Laughter Out of Dead Bellies, PG-13

Title: Laughter Out of Dead Bellies
Author: Sylvia
Rating: PG-13
Category: Short Story, Futurefic, Lex POV, Angst-ish, God Knows What
Spoilers: I doubt there's anything major, as I haven't watched an episode of this damned screwed up show since two seasons ago.
Disclaimer: ‘Smallville’ and all that is associated with it belong to the WB. No profit is made from this and no copyright infringement is intended.


~

…came home, home to a lie,
home to many deceits,
home to old lies and new infamy;
usury age-old and age-thick
and liars in public places…


~

2031.

Superman was dead. He had won the war.

He had disposed of the body with meticulous completeness, according to the recommendations of his scientific team. In his experience — and so great was the understatement that the thought was usually accompanied by a humourless smile — the usual laws of life, death, demand and supply did not apply to freaks of nature, especially when extraterrestrial compounds were involved. Just because something was in twenty pieces and melting slowly into the pavement did not mean that it was dead. After all, nearly half of his electorate professed to believe in resurrection, and Lex saw no reason to quarrel with that. Overconfidence had cost him in the past — had nearly cost him his third term in office — but he was a wiser man now, and he didn't take risks anymore.

Accordingly the corpse had been dismembered, muscle and flesh separated from bone, and each vital organ destroyed in a different way. Acids, combustion, atomisation, vaporisation; sometimes in the presence of kryptonite, sometimes not. You could never be too careful. However, for the pursuit of science one cluster of cells of each type was harvested and was now undergoing rigorous testing in one of twelve hidden labs he had scattered around the globe.

Superman might be dead, but Lex wasn’t taking any chances.

Smallville he had dealt with swiftly and decisively. At first he had thought to simply carpet bomb it into oblivion. Very little would be missed — the outlying caves could easily be avoided, and the meteor-rich sink holes at its periphery. And any person of value would certainly have had the sense to move out of the damned cow town by then.

A half-dozen smart bombs, I think, Anatoly had said with one of his jagged grins. And the smell of roasting corn ought to mask the stink coming from that place well enough.

Anatoly Gafin was his Chief of National Security, and loved his precision weapons the way Lex loved his fleet. The man had been a highly regarded five-star general, serving in Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran and Saudi Arabia during the fuel wars, and Lex had made full use of the way the man’s scarred white jaw and blood-and-thunder Ragnarok metaphors could make you believe in the bogeyman again, even at age 45.

Upon further reflection, however, Lex realised that his reluctance to categorically flatten the home of his foolish youth had less to do with misplaced sentimentality than with the fact that there was simply too much latent potential in the so-called resident meteor freaks to be wasted. So instead he had the area surrounded by the military, and had every living creature therein mouse-sized and bigger seized and taken for testing. The vast majority of the population showed nothing more malignant than signs of increased radiation exposure, and were dispersed, relocated, and allowed to resume their normal lives. Naturally he had an FBI task force on them, just to be certain, but that was all. He wasn’t as paranoid as everybody said.

And then of course there were the real freaks, ranging from the ones like him — with heightened immunity, various physical anomalies, and the like — to the cast of sci-fi villains he had had the misfortune of encountering while rusticating in the meteor capital of the world. This particular group Lex had great aspirations for, though he was by now extremely wary of the myriad threats they could become. They were tested, classified, reconditioned, and clapped in maximum-security lab-jails.

On public funds, of course — krypto-terrorism was the watchword these days, and his smear campaign (including a series of kid’s horror films on the L-Disney channel featuring ghoulish green mutants which Lex had been especially proud of) had worked wonders to enlighten the public about the dangers posed by Superman and his ilk. When finally he had judged society ripe to mount an all-out manhunt for his nemesis, it was sheer sweet irony that the one to tip off his forces had been the mother of a little girl the spandexed swashbuckler had “rescued” from a local teen gang.

