nodded, setting down his knife. "Oh, he's fine. He's fine. We have to trust him, Martha."
"I do," she replied, absently tracing the rim of her wine glass with her finger. "But I still worry."
"I know," Jonathan said softly, reaching across the table to take her hand. His calloused palm was rough against her skin. Through the large windows, the Metropolis skyline glittered. He gazed out at the city lights, then back at his wife. "Metropolis. Do you miss it?"
She followed his gaze, taking in the urban landscape she'd once called home. "Sometimes," she admitted.
"Yeah?" His expression held a hint of concern.
Martha squeezed his hand. "But I didn't move to Smallville for action and glamour. I moved because a certain man told me we'd never be rich or travel the world, but he'd always love me. "How could I pass up an offer like that?"
He leaned across the table, and they shared a kiss.
— Meteor Freak —
Earl Jenkins was rushed through the emergency entrance of Smallville Medical Center. His body convulsed violently on the gurney, arms and legs strapped down with thick restraints that strained against his jitters.
"Please," Earl gasped between violent tremors. "Something's inside me!"
Medical staff surrounded him, their voices overlapping in urgent tones as they wheeled him down the corridor and out of sight.
In the waiting area, Chloe Sullivan popped the tab on a can of soda. She took a long sip, watching Clark Kent pace in front of the row of uncomfortable plastic chairs.
"This guy should be in a detox center," she said, gesturing with her can.
Clark stopped pacing and frowned. "He's not on drugs, Chloe."
"Then why was he shaking like a junkie?" She raised an eyebrow, her journalistic skepticism on full display.
He sank into the chair beside her. "Look, Earl worked on the farm for six seasons. I spent 12 hours a day with the guy out in the fields. He even tried to teach me how to play guitar. He said it was a good way to impress women."
Chloe's lips quirked into a smile. "Yeah, we're all a sucker for a guy with a 6-string." She nudged his shoulder playfully. "How come I've never heard you play?"
"I kept snapping the guitar strings," he admitted with a sheepish grin. "I think Earl got sick of replacing them."
She studied Clark's face, her reporter instincts kicking in. "You know, just because you spend a lot of time with someone doesn't mean you know their darkest secrets."
"He was like family," he insisted.
"Then why did he leave?" she pressed.
"He took a job at the LuthorCorp plant. It was full-time and the pay was better."
The conversation halted as two uniformed police officers entered the waiting area. Their boots squeaked against the floor as they approached the nurses' station. Their presence brought an immediate tension to the room.
"Where can we find Earl Jenkins?" the first officer asked.
The nurse behind the counter barely looked up from her computer. "Exam room 3, down the hall."
Clark stood quickly, moving toward the officers. "Excuse me. I'm a friend of Earl's. Is he in some kind of trouble?"
"Oh yeah."
Before anyone could say another word, a scream echoed from down the hallway. The sound of something heavy crashing followed immediately after.
"We need some help in here!" a man's panicked voice called out.
The officers broke into a run toward Earl's room, with Clark and Chloe following close behind. They reached the doorway just in time to see a male nurse being thrown against a metal supply shelf with tremendous force. Medical supplies were scattered across the floor as the man crumpled.
Earl thrashed on the examination table, his body arching unnaturally as violent tremors wracked his frame.
"What the hell?" the first officer exclaimed, reaching for his weapon.
The second officer rushed forward, attempting to restrain Earl. "Sir, you need to calm down—"
Earl's arm swung out during a particularly violent spasm, catching the officer squarely in the chest and launching him across the room. He crashed into the wall and slumped to the floor.
"Earl!" Clark rushed into the room, reaching for his former friend.
Earl's body convulsed again, and his flailing arm connected with Clark's chest. Instead of stopping at the impact, Earl's unnatural strength sent him flying backward. He crashed through the glass window of the examination room in a shower of shards, landing hard on the corridor floor.
Chloe rushed to his side, kneeling beside him. "Are you okay?"
He pushed himself up, seemingly unfazed by what should have been a devastating impact. "I'll be fine."
He didn't get back home until around 11 am, having been delayed by concerns for Earl and the need to reassure the hospital staff multiple times that he hadn't been hurt. With no apparent external injuries, they allowed him to leave, and he quickly headed home. He dreaded what he'd find when he arrived back at the farmhouse. He opened the door to find a...
Clean house?
Clark looked around, and everything seemed to be in order. He went to the kitchen, and the cabinets were restocked like the plates and glasses had never been shattered. He walked around, and everything was in order and tidy. The living room didn't smell like the football team's spilled drinks. He went upstairs, and even the toilet had been unclogged. Confused, he returned to his loft and found a note on his desk. Picking it up, he read.
