Chapter 5: Watching The Hero Work
Every breath felt like swallowing needles.
I'd wrapped my ribs with bandages from the first aid kit under my bathroom sink—the one that had been there when I arrived, part of my mysteriously complete cover identity. The binding helped, but not enough. Moving sent flares of pain through my torso. Sitting hurt. Standing hurt. Existing hurt.
School started in forty minutes.
The mirror showed me a face that looked like hell. Dark circles under my eyes, pallid skin, the careful movement of someone holding themselves together through willpower alone. I'd chosen the loosest shirt I owned—a flannel two sizes too big that I'd found in the closet. It hid the bandages. Mostly.
You can do this. One day. Just one day of pretending to be normal.
The walk to school took twice as long as usual. I kept to quiet streets, avoiding anyone who might want to talk. Every step was calculated—weight distribution, angle of movement, controlled breathing. By the time Smallville High appeared on the horizon, sweat had soaked through my undershirt.
[PHYSICAL STRESS ELEVATED. RECOMMEND: MINIMAL EXERTION. HEALING PROGRESS: 4%.]
Thanks for the update, System. Very helpful.
The hallways were their usual chaos of slamming lockers and teenage drama. I kept my head down, found my locker, grabbed books for first period. The motions were automatic, leaving my mind free to track conversations around me.
"—heard Heather Miller got attacked last night—" "—something in the cornfield, she said—" "—meteor freak, probably—"
Good. Word's spreading. Clark will hear about it soon.
"Cole!"
Chloe Sullivan materialized at my elbow like she'd teleported there. Notebook in hand, pen behind her ear, sharp eyes cataloging everything about my appearance.
"Hey, Chloe."
"You look terrible. And you're moving like my grandmother after hip surgery." She tilted her head, studying me. "The bike accident story isn't getting more convincing."
Damn observant reporters.
"I'm fine. Just sore."
"Uh-huh." She fell into step beside me—or tried to. I was moving too slowly. She adjusted, matching my pace without commenting on it. "You hear about Heather Miller?"
"Heard some kids talking about it. What happened?"
"Attacked last night in Miller's Field. Some guy—or thing—chased her through the corn. She says someone saved her, but she didn't see who." Chloe's voice dropped, conspiratorial. "She said he was strong. Threw her attacker like a ragdoll."
My ribs throbbed in memory.
"Sounds like another meteor freak."
"That's what I'm thinking. I'm going to investigate after school. Want to come?"
Absolutely not.
"Can't. Got a thing."
"A thing." Chloe's skepticism could have stripped paint. "What kind of thing?"
"The private kind."
She studied me for a long moment. Something in her expression shifted—the reporter backing off, the friend showing through.
"Okay," she said softly. "But if you ever want to talk about whatever's actually going on with you, I'm here."
"Thanks, Chloe."
She headed off toward the Torch office. I watched her go, then made my way to first period with the slow, careful movements of someone who was definitely not recovering from being thrown thirty feet by a bug monster.
Lunch was an exercise in endurance.
The cafeteria bench pressed against my back in exactly the wrong places. The mystery meat was somehow worse than yesterday. And Pete Ross wouldn't stop talking about football tryouts.
"You should come out," he said for the third time. "You've got the build for it."
Yeah, if I could move without feeling like my chest was full of broken glass.
"Maybe next season," I said. "Still settling in."
Clark sat across from me, quiet in a way that felt deliberate. His eyes kept drifting to my torso, my arms, the way I held myself. He was noticing. Processing.
He's smarter than people give him credit for. More observant.
"You hear about Heather Miller?" Clark asked, casual but not quite casual enough.
"Chloe mentioned it. Some kind of attack?"
"Yeah." Clark's jaw tightened. "I'm going to look into it after school."
There it is. The hero instinct kicking in.
"Be careful," I said. "Sounds dangerous."
"I'll be fine."
The confidence in his voice was absolute. Not arrogance—just the quiet certainty of someone who knew exactly how hard he was to hurt.
Enjoy that feeling while it lasts, Clark. There are things out there that can hurt even you.
The payphone was two blocks from school, outside an old gas station. I'd noted it days ago, filed it away for exactly this purpose.
The call took thirty seconds.
"Smallville Sheriff's Department."
"There's something wrong with Greg Arkin." I pitched my voice lower, rougher. "He lives on Route 7. You should check his property. The greenhouse especially."
"Sir, can you identify yourself—"
I hung up.
Twenty minutes later, walking past the school parking lot, I saw Clark heading toward his truck. He moved with purpose, phone still in his hand.
The tip reached him. Through the sheriff, through the grapevine, however. He knows.
I found a hill overlooking the Arkin property—far enough to be invisible, close enough to watch. The waiting was the hardest part. My ribs ached. The afternoon sun beat down on my shoulders. I'd brought water but no food, and my stomach growled its displeasure.
[CALORIC INTAKE INSUFFICIENT. RECOMMEND: FOOD WITHIN 2 HOURS.]
After this. After I know it's handled.
Clark arrived on foot, approaching from the back of the property. Even from this distance, I could tell he wasn't using the road—he'd come across the fields at speeds no human could match.
The confrontation happened in the greenhouse.
I couldn't hear what was said, but I could see through the glass panels. Greg lunging. Clark dodging. The horrible, beautiful efficiency of two enhanced beings trying to destroy each other.
It was over in less than three minutes.
Greg hung suspended in what looked like his own webbing, unconscious or worse. Clark stood over him, chest heaving but uninjured. Even at this distance, I could see the conflict on his face—the weight of what he'd had to do.
You did good, Clark. Better than I could have.
I stayed on the hill until the sheriff's cars arrived. Watched them load Greg into an ambulance. Watched Clark slip away before anyone could question him too closely.
[THREAT NEUTRALIZED. INDIRECT INTERVENTION SUCCESSFUL. +30 XP.]
The walk back to town felt lighter despite the pain. Greg was handled. Heather was safe. And I hadn't had to bleed for it—not this time.
The Talon wasn't a coffee shop yet, but a vendor cart outside the old theater sold cups of something that was technically coffee. I bought three. The warmth spread through my chest, easing the ache in my ribs or at least distracting from it.
[STIMULANT INTAKE NOTED. RECOMMEND: MODERATION.]
The System has opinions about my caffeine consumption. Wonderful.
I sat on a bench and watched Smallville go about its evening business. Normal people doing normal things, completely unaware that a monster had been hunting among them. That a boy who wasn't quite human had stopped him.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges. More meteor freaks, more danger, more moments where I'd have to choose between safety and doing what was right.
But for now, the coffee was warm, the evening was quiet, and I was alive.
That's enough. For today, that's enough.
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