The krypto-terror unit had suited up, gone in, and come out with the vigilante's body. The operation was textbook, beautiful; and Lex had watched the drama unfold on a private linkup to the city-wide CCTV surveillance network. None of that micromanaging, let’s-face-off-man-to-man nonsense. Superman wasn’t a man, if it came to that, and he had outgrown those infantile impulses since the day nearly two decades ago when he had hired a stuntman with a semi to conclude Lionel’s almost embarrassing run of longevity in a tragic highway accident.

Superman was over; emphatically, resoundingly over. He was over physically, and mentally, and as for spiritually, well, who knew, but Lex had made certain that his legend and his vision were in shreds.

Men who had once huddled, gawping in the streets and raising their fists in solidarity with their hero now sniggered at the mention of his name, and took out the new insurance policies against Green Damage. Kids burned inflated effigies of him on American Guy Fawkes Night. The bright blue and red jets of SuperAir had been taken off the runways, and the company subsumed into a kitschy European budget line without Lex even having to engineer the takeover. Lois Lane and her little band of freedom fighters were rotting offshore in a lead-coated jail, while VP Ross’ trial for treason was proceeding nicely, and had been for the past four years. And all the talk in the papers of a second statue on Liberty Island had, of course, dwindled into mortified silence.

Superman was dead, and he was never coming back. Lex had won. Won. It was over, it was all over now, and he was free.


~

He is startled by the clink of a wine bottle on the Oval Office desk. It is accompanied by two glasses and a pair of slim, well-manicured hands.

“Thank you, Ellen,” he says reflexively, not looking up.

“You’re welcome, sir. Keane and Gafin are waiting to see you, shall I send them in?”

He studies the bottle he asked for a few hours ago. Someone must have made the long flight to his ranch in Nevada to have it brought here. It’s a 2019 vintage — a good year. The year he vowed to kill Superman. It’s so long ago now, so far away. Almost history.

“It’s been a long day, Ellen. For us all,” he replies with a kind smile. “Tell them to go home. I’ll see them in the morning.”

Easing out of his seat he grips the bottle in one hand and dangles the glasses carelessly from the other. His joints are stiff and his tie, he notices baldly, is draped across the high back of his chair like a drooping flag. He takes small consolation in the fact that the imperturbable Ellen is also looking somewhat the worse for wear, her dark, gleaming hair sticking out of a bent ponytail instead of the usual impeccable bun.

She is saying something in the background, but his focus is the door. His hands are full; she opens it for him, murmuring still. He knows he should listen, Ellen never wastes her words, but as he steps out into the hall he is confronted with the faces of his staff and supporters. Some heads poke out of doorways, while the bolder ones, the ones closer to him, line the corridor like waiting whores on a street. He feels compelled to say something.

“I feel compelled to say something,” he tells them with a casual laugh. It’s his speechmaking voice, and the bodies come out of the doorways to listen. “Unfortunately, Keane’s been too busy to write a proper speech for me, so I’ll have to ad lib it.” Laughter. He’s good at humour, uses it whenever he can, so people will scare easier when he’s being serious.

“Today — hell, this entire week, has been hard on all of us, and was probably worse for our people in the SS and armed forces. I’m sure Anatoly here has been thanking God that he quit and joined us when he did.” More laughter, and he performs a brotherly pat on the general’s back. The man looks paler, sicker than usual, but almost obscenely happy, and Lex plans his next few lines as his sometime ally yells that we got the bastard, like I promised you we would, to his audience’s loud whoops and applause.

“But we stuck together, made hard decisions, and tonight we have triumphed over one of our nation’s greatest enemies. Your loved ones, and your children sleep safer in their beds, thanks to your dedication.”

More applause, and he’s impatient now, conscious of the cool glass of the bottle warming up against his palm.