Hey Clark,
Hope that guy Earl is okay. I'm no doctor, but his seizure didn't look normal. If you need me to heal him, I can head over to the hospital, no problem.
Forgot to mention that your mom called last night. I reassured her everything was fine, but figured you wouldn't be able to get back here to clean up. I hired every maid service in town to come by and gave them an extra tip to keep it all hush. Spent the morning going around trying to replace all the dishes and decorations that got smashed. Some of them don't match, but I've already thought of that. Just blame it on Earl's earthquake seizures. Your parents will never know.
Your partner in crime,
Tyson
Lana helped too. Oh, and destroy this letter. It would suck to be caught by a note after such a perfect heist.
PPS. The football game is at 2. Everyone would understand if you missed it, but if Whitney gets cleared to play, I want to see his face when Coach Teague still starts you at quarterback anyway.
Clark read the note twice and slowly smiled. He shook his head in disbelief. The house had been a disaster when he left it. Broken dishes were everywhere, and furniture was overturned. Clark had been sure his parents would ground him until graduation.
He walked to the window and looked out over the Kent farm. The morning sun cast long shadows across the fields, and for the first time since everyone had shown up last night, Clark felt like he could breathe again. He took the note and held it over the barn's slop sink. He focused his gaze, feeling the familiar warmth build behind his eyes. The paper ignited, curling into ash that scattered in the sink.
Clark ran the water, washing away the evidence. He thought about Tyson, still new to Smallville but already proving himself a true friend. The kind who cleaned up your messes without being asked and kept your secrets without question.
He headed upstairs to change. He had a football game to play, and for a few hours at least, he could pretend his biggest worry was whether Coach Teague would put him in the starting lineup.
— Meteor Freak —
The next day, Clark, Pete, and Tyson sat atop idle dirt bikes at the edge of a dusty trail outside Smallville. Tyson gripped the handlebars. "I'm not sure, I've never done this before." he adjusted his position on the seat uncomfortably.
Pete revved his engine with a grin. "It's easy as riding a bike."
"Yeah, relax, Tyson, have a little fun." Clark smiled.
"You telling someone to relax? That's rich." Pete laughed, nudging Clark with his elbow.
He shrugged. "Look, I know you've been down about Kara all week, and I get it."
"Yeah, Clark's been pining after Lana forever," Pete smirked, earning a glare.
"Anyway, you saved my butt this weekend. And you saved the team yesterday, too. We would've lost if you hadn't stopped that guy at the one-yard line. So let's have some fun, huh?"
"Alright, let's give it a try."
They pulled on their helmets and started their engines. The bikes roared to life beneath them as they began riding, slowly at first, but gradually picking up speed. Tyson stayed in the back, keeping his speed nominal but trying not to fall too far behind as they navigated through sandy hills.
The trail curved around a stand of trees, opening into a wider path. Pete and Clark grew more competitive, their engines revving as they raced side by side on the clear stretch. Pete took the lead and approached a small dirt hill serving as a natural ramp. He accelerated, the back wheel kicking up dust as he launched into the air. Clark followed immediately after, both landing perfectly on the other side. Tyson cautiously navigated the same jump at half their speed, his stomach lurching as the bike briefly left the ground. Ahead, Pete and Clark continued through the field, with Pete making another impressive jump before they both skidded to a stop outside the fence of a construction site.
When Tyson finally caught up, he pulled alongside them and removed his helmet. Beyond the fence, several police officers moved about, questioning workers in hard hats. Yellow caution tape fluttered in the breeze around a section of damaged concrete. The sign on the fence indicated it would be a future LuthorCorp office park.
"What are the police doing here?" Pete asked, nodding toward the commotion.
Clark squinted against the sun. "Some sort of an accident. An explosion."
Tyson asked, "Is this why there were no cops at your party?"
"Nah, this happened last night." Pete shook his head, watching the officers with disdain. "If we're lucky, this will convince LuthorCorp to get the hell out of Smallville finally."
"It's an office park, Pete, not a toxic waste dump," Clark countered. "What's the harm in that? Come on, I'll race you back to Miller's Bend."
They pulled their helmets back on and revved their engines loudly, speeding away down the trail. As they rounded a corner, they shot past a police officer standing near his cruiser.
"Hey, kid, watch yourself!" The cop shouted, but his words were lost in the roar of engines.
Clark and Pete continued on the trail side by side with Tyson trailing behind, the gap between them widening as the more experienced riders pushed their bikes harder. They approached a fork in the path. Clark veered left while Pete took the right branch.
