Chapter 1: Escape
I do not own Smallville
, its characters or related concepts - they belong to DC comics, Millar and Gough, and whole bunch of others. I also don't own Toni Taylor, the Metros and a few other characters that you'll recognise from Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman
. I do own Thomas Edge and the concept of Infinity.Summary:
Three years ago Clark Kent was set up and framed for treason. Two years ago he was drugged to insanity and transferred to Belle Reve Mental Institute. One year ago he began fighting through the drugs, slowly learning everything he could. Now he’s out, he’s angry, and he’s more dangerous than all of his enemies put together…Rating:
AU, therefore general spoilers, but none specifically. Inspired by the scene in ‘Labyrinth’ where Clark escapes. Also inspired by the video ‘The Last Spy of K.R.Y.P.T.O.N’ by Skull Skar on YouTube, found here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hDblVVQ5uzw.Warnings:
Violence. Torture. Language. Sexual situations. Betrayal.Notes:
This is *not* a crossover. No aliens. Clark was born with his abilities, but he is not Kryptonian – information will be revealed in the story. Superman is not going to make an appearance – my Clark’s a bit too dark and distrustful. Sorry. On the bright side, if you *like* dark, Bond-like Clark, you’ll probably enjoy this. It also borrows background elements from Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman
, particularly the criminal element. Mostly because Dean Cain and Teri Hatcher were the first Clark Kent and Lois Lane I ever knew.Pairings:
Jonathan/Martha. Lex/Lana. Chloe/Jimmy. Dinah Lance/Oliver Queen. Past Clark/Lana. Eventual Clark/Lois.
This was first written at least three years ago, if not longer, started just before Season 8 aired and finished before Season 9 did. It has been posted before, but was taken down due to new rules. All fanart featured is also mine.The Point of No Return
Chapter 1: Escape
Sometimes he wondered if they had even noticed the fact that he had stopped rambling. When they first drugged him, he had truly become insane, his mind fractured by the dizzying cocktail of chemicals. But they made mistakes. They didn’t understand him, didn’t understand what he was capable of. What he could do.
He had nearly killed someone in his intoxicated state. Which had made him worse. To this day, he regretted it. That had been when he was transferred. Nevertheless, he took comfort in the knowledge that they had no idea who and what they were dealing with.
They used the same compound and the same sedatives. Eventually… they wore off. Then his eidetic memory came into play, and he duplicated every effect perfectly, slowly tapering off the ‘insanity’ until he was silent. And he learnt.
The thing about the criminally insane was that they weren’t the same sort of crazy as other people. They were psychopaths, sociopaths, killers, but they were often perfectly rational otherwise. When his guards thought him docile enough, they let him interact with others – after all, the whole world now believed that he had been out of his mind when he did what they imprisoned him for. He wasn’t a true traitor, simply a madman.
He wondered if anyone believed his protestations of innocence.
His wife hadn’t. His friends hadn’t. Even his parents had seemed doubtful, but that reaction was so hard to decipher. Was the uncertainty genuine or not? His father was a senator, after all. He had to tread the delicate balance between losing his position and losing his son. Not that he thought – if it came down to it – Jonathan Kent would ever put anything above his family. But his opponents must not
get into office.
He had shouted that as he was dragged away. That Jonathan Kent was the only true American in the Senate. Whether people had regarded that as bizarre support or not, he didn’t know. He had been forbidden any visitors for that year in prison. The only correspondence he’d had from the outside were divorce papers from his wife.
He’d signed them.
Slowly, his head turned to observe the room. Plain, metallic, sterile. There was no life in this place except the occasional screams of the inmates.
He heard the click of his door as it unlocked. “Time for dinner, Kent.”
He’d always found it odd that they were let out of confinement for meals. It was at mealtimes that he learnt the most, his ears and eyes taking in every scrap of information from his criminal compatriots and the guards that secured them. Every morsel of outside news, every tip on hiding your tracks. Hell, if you got Desiree – whatever her latest surname was – in the right mood, you could hear everything about seduction she had mastered. Of course, she used those meteor-enhanced abilities to marry wealthy men and convince others to kill them for her – a black widow extraordinaire. The reason she was in here was due to her dangerous effect in normal prison.
