Clark (R/Rational Challenge – Chosen One)

Clark was nine the first time he killed someone.

It wasn’t purposeful, obviously. Ma and Pa had raised him to be careful. They’d explained to him that walking through the wall because you didn’t feel like moving the extra few steps for the door was expensive. And it caused people to ask questions. They’d explained that expecting the dog to run half a mile to fetch a Frisbee wasn’t feasible. And it caused people to ask questions.

They explained that shoving Pa’s tractor upside down because he refused to let him drive it was petty and childish. And it also caused people to ask questions. And questions were bad. Questions led to answers. And the wrong answers led to Clark being taken away.

This was hammered into Clark’s head over and over, growing up. He was used to treating most of the world like it was made of paper and glass. He understood that he couldn’t play sports with the other kids because it would be too easy to win, and that took all the fun out of it. He knew that when Billy Smalls shoved him at the playground, he should fall on his ass and glower, instead of just standing there and letting Billy hurt his pudgy hands on his chest.

People were softer than paper and more brittle than glass to him. He didn’t initiate contact because all it took was one slip up and something would go wrong. He’d stopped hugging his parents when he was six, after he hugged Pa just a little too hard and cracked his femur in half. Now every time Clark saw him limping out to the farm, his heart felt small and cold in his chest.

People didn’t realize how much they needed other people until they were all alone. And despite his proximity, Clark was always alone. That’s why, when Jenny Adams stopped him on the playground and asked why he looked so sad all the time, he told her to just leave him alone. So she did.

Pa always said Clark was here for a reason; that he was sent by God to help out people in need, everywhere, when he was older and more responsible. But Clark didn’t get it. If he was sent to be some savior, why make it so easy to hurt and damage those he’d come to protect?

It was these thoughts that led Clark to the edge of town, to the scrap yard from the abandoned factory. He’d come out here every so often, to sort of unwind. You could say these old cars and trailers were his new toys. He’d never liked his old ones quite as much after they started crumbling in his hands at the slightest bit of enthusiasm.

With a grunt that was more for show than anything, Clark grabbed an old, heavy forklift that was missing its wheels. He hefted it, swinging it up into the air, watching it rotate a few times before landing on his outstretched hands. The game was simple. See how many times he could throw and catch the object before it inevitably broke into pieces because he caught it on a component that couldn’t support its weight.

He’d gotten up to four throws before hearing a yell. He spun around, the tumbling forklift forgotten, and saw an old man standing there with a shotgun. Maybe he lived nearby, or was just heading out of town when he heard the noise.

Clark stood, frozen, as the man babbled, not sure of what he’d just seen. Clark didn’t know what to do. This was so much worse than throwing a Frisbee a little too far. He’d tossed a forklift. This man had seen. He’d ask questions. And the answers would mean nothing good for Clark.

He stepped towards the man, which seemed to snap him out of his daze, and he looked down at Clark. He recognized him. John and Martha’s boy. He’d always thought it was weird that Clark looked nothing like either of his parents, but thought nothing of it. If the Kents wanted to keep some indiscretion secret, that was their business. But this was bigger than some token infidelity. This was some sort of demon or alien child.

That’s what the man concluded. And he said as such, as he turned away to walk back to his truck. Clark pleaded with him to not tell anyone, to keep his secret, and the man assured him he wouldn’t, but his tone wasn’t very convincing. And Clark could hear him dialing as he got into his truck. And heard him start to tell the Sheriff that he had something interesting to report.

Clark didn’t stop to think. He moved like only he could, practically appearing at the man’s elbow before yanking the phone from his hand and pitching it, sending it deep into the scrap yard. The man cursed, bringing his shotgun to bear but Clark was faster, grabbing the gun and crumpling it between his hands. The man started swearing and trying to start his truck, but Clark grabbed him and pulled him from the truck gingerly, holding him to the floor.

The man stopped swearing and started pleading, invoking the Lord’s name and protection, promising that he would tell no one. Clark looked down at him, at this being of paper and glass that threatened him and his family. He could hear its heart and practically feel each promise of secrecy for the lie it was. And he got mad. Madder than he’d ever been in his nine years of life.

And being mad meant he didn’t have as much control as he would’ve liked. And he was strong. Very strong.

Before he knew it, the paper tore. The glass broke. And it was silent in the scrap yard.

–X-X–

Clark flew, keeping watch over his city. He stopped above the Daily Planet building, floating in the wind. His cape blew behind him as he stared out, eyes seeing the city from end to end.

Clark had grown into everything his Pa had wanted him to be. He used his abilities to protect as many innocent people as he could. Saving people from accidents, burning buildings, collapsing bridges. He did it all.

For a long time, after Jonathan Kent had passed away and he was a man of eighteen, he wondered. Wondered why he should extend himself to help others. They couldn’t give him anything he needed. There didn’t seem to be an upside.

