Meteor Freak
Episode 9: Nicodemus
Date: Tuesday, August 30, 2011.
Location: Luthor Manor, Smallville, Kansas
Lex stood behind his desk, examining financial reports, when the door to his piano room opened without a knock. This was the place where he entertained guests, exercised, and did his best work. The room exuded old money, filled with books lining mahogany shelves, antique furniture, and a chess set with pieces frozen mid-game on a side table.
Dr. Hamilton entered, his tweed jacket hanging loosely on his frame. He glanced around nervously before settling on Lex, who looked up with obvious displeasure. "Dr. Hamilton. I thought part of our arrangement was that you don't drop in on me."
"A situation's come up in my lab." Hamilton's words came out rushed, breathless.
"Don't you mean your barn?" Lex set down his papers and circled around the desk, already anticipating another of Hamilton's excuses.
Hamilton shifted uncomfortably, pulling out a handkerchief to dab at his forehead. "One of my experiments was stolen by one of your employees."
Lex stopped mid-stride. "Why would anyone at LuthorCorp know about your work?"
"He was helping me install some new equipment." Hamilton wiped perspiration from his brow, clearly dreading this conversation. "I needed someone with electrical expertise, and your man came highly recommended."
"What'd he steal?" Lex moved to the bar cart, pouring himself a glass of scotch without offering one to his visitor as a deliberate slight Hamilton couldn't miss.
"A flower."
Lex turned, incredulity flickering across his face. "You're kidding."
"It's called the Nicodemus. It's been extinct for a hundred years. This represents a breakthrough in genetic resurrection, Lex. We could bring back extinct species, reverse environmental damage—"
Lex cut him off with a measured sip of his drink. "I hired you to study the effects of meteors on this town. That is your focus. You're a geologist. Why are you wasting time on bringing flowers back from the dead?"
"I irradiated the dormant seeds with meteor fragments. Don't you see? This proves the rocks can reverse biological processes, not just alter them. If they can resurrect plant life, imagine what they could do for human cellular regeneration—"
"I want to know the effects on people, not plants." Lex's tone carried an undercurrent of warning.
Hamilton's face flushed. Years of academic condescension came flooding back; university committees dismissing his theories, colleagues calling his research fringe science. "It's a first step. That's what science is, a process, a journey. You know what? Either you understand that or you find someone else."
He turned toward the door, lab coat swishing behind him in wounded dignity.
"What's his name?" Lex called after him.
Hamilton paused at the doorway. "James Beales. Now I just found out that he was in a car accident. He almost didn't make it, but another driver pulled him out."
Recognition flickered across Lex's face, followed by the kind of calculation that made Hamilton remember why he both needed and feared his patron. "Don't tell me it was a kid named Tyson, or Clark Kent."
"Actually, it was his father, Jonathan Kent."
— Meteor Freak —
Clark Kent pushed open the front door of the farmhouse with Tyson in tow, dropping his backpack on the floor with a thud.
"Mom? Dad? I just heard about the—" Clark turned the corner into the kitchen and froze. His parents were locked in a passionate embrace, kissing like teenagers. Clark spun around, averting his gaze. "I did not need to see that."
Jonathan Kent grinned broadly. "Hey, son. Just getting the old hero's welcome. You know what I mean?" He slapped Martha's behind playfully, something the Jonathan Kent of yesterday would never have done in front of company.
"Oh!" Martha exclaimed, jumping slightly. Her cheeks flushed crimson as she shot a mortified glance at the boys.
Tyson laughed. "Hell yeah, well deserved, Mr. Kent." Jonathan pointed at him with a conspiratorial grin.
Clark stared at his father, concern replacing embarrassment. "What's going on with Dad?"
Martha gently disentangled herself from Jonathan's arms, moving back to the counter. "I don't know. He's been acting strange ever since he got home."
Jonathan sauntered to the refrigerator and yanked it open, grabbing a beer. "Hey, Clark. Football game on TV. You wanna watch it with me?"
"Don't you have work to do?"
"Nah, chores can wait." Jonathan placed the bottle against the edge of the table and popped the cap off with a sharp motion. Beer foamed over the top, spilling onto Martha's carefully polished surface. "Besides. Whoa! I earned a rest. You can pick up the slack for me, can't ya?"
He casually wiped the bottle on the kitchen curtain above the sink, leaving a wet streak on the fabric Martha had carefully pressed that morning.
"Jonathan!" Martha tossed him a towel, shock and growing worry mixing in her voice.
Clark crossed his arms, recognizing this wasn't simple celebration. "It's good to see this whole hero thing didn't go to your head."
A knock at the door drew their interruption, "Hope I'm not interrupting."
Martha saw who it was through the screen, grateful for the distraction from her husband's behavior. "Hi, Lex. Come in."
"What's up, Lex?" Clark asked.
"Looking for Mr. Kent."
Jonathan's jovial mood evaporated instantly. "What do you want?"
"I heard you pulled one of my employees out of a car today. I wanted to see if you were all right."
"No, you didn't." Jonathan pointed the beer bottle at Lex like an accusation. "You wanted to see if I was going to sue you or not. Of course, that would put an end to all my financial difficulty, wouldn't it?"
"Jonathan, that's enough," Martha warned.
"No, it's not enough, Martha. You see, I don't like Lex Luthor. I don't like Lionel Luthor, and I don't like your friendship with my son. In fact, if all of you Luthors were to dry up and die, I wouldn't shed a tear."
"Dad, that's enough."
Jonathan belched loudly, then winked at Martha as he passed. "I think I'll take a nap. Hubba hubba."
Martha watched him go. "Lex..."
She looked at him helplessly before hurrying after Jonathan, leaving Clark, Tyson, and Lex in uncomfortable silence.
"He's been under a lot of stress lately," Clark explained, though the excuse felt hollow even to him.
