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Chapter 13
Later that day, Clark wearily trudged down the road to the farm. He was
tired, sweaty, and the wound in his side bite into him every time he
breathed. He, Pete, and Chloe had spent the rest of the day looking all
over town for Bruce, without a bit of success. They had talked to everyone
he might have had contact with, Lana, Lex, even had given Gail a call at
the hospital to see if Bruce had returned, but nothing. He simply couldn’t
be found. As the sun started to set, Clark got more and more worried.
Something about Bruce told him that if he were going to make his move, he’d
do it at night. And with the National Guard arriving soon… Clark shuddered
that thought away. He’d find Bruce, he’d swore to Gail that he would.
Jonathon was bent underneath the old tractor, still making repairs to it
from the night before. Clark’s foot kicked a stone, sending it rolling past
his father and he jumped unexpectedly. Jonathon leapt up, holding a wrench
like a club, staring around until he saw his son. "Geez, Clark,"
he said, lowering the wrench. "Almost gave me a heart attack." He
wiped his brow and looked at his son. "How’d things go?"
"Not that well," Clark grumbled, shaking his head. He looked out
over the fields, staring into the woods. "How are you and mom
doing?"
Jonathon bent down and starting packing his tools away. "To tell you
the truth," he said quietly, "I don’t know if I ever been this
scared in my life. Every time I look up, I expect to see that Richie boy
just step out of the woods coming towards us. Your mother’s got it worse
though." He straightened and looked at Clark gravely. "She
watched some of those broadcasts of the circus, and she’s worried sick
about you. She’s trying to keep busy in there, cooking the entire day.
We’re in for a heck of a meal tonight," he tried to smile. Clark gave
him a half-hearted smile back and looked up at the house. "Clark,"
his dad said, "go talk to her. She’s afraid that you’re going to go
off without thinking and just get yourself killed. She wants you to just
leave this to the police."
"What do you think?" Clark asked. His father frowned and looked
away, shaking his head.
"I almost wish you hadn’t asked that," he admitted softly.
"Clark, you’re not like other people, that’s not saying anything
against you," he assured his son. "But it’s not saying anything
for you either. Every one’s got some kind of talent, a gift that only they
have. Those gifts don’t define us; it’s what we choose to do with them that
matters. I don’t want you to make a decision that could get you killed, but
I can’t make that decision for you. I’m not you; I don’t have your gifts. I
can’t tell you what to do with them."
"So what are you saying?" Clark asked him. Jonathon looked at his
son, his face tired and sad.
"Do what you think is the right thing to do," his father told him
quietly. "No one would think bad of you if you sat this one out. But it
would have to be your choice; we can’t help you make it. They’re your gifts
Clark; it’s up to you to decide when, not just how, to use them."
Clark nodded slowly, and Jonathon gave him a quick pat on the back.
"Well, in the meantime, I guess we better face this dinner your
mother’s got prepared for us. What do you think?"
"Uh huh," Clark mumbled and walked with him to the house. Halfway
there, the door flew open and his mother ran down to greet him. Hugging him
tightly, she looked him up and down quickly.
"Where have you been all day?" she demanded in a rush, and then
moved on without waiting for a response. "You’re a mess, look at you!
Are you feeling any better, any more pain?" Fending her off, Clark
tried to put on a good face for her.
"I’m fine," he said quickly, "really. I spent the day with
Chloe and Pete. We visited someone at the hospital and then went looking
for Bruce."
"Wasn’t he at the hospital?" Jonathon asked, puzzled.
"He was…" Clark admitted, "It’s a long story."
"Come inside then," Martha said quickly, holding his arm tightly
as she practically yanked him up the stairs with her. "No use you
standing outside and wasting away while you tell it. Come inside, I cooked
you a little something."
A little something was a bit of an understatement. The kitchen counter was
practically covered with all manner of meals and dishes. There was a pot of
stew simmering away on the stove and what looked like a chocolate cake
sitting in the oven. "Cooking for twelve tonight, Mom?" Clark
asked, staring into the kitchen. His mother sniffed and folded her arms.
"Sorry, I can’t help it," she said. "When I get nervous, I
cook, always have. At least I’m better at it now, you should have seen the
monstrosity I cooked up the first time I got wedding jitters after your father
proposed to me."
"Look nothing," Jonathon said from the doorway, "you should
have tasted it." Martha gave him a wry look and rubbed her hands on
her pants, dusting the flour off of them.