“And now I’d like to get my loved one into bed, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll wish you all a good night,” neatly sidestepping the men around him with a smirk and a nod. His long strides cut cleanly through the mass of suits and shirts, and though he turns to bestow suitably grateful smiles on his team as they say goodnight, his step doesn’t waver, nor does his grip on the bottleneck in his hand.

“Thanks, thank you; you too, go to bed, Charlie,” he tells them, then steps into the empty foyer separating his private quarters from the official areas. The rubble of voices is stoppered suddenly as the door shuts behind him, and for a second the shock of the dark teal walls and stern, still furniture makes the silence alarming. He quickens his pace and the magnified clicks of his shoes follow him as he crosses the hardwood floor.

Their rooms, when he reaches them, are carpeted and warmly lit. The softness comforts his feet as he steps out of his stiff black shoes. He lolls his head on his neck, wincing at the ache. The night isn’t over yet, and he has no real plan for what will come next. He has had too much on his mind, too much to worry about to think of what might happen after.

The bottle sticks clammily to his hand. He puts it down with the glasses on a nearby table, and frowns at the oily smudges his fingers have left on their surface.

Walking to an antique cabinet next to a door he unlocks the second drawer. The knuckles of his right hand punch a long code into the keypad in the false bottom. There is a short, low beep.

The door opens. He enters, bottle and glasses in hand, and shuts it firmly behind him.

The light in the room is grey. His wife, the first lady, is sitting on the bed. A wave of blonde covers her smooth, pale cheeks, though there are threads of silver in her hair. She faces away from him, staring at the blank television screen.

He waits. She doesn’t look at him.

“Superman’s dead,” he tells her.

“I know,” she says, expressionless.

“Saw it live on TV, did you?” he wants to enquire, but the words are curled thick in his throat. He wants to say, “I brought us some wine to celebrate.” He wants to tell her what he’s done with Superman’s suit, and with the heart, with the ears, with the hair even; wants to smile cruelly and give a loud toast, and force the glass of warm liquid down her throat. In his head he can see her struggling with him, can see glass breaking and spilling and choking, gasping sobs; can feel the hotness of tears and the scratch of her nails on the back of his hand, and the blows of her small fists to his jaw.

But it has been a long day, a long year, a long reign. A long while since either of them has had the energy for that particular song and dance. For any song and dance, in fact.

The point behind his eyes is throbbing; it has been for some time now. He hasn’t slept for a week.

Too tired for a shower, he sheds his clothes and pulls on a new pair of boxers. She doesn’t move while he gets under the covers. Doesn’t move as he shifts around, trying to get comfortable.

The glare of the yellow overhead light bores through the swollen lids of his eyes. He flicks a bedside switch, and the room slips into near total darkness.


~

In the absence of sight he can hear his own slow breathing. He hates the loudness, hates the vulnerability of it. He wonders if she hears it too. He can’t hear her, or see her, or even feel the heat from her body, not two arm lengths away.

He can’t see anything but shadows, but he doesn’t shut his eyes. If he concentrates he can make out the outline of the picture frame on the wall.

A long while later he feels her get into bed. He turns to face her, but she turns away. He goes back to staring sightless at the picture frame. Thatched Cottages by a Hill, he thinks with indifferent disgust. He thinks of the blistered cornfields round the town where they first met.

His mind goes carefully blank. He pictures the darkness of the room as the darkness in his brain. Yet in the lumps and shadows of the room he feels a nameless, thoughtless pressure swelling in his throat until—

“—I’m sorry,” he blurts into the darkness, hating it. “But you know why I had to do it.”

She makes a noise—a short, ugly spurt of laughter; a stabbing in the night. The echoes of his weak, garbling voice torment him in his head.

At last he presses close and hooks his arm around the coolness of her belly. She flinches, but she doesn’t pull away.


~

This was an excellent, and rather chilling story.