He wondered why they let her into a room of mixed-gender offenders, all dangerously deranged, before realising that perhaps they simply didn’t care if a few of the inmates managed to kill each other. This was Belle Reve; the place the outside world didn’t like to think of.
He couldn’t help wondering about Desiree though. She hadn’t attempted to do anything to him. He
, after all, had foiled her latest plot, had allowed her to be caught. Yet when she spoke to him, it was as though she had no idea who he was.
There could be reasons for that though. He knew they experimented on patients. Sometimes they even treated them. A young woman he’d cared about a lot in high school had been one of them. She’d been imprisoned here – and recovered, more or less, from her obsession with him. They became friends, even entering a relationship. But when she was murdered… Well, his reaction hadn’t exactly endeared him to the jury at his trial for crimes against the state.
“Kent!” a voice called from a table.
Clark Kent turned, face impassive, to the man who had spoken. Jason Trask. A conspiracy theorist convinced that aliens were out to destroy the world. Clark couldn’t believe his stories, but his information regarding covert branches of the government and armed forces procedures were invaluable. Silently, he picked up his tray and joined him at the table, his face showing only mild inquisitiveness.
“Kent, have you heard?” Trask asked excitedly. “I heard the guards talking. There’s been another ‘meteorite.’ It’s a crash, it has to be! The beginning of the invasion…”
Clark allowed him to ramble on, taking note of useful points. It seemed a single meteorite had struck the outskirts of his hometown of Smallville. He couldn’t help but feel grateful that it had been only one. The showers when he was three and eighteen had had a devastating effect on the town. To this day, he couldn’t understand what attracted the meteorites there.
He had always wondered if it had something to do with his family’s abilities, his family’s presence. There had been a meteor shower in his biological father’s hometown of Castleton in England years earlier.
Trask continued to prattle on, and Clark began to tune him out as he scanned the room for more useful data.
His keen ears picked up a muffled snort from one of the guards, muttering to one of his fellows. “Kent? Model patient. Does nothing anymore. Just sits there, listening. Lost his marbles entirely by now.”
It was the reply that intrigued him. “In that case, focus the watch on the more dangerous inmates.”
So someone had ensured he had extra security. Someone on the outside, someone who was not the government. The government wouldn’t employ people quite so idiotic as to say such a thing within possible hearing distance of the target. So it had to be someone else.
Idly, he wondered if it was the person who set him up.
Still, the reduction in safeguards soon became clear, and forty-eight hours later, Clark had a simple, but effective plan for escape.
No longer observed, it was easy to trace the janitor’s movements, to follow him into the closet.
“I’m sorry,” Clark murmured before a single punch knocked him out. He caught him, lowering the man gently to the floor.
It took only a moment to take the man’s uniform and bind and gag him with strips of his old ‘pyjamas.’ Clark quickly dressed once more, ignoring the pain of forcing his feet into shoes a size too small. Next came the electronic bracelet around his ankle. Fortunately, there was just enough room in the closet to allow him to remove it without activating any alarms, stories from other patients’ attempted escapes ringing in his memory, before he swiftly cuffed it around the janitor’s leg. At least now they’d have no record of him leaving the building. He pulled the baseball cap low on his forehead, caught his somewhat long hair – it needed cutting – underneath, and hunched out of the room, carefully locking the door behind him.
He wanted to laugh as he saw the guards and orderlies pass him by without as much as a glance. A uniform made you unspectacular, unnoticed, even unrecognisable. He was depending on that anonymity.
He located the man’s car, unlocked it, and left, refusing to even take off his cap as he did so. No one noticed. No one stopped him. No one raised the alarm.
He ditched the car as soon as he got to the outskirts of Metropolis, parking in a place without cameras to catch his movements. Next he headed for the only place he could hide.
Once he got there, he fell back on what he did best. He listened.
It was only ten minutes before he heard the first scream.
