Smallville fic: Apocalypse's End (1/8)
Sep. 20th, 2010 05:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seriousficTitle: Apocalypse's End
Fandom: Smallville
Rating: R
Word Count: 2,060
Characters/Pairings: Chloe/Davis.
Author's notes: Takes place after season nine. Betaed by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nonky
Next: 2/8
Summary: It's the apocalypse. Where's your girlfriend?
There are rumbles going through Luthorcorp. You can feel them all the way down in Level 33.1. You can hear the guards talking about aliens—"They hit Egypt half-an-hour ago." "Where's the Kryptonite, we were supposed to have it in the armory…" "Kryptonite won't do no good, they already tried that."—and more than that, you could smell fear, desperation, hopelessness. You can tell this will be your only shot.
Wait for the more experienced guards to make breaks for it, go after bunkers or weapons or just run for the hills. Leave the rookies there with you, all alone, waiting for someone to make it all better. Let their attention slip. Let them be distracted, stressed, off-kilter.
Let your teeth be sharp. Sink them into your wrist. Let the blood flow. Let yourself scream, because you've been so quiet for the past year that they have to pay attention now. Keep your lungs still as they look inside. Don't let them see your mind's feverish workings, your muscles tensing, let them see the blood.
Let them in.
Strike. Don't hold back. They're running a concentration camp. You've killed people for less. Grab them and dash their heads against the cold metal that's been your home. Feel the blood strike you like rain, feel its warmth, its viscosity. That's how you know it's real. That's how you know you're free.
Up the stairs. Savor each step, the cold cement of the stairs, the carpet that pets your feet, the wood that's warm for all its crispness. You're in the mansion. You've seen it before. Lifestyles Of The Rich And Famous. The Luthors.
See a butler. Let your arm snap, hold back just enough to leave his head attached to his body. He didn't wake you up with pop songs at full blast in the middle of the night, just to see how you'd jump. He didn't spit on your food before sliding the tray through the door.
The man with the gun did. There he is, middle of the hallway, silhouetted in the light from a stained glass window. Feel the light. It's warm. It's natural. It's heavenly. Don't feel the bullets, how they kick more the closer they get, how now it's your blood running down your chest. Take the gun away from him. Hit him with it. Hit him again. Keep hitting him.
When there's nothing left but an unfunny parody of a face, drop the gun. You've bent the barrel anyway. Leave him to bleed. Find a bathroom. Wash the blood off yourself. Take a deep breath. Take stock of the situation. Pretend you're still a paramedic, only now you're performing triage on the world.
You're in good health. Your muscles aren't for show anymore, those puffy things you developed in a gym to impress girls. A year in a cage. The only luxury is endomorphins, and you could release those with push-ups, pull-ups, sit-ups. You could have some power over the only thing you had left, your body. Now you're taut, carved instead of sculpted. You're not camouflage anymore. Now you're a weapon too. Or at least, a very fearsome sheath.
Think of Chloe. Stop short. Get rid of the fantasy that she'll rescue you, that she'll welcome you back with open arms. Look at yourself through her eyes. See your reflection. See the red tint in your eyes, the pointed incisors. Something's bled through, but not enough to scare her. You're still you. You're still Davis Bloom.
Rip the hospital gown apart like it was a straitjacket. Shave. Rub body lotion over yourself until you smell like something other than death. Find some clothes. Maybe Lex and you didn't use to wear the same size, but then, they haven't been feeding you that well. There are some jeans that fit well enough, probably part of his "jus' plain folks" run for state senate. And if none of the shirts fit, no one can tell under the Excelsior Academy sweater. Unfortunately, none of those Italian shoes fit, but one of the guards has boots your size. You've noticed.
Go out the front door. Hop the fence. It's miles to town, so walk, and don't let yourself think. Don't let yourself feel. You never know what might set off what's inside you. It's sated for now, but the clock's ticking. Like a wound festering, like a man going into cardiac arrest. You're running out of time.
Your legs don't get tired.
There aren't any cars on the road.