"Thanks, Mom," Clark said, smiling at her. "I am a little
hungry. Maybe not that hungry, but a little," he told her, angling his
head towards the kitchen.
"Glad to know someone appreciates it. Well, first things first,"
she said to Clark. "You better wash up first, before you eat. You look
kind of worn out." Clark nodded and walked up the stairs, pulling his
shirt off as he went. He tossed it into his room and then went into the
bathroom. After washing his face under the cold water, he straightened and
raised his arm, poking at the bandage experimentally. There was only a tiny
bloodstain on it, but Clark carefully pried back the tape and removed the
gauze. The wound had closed up, but was still a dark red line. At least his
powers would help him heal, he thought thankfully. Clark dug into the
medicine cabinet and applied a fresh pad of gauze and some new tape to it.
Satisfied, he walked into his room, pulling a new shirt out from his
clothes drawer. Pulling it on, he suddenly noticed something out of the
corner of his eye and turned around quickly. Leaning nonchalantly in his
doorway, was Bruce Wayne, still dressed in the same clothes that Chloe had
given him. He crunched into a apple as he watched Clark, and nodded at him.
"I was wondering when you were going to get home," he said around
a mouthful.
Clark stared at him in astonishment, unable to say anything. Bruce took
another bite of his apple and then waved it at him. "Met your folks.
Or at least, I watched them. They seem like nice people."
"What are you doing here?" Clark finally managed to get out.
Bruce shrugged, took a last bite of his apple and tossed it in the trash.
"I thought it would be a good idea to check out your home. See if you
were telling the truth. Then to see how much you had found out about Richie
and me. I was also curious to see your spaceship, but that was a
disappointment. Lot smaller than I expected; look more like an escape pod
than anything."
"You found it?" Clark asked, stunned. Bruce snorted and laughed.
"Wasn’t that hard to, you had it hid in the cellar. Didn’t even bother
to cover it up; sloppy."
"Where did you-" Clark started to say, when he stopped himself.
He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples in aggrivation. Bruce waited,
looking a little amused. "Why did you leave at the hospital? Gail was
worried sick about you, and you didn’t even to check up on her."
Bruce grunted and walked over to Clark’s window. He gazed outside, looking
up at the skyline. "There were more important things to do. I went
back to the circus, but I couldn’t find Richie. He’s gone, hiding in the
woods probably. Police have that whole area cordoned off now. Waiting for
the National Guard to clean this mess up for them."
"You heard about them?" Clark asked him.
"Kind of hard not to; the entire town’s talking about it. I figure
I’ve got about 36 hours, at the most, to make my move."
"What move? What are you talking about?"
Bruce turned around and looked at him like he was joking. "To bring
Richie in, of course."
Clark backed up, shaking his head. "No, wait a minute. What about the
National Guard, can’t they handle this?"
"I hit Richie with a car last night," Bruce said slowly. "It
didn’t do more than put a few cracks in his stomach. If they go after him,
they’re going to have to use tanks. But before that, they’ll probably just
try and shoot him, and that won’t have much effect. He’ll carve a few of
them up, and then they’ll use tanks, or bombs. I don’t have any idea how
much explosive it would take, but let’s be generous and say a lot. Figure
there’ll be fires, and loss of life. I’m guessing the death count will be
around thirty, maybe higher." Clark tried to comprehend it all, and
shook his head again. "I like my plan better," Bruce said simply.
"And you seriously think you can bring him in?" Clark asked him,
starting to get angry. "After what he did to you last night, you’re
talking about it like it’s a done deal. You don’t even know where he
is."
"I’ll find him-" Bruce started to say, but Clark yelled right
over him.
"No, you’re not going anywhere," he told Bruce with force. Then
he paused, took a deep breath and said, "Not without me." He
expected Bruce to get angry, shout at him, but he did not. Instead, his
mouth twitched upwards in a half-smile and he chuckled.
"I forgot," he laughed quietly. "You were such a big help
last night." Clark’s fists clenched, and if he could have melted Bruce
away with his eyes, he would’ve done so on the spot.
"Clark, what’s the matter?" his mother called, her voice getting
louder as she came up the stairs. "We thought you heard you talking up
here," she said as she peaked into his room. She saw Bruce and she
took a step back. "Oh, what? Who’s this?"
"Mom," Clark said, forcing his voice into a civil tone,
"this is Bruce Wayne. Bruce, my mother." Bruce nodded to her,
brusquely.