"No worries. Life or death situations can affect people differently."
Tyson checked his watch. "Hey, since he seems alright, let's head to football practice. We can still make it."
The next morning, Clark, Tyson, and Pete stood by the lockers. Pete couldn't resist the opportunity to needle his best friend about the previous day's drama.
"Wow. Drinking beer, mouthing off, and counter-macking with your mom?" Pete shook his head, grinning. "Congratulations, Clark. Your dad has regressed to being a teenager."
"It was pretty awesome to see," Tyson added, adjusting his backpack strap. "I mean, your dad's usually so... proper. Seeing him cut loose was kind of refreshing."
"He's been under a lot of stress lately, but I'm seriously wondering if he's beginning to crack. I mean, who takes a three-hour nap in the middle of the afternoon?"
"I don't know, but I still like the part where he dissed Lex." Pete's satisfaction was unmistakable.
Clark turned to him, genuinely puzzled. "Why? What do you have against Lex?"
"Hmm, let's see." Pete tapped his chin in mock contemplation. "He screwed my family out of the cream corn factory."
"Well, Pete, that was twelve years ago. And it wasn't him, it was his father."
Pete crossed his arms, his expression hardening. "Still, I've never been crazy about the guy. Rich kids don't just magically become different people because they turn eighteen."
"Why haven't you said something before?"
"I was hoping sooner or later you'd see he was bad news. But you keep defending him."
Tyson positioned himself between them. "LuthorCorp is bad. I agree that Lionel is bad news. But Lex is still alright. We should foster the goodness within him, prevent him from turning to the dark side."
Pete rolled his eyes. "You only think Lionel is bad because he made Kara move to Metropolis. And you're going easy on Lex because he let you borrow his Porsche."
"I won't argue against that," Tyson admitted with a shrug. "I may be biased. But Clark is a good influence. If you sour that friendship, it might create the very monster you're worried about."
The heated conversation halted as Chloe rushed toward them with a clipboard clutched tightly in her hand.
"What's your deepest desire?" she asked without preamble. "I mean, if nothing was holding you back, what would you guys do?"
Clark blinked at the sudden interrogation. "Hello, Chloe, nice to see you too. What's up?"
"Principal Kwan thinks that I need to get more in touch with the pulse of the student body. So I've decided to do a poll. Now, if you would both please do your statistical duty..."
Pete's attention drifted to Jodi walking past, her hips swaying with each step. "I'd go over and make out with that girl right now."
Jodi laughed and said, "Okay, smooth talker."
Chloe sighed, unsurprised. "You know, every answer I've gotten so far has been either sex- or violence-related."
"Well, that's human nature, Chloe," Pete replied with a grin. "Later." He pushed off the wall and sauntered away with his girlfriend, leaving the three of them watching him go.
Clark turned to Chloe. "Did you know that Pete doesn't like Lex?"
"Yeah, he's like totally jealous of your friendship with him. He feels like you guys aren't as close as you used to be. It's classic best friend displacement anxiety."
Their conversation paused as Lana approached. "Hey," she greeted with a small smile.
"Hi," Chloe responded, immediately thrusting her clipboard forward. "What about you, Lana? Got one?"
"Um, I would climb the windmill down on Chandler's Field."
Chloe raised an eyebrow, clearly expecting something more dramatic. "Really? That's your deepest desire?"
"Somebody told me you could see the Metropolis skyline from there," Lana explained. "I haven't got the guts to climb up and see for myself."
"Okay..." Chloe's tone suggested she found the answer underwhelming.
"I can always make something up."
"No, it's good, it's good," Chloe assured her quickly. "I like it. It's unleashing the inner Lana."
Tyson frowned, considering the logistics. "Wait, isn't Metropolis in Delaware? It's like everyone in this town is obsessed with the place, but there's no way you could see that far. How freaking tall is that windmill?"
"Good point," Lana acknowledged with a small laugh.
"You still coming by tomorrow after practice to help with the theater?" Tyson asked.
"You know it. I'll be by around six-thirty. See you all later." She turned and walked away, leaving him watching her departure a beat too long.
"Okay, Clark. You're up," Chloe prompted, noticing Tyson's distraction. "Clark, remember it's a PG-13 poll."
"No worries there. Clark's got a new girl."
"Oh? Do tell. Does this one require him to cross an emotional minefield?"
"That's brutal, Sullivan," Tyson replied.
Chloe shrugged, her expression unapologetic. "The choice has always been his." She turned to Clark with the kind of tough love only a close friend could deliver. "You can either sit in your loft and play with your telescope, or move on."
"Oh my god. I think I like this pushy, direct Chloe, with her innuendo insults," Tyson said, grinning. "If simping was my thing..."
Chloe turned and winked at him. "Don't act like you haven't been riding the Lana train recently."
"Phrasing, Sullivan! Phrasing!" Tyson exclaimed. "Keep talking down to me all dirty like, and I might just hop off at your station."
"Anyway," Chloe continued, rolling her eyes, "I'm going out to the accident site with Lana tonight to look for clues."
"Are you dressing like Velma or Daphne?" Tyson asked, his enthusiasm immediately rekindled. "Dibs on Fred."
"You wish, Scooby!"
Tyson sighed dramatically. "All I wanted was a girl into cosplay… Like Kara."
Chloe slapped his arm. "None of that again." She thrust the clipboard into his hand. "You might as well write it down. Another one sex-related."
"I've just become a statistic," Tyson lamented, taking the clipboard. "And hate myself for it."
"It baffles me how you can be so low-key intelligent and witty and yet at the same time be just another dumb high-school boy," she remarked, shaking her head with fond exasperation.
He grinned, unrepentant. "It's one of my superpowers."