Before the sun can stab into the horizon, you've reached Smallville. No one's on the streets. No one's leaving the storefronts. You can hear them, feel their eyes on you… wait, is that just a TV in the background? Is that why it seems to come from everywhere at once, like twenty people speaking with the same voice? Everyone tuned in to the same news program…
Try to walk into one of them. The door's locked. Maybe you're tired of locked doors. Maybe it's been a long day, a long year, and you forgot what sunlight was and one of them shot you just to watch you heal and no one even apologized for it and damnit, you're so ready for something to go your way.
Kick the door open. Walk inside. It's a coffee shop. A fucking coffee shop. Hear a shotgun rack. Turn. Slowly.
It's just a guy. He's scared and desperate and he's got a gun, but he's no killer. You've known enough killers to recognize everyone in the club. Sit down on a stool, take a deep breath. It's over. You can stop now. It's over.
Open your mouth. Force the words out. Enunciate, so he has a chance of understanding the unpracticed things your tongue is producing. "I don't want to hurt you. I just need a phone. Please."
Maybe you're just too pathetic to shoot. He points the way.
Go to the phone. Don't ask what's happening. You don't really care.
You remember Chloe's number and it almost makes you cry. Punch in every digit. Don't stop. Don't think. Anything between now and hearing her voice is a waste of time. Done, seven digits and an area code. Slump down, draw your knees up to your chest, keep breathing. God's done testing you. You're Job, and even though you never had a family for Him to take away, you're going to get a new one. Seems only fair.
"Who is this?" someone answers, not Chloe. "How'd you get this number?" No, it is Chloe. Just not the Chloe who used to talk with you after midnight, who called you when she had that throwback nightmare about an ice-man in high school, who said your name like it was the answer to a desperately important question.
"It's me," you say, and pause. Have you forgotten your name? It's Davis, right? That's what they called you. "I'm Davis."
She doesn't say anything. You're crying now, wounded sounds deep in your chest like an animal caught in a trap. Let it out. You'll wash up before she comes to you. You'll pretend this never happened.
Say you missed her. Say you love her. Hear her hang up.
Curl up on the floor and don't move. Maybe she knows you're an animal. But maybe if you hold very still and keep your teeth away, she'll know it's safe to come close.
***
The man with the shotgun brings you a hot cocoa. On the house. Funny. He's acting like you're both human.
"You look like that guy, you know, about a year back? The Corn Row Killer? Something like that? David?"
"I wouldn't know. I'm not from around here," you say. "Name's Clark."
Watch him nod. If he goes for the shotgun, you're going to have to put him out, have to leave. You really don't want to be back outside. All the sunlight… can you at least wait until it's night?
Ask "What happened to him?"
"Davis Whathisname? He died. They found him in an old building, right alongside the guy who killed him. Henry Olsen."
You recognize the name from a hospital sheet. "Jimmy?"
The man's looking at you strange again. You're used to it. Doesn't matter anyways. Then he shakes his head. "Living in this town, does things to you."
Be polite. Ask "What's your name?"
"Doug."
"Hi Doug. Mind telling me what's going on around here? Did everyone come down with swine flu or something?"
"I wish. No. It's aliens!"
Don't laugh. "Really?"
"I didn't believe it either. At first. Dark Thursday, Roswell, I never bought that crap. Then the Kandorians came."
"When was all this?"
"You really don't remember?"
You watched a movie with Chloe once. Scary movie. Loud noises. She let you hold her in your arms, and it was like the beast wasn't even there. 28 Days Later. "I was in a coma. Car accident."
"I didn't hear anything about it."
He has to be a bitch about it. "Busy news day. The Kandorians."
"Well, they left. People say the Blur stopped them. Then the Blur disappeared. The Green Arrow Bandit too. Oh, there were others like them, but we were… we were defenseless. When they came… yesterday, they destroyed New York. This morning, St. Louis. I suppose it'll take them a while to get to Smallville. So have all the coffee you like."
"Thanks." You're not being sarcastic, you're just not thinking about it. Aliens. Because your life wasn't bad enough back when Earth was alone in the universe. Can you protect Chloe from them? Can they be killed? You and the beast might be in perfect alignment on this. It's scary how good that feels.
