Chapter 34
"I believe it is finished," Milash said tiredly, "or the closest I can get without knowing, not for sure."
He took it. Just a box with wheels and cogs. It didn't look like anything special, just sitting there. No more than the bits of tin it was before, though. "How do you know this will work?"
"I don't." Milash took the working glasses off and rubbed his eyes. "I am in antiquities, Mister Luthor, not the assembly of puzzles, but from markings and such... I believe I have put this into that state it was meant to be." Milash handed him a metal sheet.
He slid it over the cryptograph as this was as good as he could get. "How does this work?"
"I do not know for sure," Milash wheezed. "I think it... fits somehow. This is Brauer's work, so is the clock. They are meant to be... fit together."
"And where is the clock?"
"I believe it is not public. It is kept, they say, in the... back... the area where the priests would..." He sighed. "I am raised Orthodox. I do not know these Catholic words."
"Sacristy," Lex heard behind him.
Lex turned as Regan moved into the cabin with a paper. "It's the area where the priests put on their vestments. I've marked where you should go in, so as not to attract attention. And I called ahead, hired a man to insure the back doors are open to you. "
Lex took it, studying the map and notes Regan had made. He might not call him Fucking Regan anymore if he kept up this level of efficiency. They were landed by now, had been for twenty minutes. There was no time to waste. "I'm going ahead to the cathedral." He grabbed a black bag and zipped the hopefully completed cryptograph in. "You stay here with Milash. I'll be calling in case I need him to work on this more." He gripped the bag and started out.
"So I live that much longer," he heard Milash say behind him.
"You'll live longer than that," Lex snapped. He took a deep breath before he turned around. The pills and scotch had numbed his pain to a dull ache, but he still needed to keep his mind clear keep his calm. There was too much to do to lose it now. But it was damned hard when Milash acted like he was about to shoot him in the head. "You did what you were hired to do," he said calmly, turning. "You did it well and under extraordinary circumstances. You will be paid handsomely and sent home as soon as I am satisfied with your work. Is that clear?"
Milash didn't answer, but settled into his chair, closing his eyes.
He turned to Regan. "See he has something to eat... or drink." Lex had a feeling Milash needed that more. He knew he had several good Russian vodkas on board.
He stalked out, moving to the car.
"Sir!"
It was Fucking Regan. He stopped, remembering he was trying not to think of him that way anymore. "What is it?"
"Sir, about me staying with..."
"Regan, I need to do this alone."
"And I understand that, Sir. But Milash has seen a lot and the police have already found three dead in his office and if they bring him in for questioning..."
"Which they won't," Lex said over him. "I'd like to think I have enough money to stop that investigation cold."
"But he's seen so much. To just cut him loose..."
"Well, he's being cut loose," Lex found himself snapping... at Fucking Regan. Maybe the man was efficient, but he seemed to think his opinions held weight. That needed to be fixed. "As soon as I'm satisfied this works," Lex held up the bag, "he's on the first plane back to Metropolis. Is that clear?"
Regan was silent.
"I really need to know if that's clear, Regan," Lex said tightly.
He looked down. "Yes, Sir. Clear."
"Good." He moved grimly to the car. He wasn't such a monster that he'd kill a man simply for doing the job he himself hired him for. And that wasn't him going soft. That just made sense. He'd done things, yes. He'd done things, had things done, so many horrible things... But only what needed to be done. The good he'd do, it would far outweigh the bad.
He had to tell himself that, keep telling himself that, so he could live with himself.
For however long he had to live.
*****************************************
How much longer?
Chloe drummed her fingers on her armrest. It wasn't that this plane wasn't both luxurious and comfortable. Hell, any other time she'd be raiding the minibar and scoping out in-flight movies to put up on the plasma screen. Not now. She'd pretty much spent the entire three hour flight in anticipatory horror, envisioning either Clark or Lex strapped down, surrounded by chanting, dancing alien worshipers.