By the time Lana and Chloe reached the accident site involving Jonathan Kent, the sun had already gone down. Chloe parked her car on the shoulder, headlights illuminating the scarred pavement. They climbed out and flicked on their flashlights. The night air carried the scent of soil and vegetation, punctuated by the chirping of crickets.
"What are we looking for?" Lana asked, sweeping her flashlight across the ground. The beam caught fragments of glass that glittered like stars against the asphalt.
"Anything." Chloe's flashlight revealed a trail of debris scattered across the road. "Wow, the debris starts from way over there and ends over in that ditch. That's some serious road rage."
They split up, each taking a different section of the accident site. Chloe began snapping photos, the flash momentarily brightening the scene before plunging it back into darkness.
Lana moved carefully through the tall grass at the roadside. She knelt down several feet away, something partially buried in the dirt catching her attention.
"I think I found something!" Lana called out as she began to dig around the object with her fingers. She dug up what remained of the hula girl from Beales' dashboard; a small plastic figure, dirty and broken. She rolled her eyes and put it down as the Nicodemus plant slowly straightened up next to her. The unusual flower unfurled in the darkness, opening, shooting a fine mist directly at her face, before closing again.
"What you got?" Chloe asked, approaching with her flashlight pointed at the ground.
"Sorry," Lana replied, showing Chloe the hula girl with disappointment.
"That's all right. Let's get out of here. This place is a dead end." Chloe turned back toward the car, and Lana followed, brushing dirt from her hands.
As they got into the car, Lana suddenly sneezed. She sneezed again as they drove away, headlights cutting through the darkness as they headed back toward town.
"Gesundheit," Chloe said, glancing briefly at her friend before returning her attention back to the road.
— Meteor Freak —
Jonathan Kent descended the stairs of the farmhouse, whistling a cheerful tune. His movements carried an uncharacteristic swagger as he spotted Martha working at the kitchen counter.
"Hi." He sidled up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. "What do you say you and I go up to the hayloft and have us a little fun, huh?"
Martha gently disentangled herself from his embrace, continuing to chop vegetables. "Not now. Somebody's got to do some work around here. Um, maybe you would like to call Lex Luthor and apologize."
Jonathan scoffed. "Why? All I did was tell him the truth."
"I know I said you should let your feelings out, but you're taking this too far." Martha set down her knife, her controlled movements betraying her fear. "What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing. I feel free."
Martha frowned, reaching out to press her palm against his forehead. "You don't look well. You're burning up. Why don't you go back to bed? I'll make you some soup when I get back."
"Hey!" Jonathan grabbed her wrist as she turned away, pulling her roughly against him. "I know a much better way to break a fever."
"Sweetheart, I have to go, really." Martha placed her hands on his chest. She slipped past him and out the door, leaving Jonathan standing alone in the kitchen. The phone rang, echoing through the empty house. The answering machine clicked on after three rings.
"This is the Kents. Leave a message."
Beep.
"Jonathan, it's Jim Alexander over at the bank. Look, I'm gonna be straight with you. I'm afraid we're gonna have to turn down your loan."
Jonathan lunged for the phone, snatching it up. "Hello, Jim?" His voice dripped with venom. "Yeah, listen to me. I have done nothing but give back to this community, and all anyone has ever done for me is screw me over. So what I'm gonna do is I'm gonna come down there to that bank and you are gonna have to turn down my loan right to my face. That way, I can see whether you still have a pair or whether your wife keeps them in a drawer too!"
He slammed the phone, breaking it. His chest heaved with rage as he stormed toward the gun cabinet.
Minutes later, Jonathan swerved his truck down Main Street, honking wildly and cutting off other drivers. His truck veered dangerously close to an oncoming car.
"Where have all of you learned to drive?!" he shouted out the window as his door flew open from a sharp turn.
He rounded another corner, nearly hitting a pedestrian who jumped back with a startled cry. Jonathan barely noticed as he screeched to a halt outside Smallville Savings and Loan. He climbed out, shotgun in hand, his movements jerky and uncoordinated.
Clark appeared suddenly beside him, alarm written across every line of his body. "Dad, what are you doing?"
"I've done nothing but give back to this town, and they've done nothing but screw me over. Well, this time they've pushed me too far and I'm pushing back."
"Not with a shotgun." Clark positioned himself between his father and the bank entrance. "Dad, you gotta slow down, you're not thinking!"
"I'm thinking just fine, son!" Jonathan cocked the gun. "Now get out of my way!"
He started forward, but Clark grabbed the barrel of the shotgun. In the struggle, Jonathan's finger tightened on the trigger. The gun discharged, the shot hitting Clark squarely in the chest.
"Clark..." Jonathan stared in horror as reality seemed to waver around him. His vision blurred, colors bleeding together as the world tilted sideways. Everything faded to white as his legs gave way beneath him.
Clark caught his father as he collapsed. "Dad! Dad!"
Through the window of the hospital room, Jonathan Kent lay still on the bed, his face pale and drawn. Machines beeped steadily beside him, monitoring vital signs that seemed to grow weaker by the hour. Outside in the hallway, Martha and Clark stood with the doctor.
"His symptoms indicate a severe anaphylactic shock," the doctor explained, consulting his clipboard. "But we can't detect any known antigens."
Martha wrapped her arms around herself. "What is it, then?"
The doctor removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "The truth is, if he'd come in just yesterday, I'd say I'd never seen anything like it. But we admitted a car crash victim this morning, a James Beales, who showed identical symptoms."
Clark straightened at the name. "That's the guy Dad saved. How's he doing?"
"Not good. He fell into a coma an hour ago."
Martha gasped softly, reaching for Clark's arm to steady herself. The doctor offered a sympathetic nod before continuing down the hallway.
As the doctor disappeared around the corner, Tyson jogged up to them.
"What's going on?"
"Thanks for coming. My dad went crazy this morning. He grabbed a shotgun and tried to go to the bank. When I tried to stop him, he shot me, then collapsed. The doctors say he has the same symptoms as the guy he pulled from that car wreck yesterday."