The phone rings. He jumps. Your heart skips a beat. Finish off your drink, answer it. Hear Chloe's voice, the way it used to be. "Davis?" She sounds like she can't really believe it.
"It's me."
"I'm sending someone to pick you up. Don't move."
"I'm in Small—how do you know where I am?"
"It's complicated."
"What happened, why do they think I'm dead?"
"Don't move. Davis, trust me."
"I'll be here. Waiting."
"I have to go, alright? Things are… a little hectic right now. But I'll see you soon."
"Chloe, I…" Don't say you love her. Wait a little bit. Let her see it in your eyes. "What year is it?"
"2011."
"Jesus." You don't flinch at your own blasphemy. If God's listening to you, He picked a funny time to start.
"What's the last thing you remember?" She's curious now, concerned. You can hear it in her voice. It's been so long since someone's been concerned about you. It's like going back on a drug you quit cold turkey.
"I was in a van." --bodies, burying-- "There was a woman. She pressed a button and everything was bright. And hot. Like hell."
"Don't move. I'll be there."
The line goes dead. Don't mind that. You'll see her soon. Maybe she's done something with her hair. Maybe she's gotten a tan. Maybe she's wearing a spacesuit, it being the future and all. You just can't wait to find out.
"That's my girlfriend," you tell Bart. Your voice sounds like someone else's. Hopeful. "Best thing that ever happened to me."
You wait. You can't sleep. Too much excitement, too much blood. And everything is so damn new, like the world is covered in fresh paint. You watch the sun set and the stars come out and the moon shine and you'd rather die than go back. You'd rather kill.
After a while, you feel it in the inside of your ear. Someone's here. Someone's fast. You look around, like a dog hearing a whistle, but he's gone. Then the jeep pulls up. You recognize the people inside. They work with Chloe. Dinah, Vic, AC. You walk up to them. The bells on the door to the coffee shop jangle as you pass through. You hear something flitter across the sound barrier and then prickles, like your foot's fallen asleep. It hasn't. Those were needles being slipped into your arm, at lightspeed. You can just see the last of the injections going in. In front of you, Bart has come to a stop.
"I'm very hard to kill," you say. "Make sure you do a good job of it this time around."
Fandom: Smallville
Rating: R
Word Count: 2,060
Characters/Pairings: Chloe/Davis.
Author's notes: Takes place after season nine. Betaed by
nonkyNext: 2/8
Summary: It's the apocalypse. Where's your girlfriend?
There are rumbles going through Luthorcorp. You can feel them all the way down in Level 33.1. You can hear the guards talking about aliens—"They hit Egypt half-an-hour ago." "Where's the Kryptonite, we were supposed to have it in the armory…" "Kryptonite won't do no good, they already tried that."—and more than that, you could smell fear, desperation, hopelessness. You can tell this will be your only shot.
Wait for the more experienced guards to make breaks for it, go after bunkers or weapons or just run for the hills. Leave the rookies there with you, all alone, waiting for someone to make it all better. Let their attention slip. Let them be distracted, stressed, off-kilter.
Let your teeth be sharp. Sink them into your wrist. Let the blood flow. Let yourself scream, because you've been so quiet for the past year that they have to pay attention now. Keep your lungs still as they look inside. Don't let them see your mind's feverish workings, your muscles tensing, let them see the blood.
Let them in.
Strike. Don't hold back. They're running a concentration camp. You've killed people for less. Grab them and dash their heads against the cold metal that's been your home. Feel the blood strike you like rain, feel its warmth, its viscosity. That's how you know it's real. That's how you know you're free.
Up the stairs. Savor each step, the cold cement of the stairs, the carpet that pets your feet, the wood that's warm for all its crispness. You're in the mansion. You've seen it before. Lifestyles Of The Rich And Famous. The Luthors.
See a butler. Let your arm snap, hold back just enough to leave his head attached to his body. He didn't wake you up with pop songs at full blast in the middle of the night, just to see how you'd jump. He didn't spit on your food before sliding the tray through the door.
The man with the gun did. There he is, middle of the hallway, silhouetted in the light from a stained glass window. Feel the light. It's warm. It's natural. It's heavenly. Don't feel the bullets, how they kick more the closer they get, how now it's your blood running down your chest. Take the gun away from him. Hit him with it. Hit him again. Keep hitting him.