Great work:D

One of the most chilling and thrilling stories I have had the pleasure of reading. I always enjoyed watching Evil Lex Incarnate come out of his shell and strut around without remorse, second-thoughts or self-doubt.The way you described the entire Destroy Superman Campaign was just amazing. First having Lex start a highly aggressive smear campaign to destroy poor Clark's reputation, before finally delivering the death-blow to the super-hero...

And quite an amazing death-blow it was too. Dismembering Superman into thousands of teenie-tiny pieces 'just to be safe'. So incredibly creepy, and yet quite sound reasoning ;)

Also loved the picture you painted of Lex's staff. You managed to convey a very detailed snap-shot of the secretary and the general in just a few, short sentences. Amazing writing!

And, quite honestly, I was actually expecting the whole 'locking Chloe up in a safe-room against her will'. But you still managed to take my breath away with the scene. Everything was just so scary, sad and frightening, and was made just slightly, marginally better by what seemed like a sincere apology.

Please don't let this be the end. please write more... a sequel... a prequel... ANY-thing. I just want more evil Lex :D

I really loved this. I have such a soft spot for EvilLex and HorrifiedYetComplacentChloe.

That was intense, in a good way of course, you wrote it really well, you have Lex totally in character, Outstanding!

Defintely deserves a sequel, don't you think?!

-K-

That was sacry. :eek: but good. ;)

Quote:

---

His mind goes carefully blank. He pictures the darkness of the room as the darkness in his brain. Yet in the lumps and shadows of the room he feels a nameless, thoughtless pressure swelling in his throat until—

“—I’m sorry,” he blurts into the darkness, hating it. “But you know why I had to do it.”

She makes a noise—a short, ugly spurt of laughter; a stabbing in the night. The echoes of his weak, garbling voice torment him in his head.

At last he presses close and hooks his arm around the coolness of her belly. She flinches, but she doesn’t pull away.

---

Wow. That last bit was fabulous--very intense and darkly compelling, but more powerful because of the understatement. And I love the sign of the old Lex in his blurted apology. He's still Smallville Lex, despite the morph into the other, more diabolical Lex Luthor. I really loved the hint of his old self and how it pushed its way out his throat.

Great look into a potential future--and not a remotely happy one. Thanks for posting this.

So many things rolled into one. Loved it!

Does it make me a bad person that I was more sad for Chloe than Superman? This is a heartbreaking story, what will Lex do now that Clark is dead? Excellent writing!!

Balls-to-the-wall Evil Lex is one of my favourites . . . he's got everything. The crushing ambitions, the drive for control and the creepy master plan!

Oh, I love a man with a creepy master plan.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by sylvia

Accordingly the corpse had been dismembered, muscle and flesh separated from bone, and each vital organ destroyed in a different way. Acids, combustion, atomisation, vaporisation; sometimes in the presence of kryptonite, sometimes not. You could never be too careful. However, for the pursuit of science one cluster of cells of each type was harvested and was now undergoing rigorous testing in one of twelve hidden labs he had scattered around the globe.

Superman might be dead, but Lex wasn’t taking any chances.

Smallville he had dealt with swiftly and decisively. At first he had thought to simply carpet bomb it into oblivion. Very little would be missed — the outlying caves could easily be avoided, and the meteor-rich sink holes at its periphery. And any person of value would certainly have had the sense to move out of the damned cow town by then.

A half-dozen smart bombs, I think, Anatoly had said with one of his jagged grins. And the smell of roasting corn ought to mask the stink coming from that place well enough.

---

I adore creepiness (maybe that's obvious). This in particular was elegant, effective, inspired creepiness on your part and President Luthor's. I have to say, I was expecting a captive First Lady Chloe somewhere, but you made it oddly, tragically romantic, too.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by sylvia

Their rooms, when he reaches them, are carpeted and warmly lit. The softness comforts his feet as he steps out of his stiff black shoes. He lolls his head on his neck, wincing at the ache. The night isn’t over yet, and he has no real plan for what will come next. He has had too much on his mind, too much to worry about to think of what might happen after.

