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Things that go Bump

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Summary: (on hiatus) Clark Kent accidentally kills Morgan Edge. Overcome by guilt and fear, he runs away again, and finds himself in California, where a sinister adventure awaits him.

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Smallville > GeneralnowheremanFR18414,7432133,02014 Feb 1018 Mar 10No

Intro

Author's note: Okay, so this is going to be the beginning of my Voyager series. It is an AU of Smallville and will involve the crossover with many different fandoms. The first story in this series: Things that Go Bump, is a crossover with Buffy/Angel.

Okay, so one thing with this story is that Clark ends up in L.A. Now, the problem is, I've never been to L.A., so I'm essentially relying on the Internet to help me describe it. Inaccuracies are inevitable.

Also, my favorite superman origin story currently out there is Superman Birthright, and I borrow some things from there.

Disclaimer: I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Smallville, Angel, or any of the Characters.

Clark Kent's family had owned a Sheepdog once, when he was much younger. Clark had loved that dog like a brother. Clark had never played with other children up till that point. His parents were much too afraid that something might happen. Clark loved his parents, but he loved them as thatĀ¦parents. He wanted, no, needed friends his own age.

That dog: a spry, grayish Maremma Sheepdog named Max, still at the apex of its dog years when Clark was only five. Max had been Clark's only companion in the beginning of his life. Clark ran with that dog and played fetch with it for hours on end. He would watch Max lead cattle in and would sometimes even help. Getting down on all fours and barking, pretending he was a Sheepdog too. Max slept with Clark in his bed, but Clark's mother, Martha Kent, had to draw the line at letting the dog eat at the table, or allowing Clark to eat on the floor next to his pal.

Clark was six during a rapidly fading summer and he had been out in the yard playing fetch with Max, when he threw the stick as hard as he could. Just like so many other children who toss a frisby with all their might, to see how high hey could make it go. Clark, however, was no ordinary boy. The stick went hurtling into the air as if it had been shot from a cannon, and Clark ran after it in the hopes of retrieving it. Dirt and grass sprayed out from behind him as he sped through the fields faster than even the finest human athlete could dream of going, following a tiny dot moving against the solid blue of the cloudless sky.

Then suddenly, a bizarre and unpleasant feeling swept over him. Clark tripped over his own feet, the momentum of his speed causing him to be flung along the ground, skidding on dirt and rock and snapping wheat stalks as he went. He couldn't stand up, his scrapes stung, and his stomach churned, his very veins felt like they were writhing inside him.

Clark had never been hurt before now, and this sensation was new and horrible, he had to get out of here, he needed to get back to his mom and dad. But, he couldn't move, so he lay there, bruised and bleeding. His breath coming in quick and shallow as his growing fear causes him to start hyperventilating.

He laid there for what seemed like forever, confused and alone. What was happening? Where was he? Where was his mom?

Clark saw something coming toward him. The image was blurry through his tears, like looking though a car window on a very rainy day.

The grayish smudge moved closer. Then Clark heard a whimper as something cold and wet nudged his cheek, and something rough and moist, like a soaked towel was rubbed against his face. Clark awoke completely, rapidly blinking tears from his eyes. When he focused he saw it. Max was there.

The dog had tracked his scent and come looking for him. Clark gave a cry of pure joy at seeing his companion.

In a display of the bizarre empathy animals' posses when someone is in danger, the dog grabbed Clark by the shirt and dragged him away.

The farther Clark got form that place, the better he felt. Soon the nausea was gone and the shallow scrapes had started to heal themselves.

When the dog put Clark down, Clark pulled the dog into an embrace, tears streaming down his cheeks as he sobbed openly a mixture of fear and relief. He buried his face in the dog's warm coat, pulling Max as close to him as possible. Desperately needing the comfort and support of his friend.

He almost didn't hear the sound of the dog's yelp over the snap. It was loud and sickening, sounding right next to Clark's face.