When there's nothing left but an unfunny parody of a face, drop the gun. You've bent the barrel anyway. Leave him to bleed. Find a bathroom. Wash the blood off yourself. Take a deep breath. Take stock of the situation. Pretend you're still a paramedic, only now you're performing triage on the world.
You're in good health. Your muscles aren't for show anymore, those puffy things you developed in a gym to impress girls. A year in a cage. The only luxury is endomorphins, and you could release those with push-ups, pull-ups, sit-ups. You could have some power over the only thing you had left, your body. Now you're taut, carved instead of sculpted. You're not camouflage anymore. Now you're a weapon too. Or at least, a very fearsome sheath.
Think of Chloe. Stop short. Get rid of the fantasy that she'll rescue you, that she'll welcome you back with open arms. Look at yourself through her eyes. See your reflection. See the red tint in your eyes, the pointed incisors. Something's bled through, but not enough to scare her. You're still you. You're still Davis Bloom.
Rip the hospital gown apart like it was a straitjacket. Shave. Rub body lotion over yourself until you smell like something other than death. Find some clothes. Maybe Lex and you didn't use to wear the same size, but then, they haven't been feeding you that well. There are some jeans that fit well enough, probably part of his "jus' plain folks" run for state senate. And if none of the shirts fit, no one can tell under the Excelsior Academy sweater. Unfortunately, none of those Italian shoes fit, but one of the guards has boots your size. You've noticed.
Go out the front door. Hop the fence. It's miles to town, so walk, and don't let yourself think. Don't let yourself feel. You never know what might set off what's inside you. It's sated for now, but the clock's ticking. Like a wound festering, like a man going into cardiac arrest. You're running out of time.
Your legs don't get tired.
There aren't any cars on the road.
Before the sun can stab into the horizon, you've reached Smallville. No one's on the streets. No one's leaving the storefronts. You can hear them, feel their eyes on you… wait, is that just a TV in the background? Is that why it seems to come from everywhere at once, like twenty people speaking with the same voice? Everyone tuned in to the same news program…
Try to walk into one of them. The door's locked. Maybe you're tired of locked doors. Maybe it's been a long day, a long year, and you forgot what sunlight was and one of them shot you just to watch you heal and no one even apologized for it and damnit, you're so ready for something to go your way.
Kick the door open. Walk inside. It's a coffee shop. A fucking coffee shop. Hear a shotgun rack. Turn. Slowly.
It's just a guy. He's scared and desperate and he's got a gun, but he's no killer. You've known enough killers to recognize everyone in the club. Sit down on a stool, take a deep breath. It's over. You can stop now. It's over.
Open your mouth. Force the words out. Enunciate, so he has a chance of understanding the unpracticed things your tongue is producing. "I don't want to hurt you. I just need a phone. Please."
Maybe you're just too pathetic to shoot. He points the way.
Go to the phone. Don't ask what's happening. You don't really care.
You remember Chloe's number and it almost makes you cry. Punch in every digit. Don't stop. Don't think. Anything between now and hearing her voice is a waste of time. Done, seven digits and an area code. Slump down, draw your knees up to your chest, keep breathing. God's done testing you. You're Job, and even though you never had a family for Him to take away, you're going to get a new one. Seems only fair.
"Who is this?" someone answers, not Chloe. "How'd you get this number?" No, it is Chloe. Just not the Chloe who used to talk with you after midnight, who called you when she had that throwback nightmare about an ice-man in high school, who said your name like it was the answer to a desperately important question.
"It's me," you say, and pause. Have you forgotten your name? It's Davis, right? That's what they called you. "I'm Davis."
She doesn't say anything. You're crying now, wounded sounds deep in your chest like an animal caught in a trap. Let it out. You'll wash up before she comes to you. You'll pretend this never happened.
Say you missed her. Say you love her. Hear her hang up.
Curl up on the floor and don't move. Maybe she knows you're an animal. But maybe if you hold very still and keep your teeth away, she'll know it's safe to come close.