Really, her main ideas of sacrifices came from B-movies... so there might not be dancing. But the rest of it still scared her witless.
She jumped at the mechanical whirr that must be the wheels descending and gripped her seatbelt buckle, ready to tear it off as soon as she landed. She had to struggle to keep it on as she felt them moving down the runway. Was this an airstrip or an airport? How quick could she get a taxi? She still had that Cathedral's address burned in her brain. She wondered when she could turn her cell back on. What if Clark already left a message? What if he didn't? One meant he was fine, but Lex had bled out in some bloody ritual. The other meant Clark might be the victim. She didn't want either, so when the jet hit ground with a jolt and rolled on, she turned it on, finding nothing. She wasn't sure how to feel about that.
Panic. That was the only sensible emotion right now. She felt the stop and tore out of her seatbelt, showing her phone in her pocket and moving to the mechanical door.
"Come on, come on..." She rattled the cockpit's sliding door. "Doesn't this thing open?"
Her rather harried-looking pilot for hire opened it. "Miss Sullivan, Mr. Queen instructed..."
"Listen, I'm not exactly into proper flight procedure right now. This is an emergency. I need to get a taxi to..."
"As I was trying to say," he cut in, "Mr. Queen instructed me to radio ahead for a car. It should be waiting outside."
"Oh. Thank God. I mean... thank Oliver." She gripped the pilot's arm. "Thank you."
Of course, her joy was short lived. What if she was already too late?
****************************
Lex moved through the... sacristy, was it?
It was rather opulent. But then, Catholics were, to his understanding on the extravagant side, such an emphasis on ceremony and grandeur. He wondered that his father hadn't signed them all up at some point. It seemed more his speed than the simplicity of the Presbyterian church. He wasn't here to compare religions, however. For him, religion was really just a tool, a book of great and useful quotes, something you parroted back, to show the masses you were just like them. But he wasn't. He only had one true religion: The Truth.
And it was harsh and ancient, like religions of old. It required blood and devotion and suffering and sacrifice. He'd lost so much on its altar. Maybe this room understood that, with its paintings full off suffering, its candles with open flames. Maybe that was why this clock was here -- for him.
He saw it now, backlit against a window, sandwiched between two paintings depicting death and mourning as if it knew somehow, all he'd been through to get to this moment.
He vaguely wondered if that was the pills talking, the scotch mingling with them, and pushed away such silly thoughts, placed his bag on a table with those robes... or vestments, he supposed. He wondered if that was considered some sin. They were more than a tablecloth, weren't they? But he wasn't a believer, so he really couldn't be bothered, not with anything but the truth.
He pulled out the box containing the remade cryptograph, holding it to the dim light, then glanced at the clock. These things were meant to be together, Milash said. And he didn't care if it seemed silly or even insane. He couldn't help but think he was meant to bring these things together. To what end? he didn't know. But that clock was ticking down to destiny as he moved nearer to it.
3:13, it said. Didn't seem a significant enough time for this moment. But it couldn't be helped. He'd been knocked around and carved up too much to wait for something more interesting.
He moved to the side of the clock and pulled open a small door, just the right size. There were gears and wheels and cogs there, shiny and metallic and, he knew, somehow complementary to what he held in his hands. He slid the lid off the box and held it up to the clock, that sense of destiny failing him.
He had no idea if this would work. Wasn't this insane? Improbable that someone could put this puzzle together and make it fit to a clock they've never seen? Maybe he should have brought Milash here. Maybe he should get him now and try again some other day and...
No. He stared at his bandaged hand holding the box, thought of his bandages side, the stitches all over his chest. He'd be damned if he didn't try now. All of these wounds... they only told him how close he was.
He pressed the box into the space and... it fit. It held there. He drew his hand away at the grinding sound of metal on metal, the ticking that stopped at a whirring noise and a... a song.
He nearly thought he was hallucinating it, that he really had taken more vicodin than was recommended, but then he heard it echo through the sacristy. He knew this song...