Tyson studied Jonathan through the window, then looked back at Clark with the same focused intensity he got during chemistry labs when working through a particularly complex problem. "Not how I expected to spend third period. But no problem, let's heal him up."
"Mom, make sure none of the doctors come in."
Martha positioned herself near the nurses' station, ready to intercept any medical staff heading their way.
Clark and Tyson slipped into the room, closing the door behind them. Tyson approached the bed where Jonathan lay motionless. He rolled up his sleeves and placed his hands gently on Jonathan's chest. Closing his eyes, he concentrated, feeling the familiar warmth building in his palms. A soft golden glow emanated from his hands, spreading across Jonathan's torso. The light pulsed once, twice, then intensified.
Jonathan's body jerked suddenly. He rolled onto his side, sneezing violently. A fine green mist expelled from his mouth, hanging in the air for a moment before dissipating.
Clark staggered away from the green particles, bracing himself against the wall, breathing heavily.
"Looks like your dad had a case of meteor rock poisoning," Tyson said, stepping back from the bed as the color returned to Jonathan's face and the lines of pain smoothed away.
Moments later, Mr. Kent opened his eyes, blinking in confusion at the unfamiliar surroundings. He pushed himself up on his elbows, looking around the hospital room.
"Tyson? Clark? What happened?" His voice was hoarse but strong.
Clark pushed away from the wall and rushed to his father's side, wrapping him in a tight embrace. Relief flooded through him as he called out toward the door.
"Mom!"
Martha entered and rushed forward, joining Clark in embracing her husband. The three Kents held each other tightly, a family reunited after brushing too close to tragedy.
A bright flash illuminated the room. They turned to see Tyson holding up his cell phone with a mischievous grin.
"What?" He shrugged, lowering the phone. "Cute family bonding moment. You're gonna wanna frame this one."
Jonathan rubbed his forehead, fragments of memory returning in uncomfortable pieces. "Would someone please tell me what happened?"
Clark sat on the edge of the bed, choosing his words carefully. "You went a little crazy this morning, Dad. You grabbed your shotgun and tried to go to the bank. When I tried to stop you, you... Weren't yourself. Then you collapsed."
"The doctor said you had the same symptoms as that man you pulled from the car wreck yesterday," Martha added.
"James Beales," Jonathan murmured, pieces of the puzzle starting to fit together. "How is he?"
"He's in a coma," Clark said quietly.
"You had some kind of meteor rock poisoning. I managed to heal you, but we should probably check on him, too." Tyson said.
Jonathan's memory returned slowly, bringing back the humiliating details. "The bank... Jim Alexander called. They turned down our loan." Shame crept into his voice. "I remember being so angry."
"Is the farm in that big of trouble that you had to rob a bank?" Tyson asked, leaning against the wall.
"I wasn't going to rob the bank. At least, I don't think I was. I just wanted to confront Jim face-to-face. Make him look me in the eye when he told me no." He sighed heavily. "But something came over me. It was like all my frustrations just... exploded."
Martha sat beside her husband, taking his hand in both of hers. "We've been struggling for a while now."
"The last three seasons have been rough," Jonathan explained. "First, there was the drought two years ago. We lost nearly half our corn crop."
"Then last year's early frost hit our winter wheat," Martha continued. "And this spring, grain prices fell to a ten-year low."
Jonathan nodded grimly. "Meanwhile, the big corporate farms keep expanding. They can afford the latest equipment and agricultural technology that cuts their costs dramatically. They buy in bulk, get better deals on everything from seed to fertilizer."
"And the subsidies favor the large operations," Martha added, bitterness creeping in despite her usual optimism. "The small family farms like ours just can't compete."
"We've been getting by on my parents' savings, but that's nearly gone now. I was hoping this loan would help us modernize, maybe invest in some equipment that would make us more efficient."
"What would you need and use the money for?"
"Our tractor is twenty years old and constantly breaking down. A new one would save us time and repair costs. Our irrigation system is outdated and wastes water. With a more efficient setup, we could reduce our water usage by thirty percent. And we need to diversify. Relying solely on traditional crops is too risky with the weather becoming more unpredictable. I've been researching organic farming methods. There's a growing market for organic produce in Metropolis, and the profit margins are better."
"Jonathan's been wanting to convert part of our land to organic for years, but the certification process takes time and money we don't have."
"The loan would have covered the initial costs until we could get established," Jonathan said, deflating slightly. "But without it..."
"How much would you need to solve your problems on a more permanent basis? To be fully sustainable and competitive? Equipment, everything."
Jonathan blinked, surprised by the question. "Well, I haven't really thought about it that way. The loan I applied for was just to keep us afloat, maybe make some small improvements."
"Humor me," Tyson pressed. "If money weren't an issue, what would it take to transform Kent Farms into a modern, sustainable operation that could compete with those corporate farms? Factoring Clark out of the equation."
Jonathan considered the question. "A new tractor would be about $150,000. A modern irrigation system, another $75,000. Then there's the organic certification process and transition period. That's three years where we'd be using organic methods but couldn't yet sell as organic, so our yields would be lower without the premium prices. Solar panels for the barn roof to cut electricity costs. A small greenhouse for year-round production. Maybe even a processing facility so we could sell value-added products directly to consumers instead of raw commodities."
Martha looked at her husband with surprise. "You've thought about this a lot."
Jonathan smiled ruefully. "Just dreams, Martha. Every farmer has them. All told, to do everything right, set ourselves up for the next generation? Probably around $500,000. But that's pie in the sky. No bank would loan a small farm like ours that kind of money."
"And what about the mortgage?" Tyson asked, his questions clearly leading somewhere specific.
"That's the immediate problem. We're three months behind. If we can't catch up soon..." He couldn't finish the sentence, the possibility of losing his family's land too painful to voice.