***
The man with the shotgun brings you a hot cocoa. On the house. Funny. He's acting like you're both human.
"You look like that guy, you know, about a year back? The Corn Row Killer? Something like that? David?"
"I wouldn't know. I'm not from around here," you say. "Name's Clark."
Watch him nod. If he goes for the shotgun, you're going to have to put him out, have to leave. You really don't want to be back outside. All the sunlight… can you at least wait until it's night?
Ask "What happened to him?"
"Davis Whathisname? He died. They found him in an old building, right alongside the guy who killed him. Henry Olsen."
You recognize the name from a hospital sheet. "Jimmy?"
The man's looking at you strange again. You're used to it. Doesn't matter anyways. Then he shakes his head. "Living in this town, does things to you."
Be polite. Ask "What's your name?"
"Doug."
"Hi Doug. Mind telling me what's going on around here? Did everyone come down with swine flu or something?"
"I wish. No. It's aliens!"
Don't laugh. "Really?"
"I didn't believe it either. At first. Dark Thursday, Roswell, I never bought that crap. Then the Kandorians came."
"When was all this?"
"You really don't remember?"
You watched a movie with Chloe once. Scary movie. Loud noises. She let you hold her in your arms, and it was like the beast wasn't even there. 28 Days Later. "I was in a coma. Car accident."
"I didn't hear anything about it."
He has to be a bitch about it. "Busy news day. The Kandorians."
"Well, they left. People say the Blur stopped them. Then the Blur disappeared. The Green Arrow Bandit too. Oh, there were others like them, but we were… we were defenseless. When they came… yesterday, they destroyed New York. This morning, St. Louis. I suppose it'll take them a while to get to Smallville. So have all the coffee you like."
"Thanks." You're not being sarcastic, you're just not thinking about it. Aliens. Because your life wasn't bad enough back when Earth was alone in the universe. Can you protect Chloe from them? Can they be killed? You and the beast might be in perfect alignment on this. It's scary how good that feels.
The phone rings. He jumps. Your heart skips a beat. Finish off your drink, answer it. Hear Chloe's voice, the way it used to be. "Davis?" She sounds like she can't really believe it.
"It's me."
"I'm sending someone to pick you up. Don't move."
"I'm in Small—how do you know where I am?"
"It's complicated."
"What happened, why do they think I'm dead?"
"Don't move. Davis, trust me."
"I'll be here. Waiting."
"I have to go, alright? Things are… a little hectic right now. But I'll see you soon."
"Chloe, I…" Don't say you love her. Wait a little bit. Let her see it in your eyes. "What year is it?"
"2011."
"Jesus." You don't flinch at your own blasphemy. If God's listening to you, He picked a funny time to start.
"What's the last thing you remember?" She's curious now, concerned. You can hear it in her voice. It's been so long since someone's been concerned about you. It's like going back on a drug you quit cold turkey.
"I was in a van." --bodies, burying-- "There was a woman. She pressed a button and everything was bright. And hot. Like hell."
"Don't move. I'll be there."
The line goes dead. Don't mind that. You'll see her soon. Maybe she's done something with her hair. Maybe she's gotten a tan. Maybe she's wearing a spacesuit, it being the future and all. You just can't wait to find out.
"That's my girlfriend," you tell Bart. Your voice sounds like someone else's. Hopeful. "Best thing that ever happened to me."
You wait. You can't sleep. Too much excitement, too much blood. And everything is so damn new, like the world is covered in fresh paint. You watch the sun set and the stars come out and the moon shine and you'd rather die than go back. You'd rather kill.
After a while, you feel it in the inside of your ear. Someone's here. Someone's fast. You look around, like a dog hearing a whistle, but he's gone. Then the jeep pulls up. You recognize the people inside. They work with Chloe. Dinah, Vic, AC. You walk up to them. The bells on the door to the coffee shop jangle as you pass through. You hear something flitter across the sound barrier and then prickles, like your foot's fallen asleep. It hasn't. Those were needles being slipped into your arm, at lightspeed. You can just see the last of the injections going in. In front of you, Bart has come to a stop.
"I'm very hard to kill," you say. "Make sure you do a good job of it this time around."