Clark accelerated along his chosen path, the wind rushing past his helmet. Ahead, he spotted another dirt hill and grinned behind his visor. He gunned the engine, launching over the crest in a perfect arc. The momentary weightlessness felt exhilarating. But as the bike descended, his eyes widened at the sight of a fallen tree lying across the path. He had no time to brake. The front wheel slammed into the massive trunk, catapulting him forward in a front flip. The bike crashed behind him as Clark landed hard on his back with a grunt.
A cracking sound filled his ears as the earth gave way. His hands scrambled for purchase but found nothing but loose soil. With a startled cry, he plummeted downward, past jagged underground cave walls, darkness enveloping him as he fell. He tumbled through blackness. Wind rushed past his ears until he crashed to the bottom with a heavy thump, dust and small rocks showering down.
Clark landed with a heavy thud. The fall should have broken every bone in his body, but he felt only mild discomfort. He blinked, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light filtering from the hole above. The cave extended in several directions, its walls covered with strange markings he couldn't make out clearly.
He took off his helmet and tossed it aside, running a hand through his hair. A beam of light suddenly cut through the darkness from behind him. He turned, startled by the unexpected presence.
A young woman approached, her flashlight illuminating striking features and long dark hair. For a moment, her silhouette reminded him of someone else.
"Lana?" Clark asked, confusion evident in his voice.
The beam of light moved closer, revealing a beautiful Native American girl with a concerned expression.
"Don't move," she instructed, kneeling beside him.
"I'm fine."
"You're in shock," she insisted, her voice calm but authoritative. Without hesitation, she reached forward and ripped open his shirt. Her eyes widened as she examined his chest. "You don't have a scratch on you."
He sat up quickly, pulling his torn shirt closed. "Just lucky, I guess."
She studied his face with open skepticism. "That's some incredible luck you have."
Clark changed the subject. "Where'd you come from?"
"I was just over there doing research for my grandfather," she explained, gesturing toward a narrow passage. "The landslide must've opened up that wall."
He looked around at the expansive cave system, momentarily forgetting his predicament. "I didn't even know there were caves down here."
"If LuthorCorp has its way, then there won't be any more," she said with clear disdain. "I'm Kyla, by the way."
He paused, taking in her features more carefully. She was beautiful, with an intensity in her eyes that captivated him. "Uh..." He stood up and offered his hand, helping her to her feet. "Clark. Clark Kent."
"The invincible Clark Kent, apparently," she remarked, still eyeing him with curiosity.
A voice echoed from above. "Clark! You down there?"
He looked up toward the opening. "Yeah, Tyson, I'm all right."
"You gonna need some help, or can you jump your way out?" Tyson called down. "I can barely drive one of these things, not sure how I'm going to get two back to the farmhouse unless I carry them."
Kyla looked at Clark strangely, her brow furrowing at Tyson's odd question.
"I've got some company down here," he called back, then turned to Kyla with an awkward smile. "Funny guy, huh?"
"All right, man," Tyson responded. "I'll just carry them, I guess."
Kyla suddenly gasped, her attention drawn to something behind Clark. "Oh, my God." She walked past him.
"What is it?" he asked.
"It's the legend of Naman," she breathed, her voice filled with awe. "My ancestors have passed down this story for generations."
The flashlight illuminated primitive drawings etched into the stone. Symbols and figures covered the wall in intricate patterns, telling a story Clark couldn't decipher.
"They said it had been written in the earth long ago, but nobody ever knew where it was until now."
"Thank you."
"Sure, no problem," he replied, unsure why she was thanking him.
"You don't understand. My grandfather's been searching for this wall his whole life." Kyla moved the flashlight across the drawings methodically. "It was prophesied that Naman would fall from the skies in a rain of fire."
The beam settled on a crude drawing of a man falling from the sky. "They say that Naman will have the strength of ten men and will be able to start fires with his eyes."
Clark stared at the image, his mouth suddenly dry.
"It probably sounds silly," she added, noticing his expression.
"Not to me," he replied quietly, unable to tear his eyes from the drawings that so eerily mirrored his own abilities.
"I've got to tell my grandfather about this." Her excitement was palpable. "Come on, I'll show you the way out. Try to keep up."
She handed him his helmet, and Clark took it mechanically, his mind racing. He took another long look at the pictures, excitement and apprehension battling within him. As he started to follow her out, something else caught his eye.
He stopped at another wall, drawn to a particular marking. Engraved in the stone was an octagonal groove, identical to the one on his spaceship. His parents had kept the spaceship hidden from him, but after meeting Kara, they showed it to him. This matching shape was a mystery. But if he'd never met Kara, he wouldn't have even known about it.
Another thing he had to thank Tyson for.
— Meteor Freak —