Then he’d had an epiphany. People were fragile. They died all the time, from a variety of things. Killing them was very easy. But keeping them alive was a challenge. It was something he knew he’d be hard pressed to do.

So it’s why he started flying around. It became a game to him. See how many people you could keep alive today, Clark. See how many you could save from themselves.

And it was hard. The first robbery he tried to stop ended with three deaths and a very suspicious fire that wiped clean all of the evidence. The next one was slightly better. Only the robber died, and even then, it wasn’t Clark’s fault that the bullets’ ricochet caught him. Of course, Clark could’ve stopped the bullets pretty easily, but he’d decided not to. The man had tried to kill him. Allowing him to return the favor was only fair.

It was after a few weeks of this pattern that Clark realized his actions weren’t having an ideal effect. People were clamoring for him to stop his “reign of terror”. The families of his “victims” were calling for his incarceration or execution, whichever was preferable. They seemed to ignore the fact that all of the people Clark killed had been more than willing to kill someone else at the time. It’s not like he was beheading people for jaywalking!

He’d attended public hearings, attempting to sway people to see things his way, but the hearings were more often than not high jacked by someone with a sob story about how their son’s gun hadn’t been loaded, or how they were doing it because they’d had no other option. More often than not, these stories were bullshit, but him saying as much didn’t help things. Mob mentality was a stubborn beast.

So Clark decided to change the rules a bit. His game was pointless if the entire populace was afraid of him. Their fear led them to do stupid things, like leaving the city or calling in the military, whose efforts against him often led to more damage than he himself was doing (he seemed to be the only one that could appreciate the irony of the situation)

The first man Clark spared went by the name of Richard Batson. He’d been attempting to rape a girl in one of Metropolis’ seedier parts but was thrown off of his feet by something that moved faster than he could see. But he soon saw the suited figure, and started quivering in fear. The sudden, supernatural appearance of a tall, white man in a three piece suit was a known signal in Metropolis’ underworld. It was his trademark look. A calling card, if you will. The papers were calling him many things. Slayer. Law Breaker. Brute.

But, to criminals, he was one thing. Death.

So Richard Batson said his prayers, and fell to his knees, only to find himself hoisted up into the air by his shirt. A cry left his lips as he soared over Metropolis’ skyline, suspended from the hand of Death itself. With a rip, his shirt gave, and he plummeted briefly, before being caught by an arm that felt more like rebar than flesh.

The unlikely duo came to a stop before city hall, where there was yet another gathered conference discussing Clark’s actions. Richard was dropped on the stage, shaking in fear. Clark floated down, landing softly next to him.

The area was quiet as everyone held their breath, wondering if this was the day that the Brute killed them all. Instead Clark told them about how Richard was about to rape a young woman, but Clark had stopped him. Clark talked about how he was going to snap Richard’s neck, and let that be the end of it, but the cries of the people had moved him. He’d decided to let Richard live.

Clark tore the business suit he was wearing from his body, revealing a skin tight blue and red outfit, which would look silly on anyone else, but made him all the more imposing. He told the crowd that he’d seen the error in his ways, and vowed to value all human life, regardless of what they’d done. He was here to be their Protector, and do things that only he could. He said that he’d let the proper authorities handle Batson, and flew off, towing the would-be rapist to the police station, where he was dropped off to two confused looking cops.

And after that, Clark kept to his word. Any crime he stopped was done with a much softer touch. No one died and there were very few injuries, almost all of which were entirely self-inflicted in one way or another. It was uncanny. After months of this new approach, public opinion had done a complete 180 and they’d started calling him things like the Man of Steel and Superman.

Clark never let on that he’d changed just to make the game even harder for himself. It had become boring to just show up, snap an offender’s neck and fly off. What was difficult was showing up and ending this diplomatically, without violence. And, when there was violence, using enough force to end things, but not so much that anyone died, or even got hurt. That was a real challenge, one Clark found very enjoyable.

He wondered how the people of Metropolis would react if they knew their lives were just pieces in a game to him, points to be preserved and collected because they were his by default. What if they knew how little he actually cared for them, beyond trying to preserve his “score”.

More than anything, he wondered what he’d do when preserving life became boring to him. It hadn’t lost any difficulty over the years, but he assumed he’d get tired of it eventually. That’s how things worked, when you didn’t have any passion for them. You idly played with them until there was no enjoyment left to be derived.

He was a God among men. The solitary real figure among the many paper and glass ones. And he was more than aware of this fact.

He heard a telltale crackling and cries for help, and looked across downtown, spotting an apartment fire. A quick glance revealed three children and an adult huddling in the corner.

It seemed today wasn’t that day, then. Mentally noting down four lives to add to the six thousand, four hundred and seventy three he’d saved since he’d started playing his new game, Superman flew out to do what he did best.

Be a hero.