"How much is left on it?" Tyson pressed.
"About $85,000," Martha answered when Jonathan remained silent. "The payments are $1,200 a month."
Jonathan straightened his shoulders, his pride reasserting itself despite everything. "We'll figure something out. Kents always do."
Clark watched Tyson carefully, recognizing his calculating look. "Why all the questions about our finances?"
Tyson shrugged, but his casual tone didn't quite mask whatever plan was forming behind those sharp eyes. "Just trying to understand the situation."
— Meteor Freak —
Whitney leaned over the drinking fountain, letting the cool water splash against his lips. He straightened up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when a flash of black caught his peripheral vision. Lana walked toward him in knee-high black boots, complementing short shorts.
"Wow." He blinked. "What's the occasion?"
She flipped her dark hair over her shoulder. "Nothing. I just thought we'd spend the afternoon together."
He shifted uncomfortably, his letterman jacket suddenly feeling too warm. "I can't. I need to go for extra help. I'm barely keeping ahead. Then I got to go to the store, and then football practice. I still can't play, but I have to be there."
The playfulness vanished, replaced by something harder. "You know what? I am tired of your excuses."
She turned sharply and walked away. He pushed off from the fountain, following with quick steps.
"I'm sorry, Lana."
She didn't slow down. "Whatever. I feel like I'm locked in this relationship."
Students in the hallway began to take notice, some slowing their pace to watch the unfolding drama between Smallville High's golden couple.
He grabbed her elbow gently, turning her to face him. "What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing." She pulled her arm free. "I'm just not keeping it inside anymore."
"Well, if that's the way you feel, maybe we need to reconsider this relationship."
The ultimatum hung in the air between them. Several onlookers watched openly, waiting for her response. Instead of the hurt or hesitation he expected, a smile spread across her face. Not warm or loving, but satisfied, as if she'd been waiting for this moment.
"Okay, fine. It's over, Whitney." The smile widened as she turned away from him. "It's over."
She walked away, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the hallway, surrounded by whispering students. His mouth opened slightly in shock as he watched the retreating figure of the girl who had been his girlfriend.
Lana was supposed to meet Tyson after football practice to work in the theater, but that wasn't for another three hours. If she moved quickly, she might be able to catch him before he suited up. She made her way to the Torch office. The hallways had mostly cleared out, with only a few students lingering by their lockers.
The door to the newspaper office was partially open. She pushed it wider, revealing Chloe hunched over her computer with Tyson sitting on a stool beside her. They were examining something on the screen, completely absorbed in their discussion. As she walked in, Lana noticed they were looking at photographs Chloe had taken last night. The images showed the woods outside Smallville, with a figure partially obscured by trees.
"Hey, Lana." Chloe glanced up. "Looks like we weren't the only ones out there."
Tyson studied the screen more closely. "Oh, I remember that guy. Dr. Hamilton. He's the one who sells meteor rocks to tourists. Bought a few from him."
"You never cease to surprise me. Meteor rocks are everywhere, and yet you buy them from the tourist shop. But what's he doing scoping around in the woods? I have a feeling it's not just a coincidence. I'm gonna go talk to him."
Lana walked over and looked at the photos, but quickly lost interest. She moved behind Tyson and draped her arms over his shoulders. Her hands began rubbing along his abs and chest, fingers tracing the contours of his muscles through his shirt.
Chloe stopped mid-sentence, her mouth hanging open slightly as she noticed. "Are you okay? You're looking a little... flushed."
"I feel great, actually." She pressed herself closer against his back. "Hey, Tyson. I don't want to wait until tonight. Let's go to the theater now."
He turned his head slightly, catching how she watched him intensely.
"Sure."
"That's it?" Chloe crossed her arms. "You just skip practice like that? You might lose your starting spot."
He shrugged, unbothered. "There's work to be done in the theater. I'll take what help I can get. Besides, the second string could use more playing time. Oh, and don't forget these are the same guys who hung me in a field less than three weeks ago. Please forgive my lack of loyalty and school spirit."
Chloe watched as Lana continued groping Tyson, her hands becoming more adventurous as they slid across his chest.
"I could come help too," she suggested.
Lana pulled him to his feet. "I've got it covered, Chloe. If you want to help, you can write something. Maybe an article about the theater renovation or an advertisement," she practically dragged him toward the door. Before they crossed the threshold, he turned back.
"Hey, that's a great idea. I'll pay a commission. Then you can say you're a professional writer, right? If you get paid, you're a pro." As she pulled him through the doorway, he called back, "Thanks, Chloe!"
In the hallway, she maintained her grip on his arm, leading him with determined steps toward the exit. Her usual reserved demeanor had completely vanished, replaced by a boldness that seemed to surprise even him.
"What's the rush?" he laughed.
Without warning, he scooped her up in his arms. Her legs dangled over one arm while her back was supported by the other. Rather than protest, she wrapped her arms around his neck.
"Girl could get used to this," she said, pressing her face close to his.
Tyson began running down the hallway with her in his arms, but they didn't make it far before Coach Teague stepped out from the gymnasium doorway. He wore a Smallville Crows windbreaker and carried a clipboard, and the surprise on his face shifted to irritation.
"Tyson! Where are you going? Practice is in five minutes."
He didn't break stride, continuing toward the main entrance. "Homeless emergency, Coach! I'll be back tomorrow!"
The coach's protests faded behind them as Tyson carried Lana through the doors. She marveled as he ran, carrying her easily across the school grounds. His breathing remained steady despite the weight in his arms, his pace unwavering as they crossed the parking lot. He moved effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing at all.
"No wonder Coach Walt wanted you to play," she said, her arms still looped around his neck. "How are you this strong?"
He slowed his pace slightly, glancing down at her. "I'll answer your question if you promise to answer one of mine."