Startled, Clark let go of Max, staring at the dog as it slouched and collapsed to the ground. Its back was bent at an odd angle where Clark had hugged him.

Clark simply stared at his friend, Max had stopped panting, his tail was still, and his dark brown eyes stared blankly into space.

"Max?" Clark called to the dog. No response.

"Max?" Clark asked again, shaking the dog softly this time.

"Come on Max, we need to get back home." Clark pleaded, shaking the dog more vigorously now.

"Please, come on Max. Please get up. I don't know how to get home. Help me!" Max didn't move. Clark knew, he didn't want to, but he knew. His only friend was dead. He had killed him.

Clark screamed; a piercing scream that scrapped the back of his throat on its way out. He screamed until he couldn't and then he collapsed, sobbing into Max's grey coat. His father found him like that. They buried Max that weekend, and Clark for the first time in his life, understood his parents' fear.

Describing the sensation of red kryptonite would be difficult for Clark. He wouldn't say he felt possessed, or out of control. On the contrary, he felt more control when on The Red than every before. His problems and morals didn't disappear with Red K, he simply stopped caring. He'd known exactly what he had been doing that entire time in Metropolis. Even when he remembered his actions under the influence, he had carried them all out with an unwavering conviction he'd never had before. Clark was shocked by how easy it was to slip back into the persona of Kal, even without the Red.

Clark knew there would be consequences to his recklessness in Metropolis. The blatant flaunting of his powers, while it had made perfect sense at the time, had Clark practically twitching in paranoia. Still, he was caught off guard when a car pulled up next to the barn and the window rolled down to reveal Morgan Edge.

Clark had just wanted to scare him, chase him off, at least until Clark could come up with a better plan. He had changed back into Kal because Kal was the only one that could do it. It was like flipping a switch in his head, Clark Kent, flip, Kal No-last-name. However, he wasn't KalĀ¦not really. Clark had something that Kal didn't have. What Clark Kent had, was fear.

Slamming Edge into the car had seemed like a good idea at the time, nothing like a little physical violence to bring home a point. That was when fear made all the difference. The car crumpled like a soda can under the tire of an 18-wheeler as Clark brought Edge's body down on it with more force than he'd wanted. Clark let go immediately and stepped back, about to apologize to the biggest crime lord in Metropolis. Edge had been knocked unconscious instantly, and so had his driver when the steel of the car bent and smashed him in the head. Clark didn't move for a few minutes, and then he noticed Edge wasn't breathing.

Clark slowly put his trembling fingers to Edge's neck, looking for a pulse. There was none. Clark held it there. Still nothing, Morgan Edge was dead. Clark Kent had taken a human life.

The driver was still alive and Clark super-sped him to the hospital and deposited him inside the entrance. However, he was barely aware of what he was doing at the time. His thoughts were far away. I killed someone. He thought, I killed someone. That was pretty much the only intelligible thought in his brain for a good 20 minutes.

He soon found himself back at the scene of the crime, Morgan Edge's body practically enfolded by the metal of the car, like a gruesome cannibal taco. Clark almost laughed.

"Okay Clark," he said aloud, his voice helping to ground him. "You're getting delirious. Something needs to be done.He should tell his parents, he thought. But, how could he ever face them with this? They'd never look at him the same way again. He had caused enough trouble for the Kents as it was.

Clark ran a jerky hand through his hair, his breaths coming more rapidly in his rising panic. It wasn't until he felt something warm and wet on his fingers that he realized he'd been ripping some of his own hair out.

He had to get rid of it. He'd brought enough trouble to his family, to all of Smallville. He wouldn't burden them with this. He lifted the wreck, Morgan Edge and all, and ran. Clark ran as he'd never run before. He couldn't be sure in which direction or for how long, but it wasn't long enough.

When he stopped at a vacant beach, he finally put his burden down and stared at the body that had once been Morgan Edge. Clark grabbed one end of the car and rolled it so Morgan's body was completely wrapped up. Then he lifted the whole package and began to spin with it. He span around as fast as he could, kicking up a wicked dust tornado. Then he hurled the twisted mass with all his strength toward the ocean.