Superspeed had a lot of advantages. He was on the scene seconds later. A fist rammed into the mugger’s gut, a foot hooked behind his and the man crashed to the floor. Clark wrestled the knife from his fingers only to slide it against his neck.
“Go,” he snapped at the assailant’s would-be victim, a blonde woman who retrieved her bag and fled. Dangerous green eyes bored into the brown eyes of the thug.
“P-please… I wasn’t gonna hurt her, I just – the money –”
“Shut it,” Clark snarled viciously. “I don’t want to listen to your excuses. Say goodnight.”
Another punch, this time to the head, knocked the man out cold. Quickly and efficiently, Clark stripped him of all valuables – the woman hadn’t been his first victim of the night – along with his clothes. None were big enough to fit him, so he dropped them off at the nearest homeless shelter even as he processed the man’s belongings. One flick-knife, well-used, good quality. About a hundred dollars in cash, three mobile phones, some jewellery, a couple of watches, a pair of handcuffs. He kept the blade, money and cuffs, seeing no need to keep the more expensive items, remembering the attack on his father one night and the theft of the watch that had been Martha’s wedding present to him. He wasn’t going to cause anyone else that anguish. Cash could be recovered.
And so he continued. Two hours later, he had stopped five more muggings and replaced the janitor’s uniform with dark jeans, a t-shirt and a black leather jacket. In addition, he now had a Glock, two more knives and a sizeable wad of cash. Somehow, he didn’t feel as guilty as he knew he should.Survival,
he told himself. It’s all about survival.
He couldn’t go to his parents. Once they realised he was missing, that was the first place they would check. In fact, he couldn’t risk contacting any of his friends. For now, he was on his own.I will survive,
he told himself as he checked into a rundown motel. If there’s nothing else prison has taught me… I will survive.
The key to survival is the ability to adapt.
So Clark Kent adapted. His first port of call was a barber. His hair had been short before prison, growing out randomly. Now he had it cut properly, longer than he’d worn it before, without looking odd or scruffy. He refused the offered shave, knowing that he had been constantly smooth-faced. That would certainly add to his disguise. His next stop was a costume shop, and soon his brilliant blue-green eyes had become a soft brown, hidden behind a pair of dark-rimmed plain glasses.
His final stop before venturing out into the world was to a clothes shop. There, he bought the very basics – underwear, socks, another pair of jeans, a dark suit, a couple of t-shirts, shirts, boots and shoes. All were dark and sombre colours, nothing like the plaid and primaries Clark Kent was known to favour. Coupled with his current clothes, he had the essentials needed for any occasion. Finally, he found a battered bag to keep them in and left.
Metropolis University Library was only accessible to students – and adults with skilled breaking and entering skills. Clark had been both. In addition, he knew that they often didn’t delete their alumni’s computer accounts for a number of years afterwards, particularly if those alumni returned to use the library.
His ex-wife often had. It was her account he used, guessing her password on the second try.
His first thought was to find out what had happened in the world he had been absent from. What he discovered disturbed him.
LuthorCorp was stronger than ever. It single-handedly employed the majority of people in Metropolis. Lex Luthor was presently the third richest man in the world, and apparently improving on it. Lex Luthor, the great philanthropist. Clark had known him too long to think that that was anything but a cover.
Intriguingly, The Daily Planet
was no longer in that same man’s clutches. That was a comforting thought. It had been bought out from the previous owner – a Teague, if he remembered correctly – by Oliver Queen, Bruce Wayne and Robert Sterne in consort. The idea was that given three different owners, none of them could exert undue pressure without the others stopping them – in short, making The Daily Planet
about as neutral as it could get. They had been the only paper to report his trial without bias, even if they had included several editorials supporting him. Clark wasn’t convinced that ‘objectivity’ was the only reason for the buy-out though, especially as it seemed The Daily Planet
’s detachment flew out of the window when it came to the so-called ‘metahumans.’