She smiled mischievously. "Sounds like fun."
He continued walking. "I'm a Meteor Freak. It's how I was able to fight Greg when he kidnapped you."
The words hung between them for a moment. Rather than shock or fear, she reacted with excitement.
"I knew it!" She squeezed his shoulders. "I knew there was something going on with you. The way you healed after the dance." Moving closer, she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "What can you do?"
He adjusted his grip, shifting her weight slightly. "Nuh uh, my turn. What's going on with you and Coach Teague?"
Her smile faltered for a moment before returning, broader than before. "Jason? Nothing romantic, if that's what you're asking."
"But there's something," he pressed.
She sighed, relaxing in his arms. "We met in Paris. I was there for the summer art program. Whitney and I were still together, but things were strained with the distance."
"Paris?" He raised an eyebrow. "Fancy."
"Nell thought it would be good for me. Expand my horizons beyond Smallville." Her fingers played with the collar of his shirt as she spoke. "I was at the Louvre, sketching this sculpture of a woman. Jason was there studying some archaic text or another. He saw my drawing and said I captured something the sculptor missed. We started talking. He was so different from everyone in Smallville. Worldly, passionate about history and lore." Her voice took on a dreamy quality. "We spent the rest of the summer exploring Paris together. He showed me all these hidden places tourists never see."
"Just as friends?"
"Yes. Whitney and I were still together, and Jason respected that." Her mood darkened. "But there was this connection between us. Like we'd known each other in another life."
The theater's marquee came into view, and he slowed his pace, giving her time to finish her explanation.
"One night, we went to this tiny museum dedicated to ancient artifacts. There was this exhibit about a witch from the 1600s named Isobel Thoreaux. I felt drawn to her story. Jason said I looked exactly like the paintings of her."
"That's not creepy…" he muttered.
"After that, I started having these dreams. About Isobel, about magic and power." Her hand unconsciously moved to touch her lower back. "The next morning, I woke up with this."
"With what?"
"A tattoo. Right here. A symbol from Isobel's grimoire. I never got a tattoo, Tyson. It just appeared."
"That's not strange at all," he joked, "And Jason?"
"He was fascinated. Started researching Isobel's history, the symbol, everything." Worry crept into her voice. "He would disappear a lot at night. When I asked him about it, he said that he was with his brother... hunting... for something, but every time I asked him what, it was something different. Usually a collector's piece or artifact of some kind."
"And now he's here in Smallville... As a football coach." His skepticism was obvious.
"He said he couldn't let go of the mystery. Followed me back to continue his research." She shrugged. "He got the coaching job to have a reason to be here."
"And you're okay with him stalking you across continents?" he asked, setting her down gently on the sidewalk as they reached the theater building.
Her hands rested on his chest, fingers splaying across the fabric of his shirt. "I'm not worried about Jason," she said, sultry and low. "Not when I have a meteor freak to protect me."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. "You still haven't told me what's going on with you today. The outfit, breaking up with Whitney, the... touching."
She smiled, confident and foreign on her usually reserved features. "Maybe I'm just tired of being perfect little Lana Lang. Maybe I want to live a little."
Unlocking the theater's door, he said, "Well, we've got work to do." He stepped inside and held the door for her. "The electrician came yesterday."
As the door closed behind them, she pressed herself against his back once more, her breath warm against his neck.
"Work can wait," she whispered.
"I won't argue. You mentioned a tattoo that appeared mysteriously."
Her smile widened as she took a step back, her fingers playing with the hem of her tank top. "That's right."
"You'll have to show me."
She pushed him through the lobby doors into the theater. The space had been transformed since they'd last been here together. Gone was the dusty, abandoned feel of a forgotten relic. In its place stood the bones of something new and vibrant.
"Wow," she breathed, taking in the changes. "You've been busy."
"Started with structural repairs first. The foundation was solid, thankfully, but there were water damage issues in the ceiling that needed addressing."
He guided her down the center aisle, past rows of new seats. "These are premium theater recliners. Each one has a pull-up tray for food and drinks." He demonstrated by pulling up one of the trays from the armrest. "They fully recline too, so you can lie back almost flat if you want."
He pointed toward the projection booth. "Digital projector is on order. Top of the line. We'll be able to show first-run movies, classics, independent films, whatever we want."
She walked ahead of him. "And the apartment upstairs?"
"Completely modernized. New kitchen and bathroom." He followed her, watching as she explored the space. "Theater still needs paint and molding, you know, most of the pretty stuff."
She turned to him. "So that's why you invited me? The pretty stuff?"
"Sure did. Figured you'd have better taste than me."
"I meant as part of the decor." She moved toward the front of the theater. "You extended the stage?"
"Yeah, wanted to make it versatile. Small-scale plays or concerts, open mic night, whatever, it'll support it." He ran his hand along the edge of the new stage. "The old one was too shallow for anything but movie screenings."
"The speakers set up?" she asked, glancing around at the equipment positioned strategically throughout the space.
"Yeah, just upgraded those too." He watched as she circled the stage, her fingers trailing along the edge. "What do you think?"
She took in the entire theater with an appreciative gaze. "You've done so much." She patted the front-row seat nearest to her. "Have a seat in the front row. I want to show you the best secret of this place."
Curious, he did as she asked. Lana had grown up in Smallville and knew this place intimately, having been around it all her life.
She moved to the control panel at the side of the stage. She dimmed the house lights, then activated the spotlight. The theater gradually darkened until only a single beam of light illuminated the center of the stage. Then, complete darkness enveloped the space, except for one brilliant spotlight that created a perfect circle on the wooden floor.
Music suddenly filled the theater, the sound quality surprisingly good. The heavy bass line of a familiar song reverberated through the seats.
Listen to this track, bitch!
He recognized it immediately. 'No Hands' by Waka Flocka Flame.