It shot off toward the horizon, breaking the sound barrier over water and causing a large wave to come crashing toward the shore. Clark was long gone however, having stopped briefly in a town to get his bearings (he'd run all the way to the west coast of Texas) and ran back home.

His parents hadn't come back yet. Clark all but collapsed onto the couch. What was he going to do now? He'd removed all trace of what had happened, all but the memory. Even as he closed his eyes, he saw it again. Morgan Edge's body crash into the car frame, bones snapping much louder than he remembered hearing them over the groaning of the flexing metal. He saw the quick look of shock on Morgan's face when Clark grabbed onto him. Clark knew he wouldn't be able to keep this from his parents. His mother always could tell when he was lying, and if he said nothing, it would show in other ways. They'd know something was up. Clark hadn't been sure, when he had returned from Metropolis, whether or not he'd even stay in Smallville. Now, he didn't know how he could.

Clark was a blur as he ran about the house, stuffing things into a suitcase. Clothes, CDs, ipod, toothbrush, books, laptop, etc. He briefly considered maybe looking for another class ring. Red was very tempting right now, but ultimately, it was the reason he was in this situation to begin with. When he finished he was standing in the dinning room, starring at the table where he had eaten breakfast with his family for the past 16 years. There was a sheet of paper on the table, a blue ballpoint pen laying next to it.

Clark uncapped the pen and put it to the paper. What was he going to write? If he told them what happened, they'd only be worse off, right? I'm already a murderer, what difference does lying make at this point? A voice from the back of Clark's mind rang out. He hesitated for a second more, before quickly scrawling out the message:

Something happened. Someone is dead. Don't worry, I've taken care of it. It was an accident, but it's still my fault. I can't stay here, not now. Don't try to find me. Don't worry, I'm not on Red.

I love you

C

Clark took one last, cursory glance around his home. Then, knowing he'd end up staying if he hesitated any longer, he took off. He ran west, not entirely sure where he wanted to go. He found himself in Los Angeles when it started getting late. The city wasn't that different from Metropolis. Sections of the city towered over others, made of clumps of skyscrapers, mostly corporate headquarters, government buildings and other logistical infrastructure. Radiating out from these knots of high rises were countless tall apartment buildings, shopping centers, recreation centers, etc. Moving out even further, you started getting into the suburbs. A cliff face covered inn redbrick homes were the slums. Clark could see the dilapidation of many of the buildings. Fading paint, missing bricks, missing windows, several clotheslines could be seen stretching from one building to another. He could see mountains in the horizon, something you didn't see in Metropolis.

The amount of traffic was horrible, and so was the pollution. Clark could see the thick smog and haze that enveloped the city even at night. However, L.A. was far more colorful than Metropolis. Undoubtedly due to the Hispanic influences, a great deal of buildings in L.A. were painted in bright colors, like reds and oranges and yellows. Clark found an out of the way motel, too exhausted to explore the city now. The outside of the single floor Motel was a faded orange color. He paid for his room in cash, the receptionist (a swarthy man with a bushy mustache and a beer belly made far more prominent by his white tank top) gave him a stern glare, but didn't say anything. He handed Clark the key with the number 8 written in green ink on a piece of tape stuck to the key.

Clark walked down the dimly lit hallway, looking at the blood red doors with brass numbers right above their peepholes. Odd numbers to his left, even numbers to his right. He stopped in front of the number 8, put in his key, and entered the room. The room was modest, but not lacking. There was one bed backed against the wall on the left, its white sheets neatly made. There was a desk parallel to the bed. There was no television or window, but there was a small bathroom.

Clark stepped into the room and locked the door behind him. He kicked off his shoes and put his suitcase and backpack down next to the bed. then collapsing on top of the bed, not even bothering to get under the sheets, Clark Kent cried.

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