"Hello," she said back, startled. "I didn’t hear you come
in. When did you get here?" she tried to ask innocently.
"A few hours ago," Bruce shrugged. Her voice caught in her throat
as she watched him, her eyes wide. "You have a nice home. Some
interesting things in it."
"Bruce was going to stay for dinner," Clark told her loudly. Both
his mother and Bruce whipped their heads around to stare at him. Clark
matched Bruce’s look with one of his own. "Why don’t you go tell Dad
we’ve got company?" Clark suggested to his mother.
"Right," she said slowly, looking at the two of them. "I’m
sure he’ll be thrilled." She backed up quickly and left the room.
Clark and Bruce didn’t break eye contact as she left. They stood perfectly
still, the challenge in the air. Bruce broke the silence first.
"I have work to do," he said. "I didn’t come here for
dinner."
"Then what did you come here for?" Clark demanded. "You need
my help, and I think you know it." Bruce’s eyes turned into lasers as
he stared at Clark. "I think you want my help," Clark continued,
"but you just don’t know how to ask for it."
"I’m leaving," Bruce said shortly, trying to walk past him. Clark
put his arm out, shattering through the wood frame on his doorway. Bruce
looked down at the arm blocking his path and then slowly he brought his up
to Clark’s. "Don’t try me," he said, spitting each word out like
it was poison.
"We have to talk," Clark told him again. "You’re staying for
dinner." Bruce glowered back at him and then finally he backed off.
Dinner was a disaster, for everyone. Bruce sat in his seat like he was strapped
down into it, his face a thundercloud. He ate slowly, never taking his eyes
off Clark. For his part, Clark ignored him, eating quietly and trying to
make light conversation with his parents. Jonathon and Martha sat nervously
in their seats, glancing at Bruce occasionally like he was some kind of
wild dog that might snap at any moment. You could have cut the tension in
the air with a knife.
Finally, in desperation, Jonathon asked, "So why are you in the
circus, Bruce?"
"Being an escape artist is going to help me out someday," he said
quietly, never taking his eyes off Clark.
"Oh, why’s that? What are you going to do?"
"Physically assault criminals." There was a pause that was almost
pregnant as Jonathon’s mouth twitched. "Don’t know how I’m going to do
it yet," Bruce admitted to him. Clark looked over at him, and then
took a bit out his dinner, chewing it slowly. "What about you,
Clark?" Bruce asked him, smiling. "What are you going to do with
the rest of your life?"
"I don’t know," he admitted. "I don’t have it all figured
out like you do."
"Pity, you should. You should always decide what you’re going to do,
and then do it. No hesitation, no looking back."
"Some of us aren’t like that," Clark told him. "I’m just
trying to enjoy my life, right now."
"Enjoy… your life?" Bruce asked him, breaking into a grin. He
started to laugh, his shoulders shaking fiercely. He put down his fork and
rubbed at his eyes, wiping away tears.
"What so funny?" Clark asked him, irritated. Bruce shook his
head, still laughing, and got up from his seat.
"In a second," he said quietly. "Thank you for the meal,
Mrs. Kent. It’s been a while since I’ve had food that good."
"Thank you," she said, looking a little confused, but still
pleased. "And please, just call me Martha."
"Martha," Bruce said quietly. "That’s a very nice name. It
was my mother’s."
"Oh," she said quietly. "You know, I don’t think I’ve ever
read anything about them."
"Probably not," he told her. "She was murdered when I was
eight. Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime." He pushed in his chair
as Martha stared at him and walked away from the table. Clark glanced at
his mother, and then got up quickly as well. He followed Bruce outside to
find him standing on their porch, looking out into the stars.
"You’re parents are very nice people," Bruce said quietly.
"They must be very special to you."
"Yes they are," Clark said. He leaned against one of the posts
and watched him. Bruce stood at the railing and looked upwards, his face
quiet and thoughtful.
"My parents were very special to me too," he admitted to Clark.
"But then something happened to them. And they were gone."
"Pete found out about them," Clark told him. "About how they
were shot. I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what that would be like."
"I lost everything that night," Bruce said, his voice monotone.