He laughed and called, "Lana, do you know what this song is about?"
The music continued to pulse through the space, the explicit lyrics about a strip club and various adult activities filling the air.
Girl, the way you're moving got me in a trance.
DJ, turn me up, ladies, this your jam.
I'ma sip Moscato, and you gon lose them pants.
Then I'ma throw this money while you do it with no hands.
Girl, drop it to the floor.
I love the way your booty go.
All I wanna do is sit back and watch you move.
And I'll proceed to throw this cash.
This wasn't the kind of music he'd ever imagined prim and proper Lana Lang would listen to, let alone play voluntarily.
She stepped into the spotlight, her silhouette dramatically backlit. The light caught the confident smile on her face. In that moment, he knew.
She knew exactly what the song was about. The music's rhythm seemed to flow through her as she began to move, her hips swaying in perfect synchronization with the beat. She started with deliberate, measured movements, her fingers playing with the hem of her top. The material rode up slightly, revealing a flash of smooth skin at her midriff. She never broke eye contact as she teased the fabric upward inch by inch, then let it fall back down.
"You know," she called over the music, "I've never done this before."
"I'd never have guessed," he replied, still amused despite his obvious interest.
She said, "Look, ma, no hands."
She said, "Look, ma, no hands", and no, darling, I don't dance.
And I'm with Roscoe, I'm with Waka, I think I deserve a chance.
I'm a bad motherfucker, go and ask then motherfuckers.
A young handsome motherfucker,
I sling that wood, I just Nunchuck them.
Her confidence seemed to grow with each passing second. She hooked her thumbs under the bottom of her top and slowly pulled it upward, revealing her toned stomach. The spotlight caught the subtle definition of her abs as she continued to raise the garment. She pulled the top over her head and tossed it toward him. The fabric landed perfectly in his lap.
Her hands moved to her hips, fingers tracing the waistband of her jeans. She turned slowly, giving him a view of her back as she began to unbutton them. Looking over her shoulder, she caught his gaze and smiled, knowing and confident.
The jeans slid down her legs with agonizing slowness. She stepped out of them gracefully, kicking them aside with one foot. Her legs were toned and athletic, the result of years of horseback riding and cheerleading practice.
Now clad only in her black lace camisole and a pair of dark denim shorts so brief they could almost be mistaken for underwear, she continued her dance. Her movements became more fluid, more sensual, as if the shedding of layers had freed something within her.
She ran her hands through her hair, lifting it off her neck before letting it cascade back down over her shoulders. Her fingers found the hem of the camisole next. She took her time with this garment, inching it up slowly, revealing her midriff again, then the lower curve of her ribcage. Just as the fabric was about to reveal more, she let it drop back down and smiled teasingly.
"Rain, rain, go away" that's what all my haters say,
My pockets stuck on overload, my rain never evaporates,
No need to elaborate, most of these ducks exaggerate,
But I'ma get money, nigga, everyday stunting, nigga
Ducks might get a chance after me.
He shifted in his seat, clearly affected by her performance. He never looked away, following every movement with rapt attention.
She turned her back to him again and crossed her arms in front of her body. In one smooth motion, she pulled the camisole over her head, leaving her back bare except for the thin black strap of her bra. The spotlight illuminated the mysterious tattoo at the base of her spine.
She glanced over her shoulder again, making sure he could see the tattoo clearly before turning to face him. Her black lace bra was elegant and sophisticated, with delicate embroidery across the cups and thin straps that crossed between her shoulder blades. Her hands moved to the button of her shorts next. With deliberate slowness, she unfastened it and began to lower the zipper. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband and pushed the shorts down her legs, stepping out of them.
The matching black lace boyshorts she wore underneath complemented her figure perfectly. The cut emphasized her toned legs while the lace pattern added an element of sophistication. The tattoo was visible above the waistband of her boyshorts, adding an element of mystery to her appearance.
She stepped to the edge of the stage, approaching his seat with measured steps, exuding confidence.
Turning, she settled herself onto his lap, her back pressing against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat, rapid and strong, through the thin material of his shirt. "So, what do you think of the theater's acoustics now?"
His hands hovered uncertainly at his sides, not quite touching her. "They're... nice," he managed, his voice slightly strained.
She shifted slightly in his lap, turning to face him. The movement brought their faces close together.
"You've discovered the best secret in this place," she said, her breath warm against his face. "Victoria's Secret."
He couldn't hold back his joyous laugh that mingled with the music that continued to pulse around them.
"And look at you with the self-control. Keeping your hands to yourself," she teased. Moving close enough that he could taste her breath; mint and something sweeter, like cherries. She whispered, "You have my permission to touch me, you know. I want you to touch me."
What she couldn't see was the faint pink mist from Desiree's power surrounding him. Her show had him breathing heavily, and she was taking in his pheromones with each inhale.
He swallowed hard, his hands still firmly gripping the armrests of his seat. "You have no idea how hard this is for me."
She shifted, grinding into his hips, and smiled knowingly. "Actually, I have a pretty good idea."
Moving to kiss him, for the first time since she stripped, he touched her. He put his finger up to her lips, preventing the kiss.
"You cannot give consent if you're under the influence," he said firmly.
She pulled back slightly, confusion crossing her features. "I haven't done any drugs."
"I think whatever got Mr. Kent and that other guy, whose name wasn't important enough for me to remember right now, got you, too. Because you're not acting like yourself."
She frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"At first, I thought you were just playing. Teasing me with your flirtiness like you had at the party. But once you started stripping, I knew this wasn't you." He continued. "So I'm going to heal you now. It's one of my Meteor Freak powers, and if you want to continue this afterwards, I'll stop talking and enjoy the show." His voice softened. "This should feel pretty good."