This was one of the biggest things he’d found to have happened over the past three years. The public acknowledgement of people with ‘superhuman’ abilities. There were even classifications. Some were ‘infected’ from the meteor showers in Smallville and Castleton (which had now apparently been linked to the other two, since the meteorites were identical in make-up). Some were naturals, or ‘born superhuman’ (his own classification, no doubt). Others were ‘forcibly changed by outside forces’ (a lovely euphemism for things like LuthorCorp raising the dead and turning them into cyborgs). Of course there were other reasons, but those appeared to be the main three.
It meant he would have to be careful. He had been born with his abilities, inherited from his family line, nurtured and hidden by his adopted parents. No doubt he would be a fascinating ‘experiment.’
Contrary to popular belief, he was not invulnerable. He just healed so quickly as to seem so. No doubt there were ways of killing him permanently – he doubted he would heal from decapitation – but he wasn’t eager to try them. His strength and speed were phenomenal. He could hear a pin drop in a noisy room, filtering through seven different conversations and memorising them all at the same time. His eyesight was clear and strong beyond others’ comprehension, able to see microscopic images not to mention telescope if necessary. He never forgot anything. He knew he had other abilities lurking beneath the surface, ones that the drugs may have interfered with.
Reluctantly, Clark finally began to look up the names of his friends and family. Somehow knowing what had happened would make the passage of time all the more real. Belle Reve had existed in a time vacuum.
Clark’s eyes danced over the pages. His father was still senator – miraculously, he had somehow escaped the infamy of his son’s ‘crime.’ Chloe had continued working for The Daily Planet
after his trial – he hoped she hadn’t suffered too much as his some-time partner – and then disappeared off the radar two years ago, almost concurrently with his apparent mental breakdown. Pete was working as a public defender in Wichita. And Lana…
The former Lana Kent was now Lana Luthor, and, from what he was reading, becoming as ruthlessly popular as her husband.
Anger boiled inside him. His fists clenched and fire burned behind his eyes. Lex.
Lana had divorced him to marry Lex
. Lex Luthor, who she claimed she had only ever been friends with and even then more business-partner than friend. Lex Luthor, who had attempted to kill Clark on more than one occasion once their friendship was decidedly over. Lex Luthor, who had murdered his own father in order to gain full control of his company.
Clark’s sweet and loving wife had betrayed him. The society pages said it for him.‘Less than a month after divorcing imprisoned traitor, Clark Kent, Lana Lang has been seen on the arm of the city’s most eligible bachelor, Lex Luthor.’
‘Four months after her divorce from convicted felon Kent, Lana Lang ties the knot with LuthorCorp CEO and long-time friend, Lex Luthor. “I’ve never been happier,” says Mrs Luthor. “I just want to put the past behind me, and move on with a man I know I can trust.”’
‘Three months after the wedding of the year, the Luthors are happy to announce the pregnancy of Lana Luthor. After a harrowing year, the young woman could not be happier, and is eagerly anticipating a family with the man she adores.’
Less than four months after the divorce, she had married Lex. She’d had his child. It had been bad enough that she had
divorced him, that she had publicly denounced and decried him as a traitor to America, but this… This cut deeper than any knife, hurt more than any bullet, crushed harder than any vice. Suddenly every time Lana had defended Lex came to mind. Every time she’d been out late before the arrest, every time there’d been a letter she’d hide, an e-mail she’d deleted… Had she been seeing him even then?
Fire raged behind his eyes as he felt the energy build up. He averted them quickly, tearing off his glasses, seeing the waves of heat they left behind as the wall exploded in flames.
He raised a brow in wonder, suddenly feeling oddly at peace. I shot fire from my eyes. Interesting.
If anyone was confused as to why the bespectacled man in the suit didn’t seem to notice the blaze beside him, they chalked it up to absent-mindedness and the fact that he seemed to be deeply engrossed in whatever he was reading or writing onscreen.
And if anyone found an e-mail from Lana Lang’s old university account confusing, most of that confusion was cleared up by the news that Clark Kent had escaped prison that morning, and the contents of the e-mail reading:Treachery’s arms shall always reach into fate,
The truth shall out, and the victim no longer hate.
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