"I was eight, my parents were my entire world. And then a man walked
out of an alley with a gun. He wanted money, but my father refused, tried
to talk him out of it. Didn’t work. He fired two shots into my father’s
chest, .45 caliber rounds. You wouldn’t believe how much damage they do to
a human body. My mother screamed and lurched forwards, her pearls caught on
the man’s gun. He tried to pull away, but his gun was caught. He panicked
and put the barrel to the base of her chin. Then he pulled the
trigger." Bruce stopped and shook his head ever so slightly. He passed
a hand over his face, covering his eyes. "Seeing something like that
puts all your nightmares to shame. My parents were dead when they hit the
concrete, I thought I was next, but instead, he ran. And I was alone."
Clark was silent at first, seeing the scene unfold in his mind. He imagined
his parents gunned down like that, dying at his feet. "Is that why you
do it?" he asked. "Is that why you go out, hunt down criminals?
Revenge?"
Bruce sighed and didn’t say anything for a moment. Finally, he turned to
Clark and said, "No, not revenge. It’s something else, something that
I learned that night, and that world’s confirmed for me every other day
since."
"What is it?"
"Clark, the world is hard, cold, dark place," Bruce told him
quietly. "People pretend it’s nice, that life is good and full of
brightness. And yes, sometimes it is. But for as much order and happiness,
there is more chaos. Individuals can be bright and compassionate, but as a
group we could hardly give a damn. People kill each other for pointless,
stupid reasons every day. Open up your paper; watch the news, its all the
same. John Q. Public has a wife and 2.5 children. He has a job he loves; he
pays his taxes on time, never speeds. Then one day he comes home to find
his children chopped to bits and his wife raped, mutilated, and lying in
the bathtub. Why? There is no reason. We say it can’t happen to us, and
walk around with blinders until it does. We don’t see the problem because
it’s just too big and horrifying. Because it’s us. We are the problem; the
world is. All that was revealed to me that night, like it was written right
next to my parents. I looked down at them and I learned that the world
doesn’t make sense unless you force it to. If we are the problem, we are
also the solution. We can make things better; punish people that the police
can’t reach. Impose our own order on a society that will never have one. We
can make things better."
"How?" Clark asked him. "By just assaulting people, like you
do? There are courts and laws for that."
"Jail doesn’t scare criminals, Clark," Bruce replied. "If it
did, no one would need to go back. And I respect the law; it’s done all it
can to keep things in line. All I want to do is help it out a bit. I’m not
a killer either, and I never want to be one. We can’t save the world if
we’re willing to kill."
"I agree with you there totally. But what about taking the law into
your own hands, that makes you a criminal too, doesn’t it?" he pointed
out to him.
"Of course it does," Bruce agreed. "We have to be criminals,
there is no other way."
Clark thought for a while, absorbing this in as he looked out over the
stars. Bruce waited patiently, watching the sky as well. The heavens were
filled with twinkling light, and for a moment, it seemed that anything
could be possible. Each star glimmered like a wish, waiting to be granted.
Then Clark slowly backed away, shaking his head. "No, I think you’re
wrong," he said slowly. Bruce didn’t say anything, just waited for him
to continue.
"I think that people are good and decent," Clark explained.
"I know that there’s evil in the world, but I think, I know that we
can overcome it. You’re right that sometimes things happen without a
reason, but we can weather them, and become stronger for it. If the world
does need people like us, it’s not to impose our own will on them, but to
let them go forward on their own. You asked me what I wanted to do when I
grow up; well I think I now know. The first good thing I ever did with my
powers was save a life; a life everyone else had given up on. But I didn’t,
and I have a good friend because of it now. Because of me, he’s got a
second chance now, and that the best thing you can ever give someone. I
think that’s what we’ve been put here for, to catch people when they
fall." Clark finished, and looked for a response from Bruce, but none
was forthcoming. He turned away and walked to the end of the porch and
glanced upwards. Thick clouds were rolling in from the east, slowly
blotting out the stars with blackness.
"Do you really believe that?" Bruce asked him quietly.
"Yes, I do," Clark replied. Bruce sighed and turned to him. He
seemed disappointed it, but his eyes looked off into the distance, as if
seeing something far off.
"We’re going to have a disagreement someday, aren’t we?" he
asked. Clark stared at him, unable to find the words. "What happens
then?"
"I don’t know," he said finally. Bruce nodded absently and looked
away. "Do you want to go look for him now?" Clark asked him.
Bruce nodded, his face grim, but that same half-smile played around his
mouth.
"We need to gather a few things here first, but yeah, I’m ready,"
he said. "How about you?"
Clark nodded. "Ready as I’ll ever be. So where do we start looking?"
END
OF CHAPTER THIRTEEN
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