Tyson placed his hands gently on her bare shoulders. His palms began to glow with a subtle golden light that spread across her skin like honey. The energy pulsed between them, warm and comforting, flowing from his fingertips into her body. She gasped at the initial contact, startled as the sensation washed over her. The warmth spread from her shoulders down her spine, across her chest, and through her limbs. Every cell in her body seemed to vibrate with gentle, pleasant energy.
"Oh," she breathed, her eyelids fluttering closed.
The healing energy penetrated deeper, seeking out the foreign substance in her system. She moaned softly, her body relaxed against him, tension melting away as the warmth spread through her core. Her head fell back against his shoulder, exposing the elegant line of her throat. The sensation was unlike anything she'd experienced before. Not sexual exactly, but deeply intimate.
The golden light pulsed brighter, visible now even through her closed eyelids. It concentrated in her chest, gathering the toxic green energy and drawing it upward. Her breathing quickened, her body trembling slightly, and her fingers clutched at his thighs.
Then, suddenly, her breath caught. Her eyes flew open. Her nose twitched.
"Ah… ah—"
She sneezed violently, expelling a cloud of green vapor from her mouth and nose.
Lana blinked rapidly, her awareness clearing like fog lifting from a window. She shook her head as if to clear it further, then looked down at herself. At her black lace underwear, at her position on his lap, his hands still resting on her shoulders. She looked like a deer caught in headlights, frozen in place by the sudden realization of her situation.
"Before you freak out, I can explain," he said quickly, raising his hands in a placating gesture.
She blinked several times, her expression shifting from shock to recognition. "I— It's okay, Tyson. I remember what happened." She stood up from his lap, wrapping her arms around herself as the cool air of the theater raised goosebumps on her exposed skin.
"You do?"
She nodded. "It's like I was watching myself from far away. I knew what I was doing, but I... I didn't want to stop." She glanced down at her state of undress, and a deep blush spread across her cheeks. "Oh god."
"It wasn't your fault," he said. "Something affected you. The same thing that got to Mr. Kent and that other guy."
She bent down to retrieve her clothes from the floor. "I can't believe I did... all that." She gestured vaguely at the stage. "I've never even been to a club before, let alone..." Her voice trailed off as her embarrassment deepened. She hurredly began to dress.
"For what it's worth, you've got talent."
"Tyson!" she exclaimed, but laughter threaded through her voice.
"Sorry, inappropriate humor is my default setting when things get awkward."
The rustle of fabric filled the silence as she pulled on her clothes. "Thank you," she said quietly. "For not taking advantage of the situation. Most guys wouldn't have stopped me."
"Ugh." He exaggeratedly groaned, "Not the I'm not most guys... Kill me now."
"You're not," she continued. "You're a meteor freak with a conscience." She finished dressing and moved to sit in the seat beside him.
She smiled despite her embarrassment. "I won't tell anyone about you or what you can do. Your secret is safe with me."
"I appreciate that."
"And I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone about Jason," she said softly. "About our history in Paris. It's complicated, and I don't want people gossiping about it."
"Your secret's safe with me, too. And I won't tell anyone about your... dancing skills either," Though he was smiling, there was a slight sadness that had crept into his voice.
She noticed immediately. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he said.
She reached out and placed her hand over his. "You've really done a great job with this place, you know. It's going to be amazing when it's finished."
"Thanks," he said, glancing around the theater. "It's coming together."
"We shared something special today," she continued, squeezing his hand gently. "Not just... what happened on stage. But you healed me, and trusted me with your secret."
He nodded. "Yeah..."
"But I'm not ready for any of what we did," she admitted. "The dancing, the... almost kissing. It's too much, too fast."
"I understand."
"It's not you—" she began.
He interrupted with another groan. "If you say 'it's not you, it's me,' I'm going to throw up in my mouth."
She laughed lightly, breaking the tension between them. "Fair enough." Resting her head against his shoulder, a comfortable silence settled between them. "This is complicated."
"Yup," he agreed, popping the 'p' sound.
"I'm not mad, you know," she added. "About what happened. About you stopping me."
He grinned. "I'm quite pleased with how things turned out, all things considered."
She snorted. "I'm sure you are." A blush crept up her neck as she remembered her impromptu performance. "God, I can't believe I did that."
"If it helps, you weren't yourself," he offered.
"It does, a little," she admitted. "But I still remember it all. The feeling of wanting to do those things. It's embarrassing."
"We all have hidden sides," he said. "Parts of ourselves we keep locked away. Sometimes it takes something extraordinary to bring them out. Althought, I wouldn't have expected that your hidden side was an exhibitionist."
It was Lana's turn to groan. "Maybe. But I think I'll keep that particular side under wraps." Turning to face him fully, she became earnest. "You're a good man, Tyson." She raised herself up in the seat to press a gentle kiss to his forehead; her lips lingered for just a moment before she pulled away. The simple gesture felt more intimate than anything that had happened on the stage. It was genuine.
"Mind if I walk you home?" he asked, standing and offering his hand to help her up.
She took it, rising to her feet with a smile. "Please."
"Good. Cause I'm going to have to burn that whole stretch of road where you and Chloe went last night to make sure whatever infected you is dead. And tomorrow... Ugh... Coach Teague is going to be so pissed at me. One, because I skipped practice, and two, because I ran out of school with his teenage crush in my arms."
"Tyson..." she said, warningly.
"Are you sure I can't use it as leverage to keep him from whatever sadistic punishment he's undoubtedly planning?"
"Tyson!"
"Alright. Fine, fine. I'll just take the punishment. Whatever it is. I'm really out here simping for you. But I regret nothing..." Tyson thought about it for a second before adding, "Maybe that's your Meteor Freak power."
She just shook her head in amusement, mumbling, "I regret nothing either."
"What was that? Did you just say what I think you said?"
She quickly corrected, "What I said was, I miss when you were brooding over Kara."
He groaned.