The bottle sticks clammily to his hand. He puts it down with the glasses on a nearby table, and frowns at the oily smudges his fingers have left on their surface.

Walking to an antique cabinet next to a door he unlocks the second drawer. The knuckles of his right hand punch a long code into the keypad in the false bottom. There is a short, low beep.

The door opens. He enters, bottle and glasses in hand, and shuts it firmly behind him.

The light in the room is grey. His wife, the first lady, is sitting on the bed. A wave of blonde covers her smooth, pale cheeks, though there are threads of silver in her hair. She faces away from him, staring at the blank television screen.

He waits. She doesn’t look at him.

“Superman’s dead,” he tells her.

“I know,” she says, expressionless.

---

It's not only the comfortable surroundings he gives her, because money isn't an object for Lex. It's the hopefulness and self-consciousness when he enters the room, knowing they won't drink the wine together and wanting it to happen anyway.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by sylvia

At last he presses close and hooks his arm around the coolness of her belly. She flinches, but she doesn’t pull away.

---

And this . . . *swoon* I know this isn't a common thing to say, but I do believe love can exist in a situation devoid of kindness, sympathy or mutual respect. Lex is dead wrong, of course, but I can easily see how Chloe would love him anyway. The fact that it's against her will can't change that.

Great short story. I'm sorry I missed when it was first posted.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by somethingeasy

One of the most chilling and thrilling stories I have had the pleasure of reading. I always enjoyed watching Evil Lex Incarnate come out of his shell and strut around without remorse, second-thoughts or self-doubt.The way you described the entire Destroy Superman Campaign was just amazing. First having Lex start a highly aggressive smear campaign to destroy poor Clark's reputation, before finally delivering the death-blow to the super-hero...

And quite an amazing death-blow it was too. Dismembering Superman into thousands of teenie-tiny pieces 'just to be safe'. So incredibly creepy, and yet quite sound reasoning ;)

Also loved the picture you painted of Lex's staff. You managed to convey a very detailed snap-shot of the secretary and the general in just a few, short sentences. Amazing writing!

And, quite honestly, I was actually expecting the whole 'locking Chloe up in a safe-room against her will'. But you still managed to take my breath away with the scene. Everything was just so scary, sad and frightening, and was made just slightly, marginally better by what seemed like a sincere apology.

Please don't let this be the end. please write more... a sequel... a prequel... ANY-thing. I just want more evil Lex :D

---

i couldn't but it better myself.

Gah.

(I was just going to quote somethingeasy's entire feedback post but starmoon got to it first and "gah" is as eloquent as I can be at this moment.*shrugs sheepishly*)

Hi sylvia, I saw you click on this story so I reread it. I'd almost forgotten about it. But, wow, it's bleak and powerful. And Lex's blurted apology got me again. Really good stuff.

Hey Zannie, it's been a while since I've had time to wander around this fandom - I stopped watching Smallville ages ago, it got too awful, and then Real Life got on top of me, etc. But it's great to see that you're still writing and coming up with such wonderful stories - I think I'll always associate the Chlex pairing with your distinctive style. I've just finished 'Reconciliation' and it was like coming home. :)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by sylvia

Hey Zannie, it's been a while since I've had time to wander around this fandom - I stopped watching Smallville ages ago, it got too awful, and then Real Life got on top of me, etc. But it's great to see that you're still writing and coming up with such wonderful stories - I think I'll always associate the Chlex pairing with your distinctive style. I've just finished 'Reconciliation' and it was like coming home. :)

---

Hey there! Thanks for responding and for your kind words. I actually dropped out of Chlex too until recently, when I had a (temporary) relapse into Chlex writing. But we miss you around here. I always loved your feedback and your stories. Didn't you have a Lana-bashing story you were working on at some point? I remember it as being hilarious and somehow associeted with "pink." I should probably look it up.

Sad and dark! Great fic!