He moved to the face of the clock as it tinkled on, like something from a music box. What was this song?
The clock began ticking in time and,, stopped, the hands moved to 1:55, the unmistakable shape of a V. For Veritas. The border at the top spun, turning from blue to a gold plated pattern that held... a shape. five-sided, rather like a diamond if not for that, with that same mark, that flower with four diamond-shaped petals.
It had worked, fit as Milash said, but... what was this?
He reached for it, nearly afraid it would disappear like some fevered hallucination. But he held it in his hand. Was this it? Another piece of the puzzle? He knew, even as he felt its slight weight that he would keep going. But to where?
He wanted to be satisfied, seemed to be reaching for satisfaction on every leg of this journey. When did he get it?
[i]Just one more piece,[i] he thought, glaring at the clock. He'd see where it led him, he supposed. But when did it end.
He turned, then stilled, confronted with what looked like a monk. He vaguely wondered how to explain his presence in this private room when he spoke.
"You're too late."
Not exactly "What are you doing here?" But the confusion started to leech from Lex as the supposed monk stepped into the light. He knew him...
"So strange to see you without those warrior-angel figurines clutched in your little hands."
"Mr. Teague." Lex stepped forward, hardly surprised. These Veritas members seemed to haunt him, alive or dead. At least alive made more sense.
"Alive and well... no thanks to your father."
"Seems we all have a score to settle with him," Lex said, wondering if the idea of common enemies appealed to this man. He'd done him no wrong, hadn't even seen him since he was a child. Yet for him to be here now...
"I believe you already have," Teague said. "I'm just sorry to see that you've inherited your father's obsession."
"Obsession?" If he was fixated, it was only natural. His father had wanted power for the sake of having it. He wanted the truth, deserved the truth, had been beaten down until the truth was all he had! It was different! He moved toward Teague, more than that coming clear to him. With Teague alive, Veritas was alive. And nothing other than Veritas would have hired that maniac. He unbuttoned his shirt. "You're the one who did this." He pulled it open to reveal the bloody mass of stitches and blood. "You tried to kill me. Why?"
"The prophecies state that the traveler would have a powerful adversary," Teague said, his voice rather dry. "I could never have foreseen that it would be little Alexander." he moved forward.
Lex ignored the patronizing comment. It was a deflection. "You know who he is."
"The traveler's identity is no longer relevant."
"Maybe not to you." Lex moved toward him. "But it's everything to me. You have no idea what it's like to live every day of your life feeling like an afterthought. I've sacrificed too much."
"No," Edward whispered. "Your sacrifice has just begun. The world can exist only in balance. If there is no traveler, there can be no destroyer."
Lex decided he was done with this. Teague, much like his father, was a slave to something bigger, something that, once again, had fucked him over. And, much like his father, he'd never tell him why.
He reached for his gun, but had hardly pointed it at the man before he slapped it away, then got him in the jaw.
The gun slid away, but he cared much more about the tiny marked piece as it skittered away. Lex chased it, only to find Teague on his back. He grasped a candle holder and blocked Teague's cane, swinging at the man endlessly. Teague blocked his every strike.
Rather quick reflexes for a man of the cloth. Then again, he supposed Teague was as much a monk as he was.
************************
Chloe hadn't seen the inside of a Catholic church since Christmas 2004. It had been her father's doing. With their near escape from death and witness protection so fresh, he kind of found religion again. He might as well have found something. Finding a job had been hard enough with Lionel's blacklisting still in effect and no one, Lex included, doing anything about it.
She moved past the pews on the right side, past the alcoves dedicated to various saints, the smells bringing back that sense memory, the incense and candles calling to mind desperation and loss and the hope that, somehow, things might get better.
Maybe that was just because the feelings were the same now. Whatever was at stake right now, she had to make it better somehow. Yet it was so quiet. What if neither of them were here? Whoever was setting this sacrificial could have already taken Lex or...
"Clark," she breathed. Because there he was, lying on altar, surrounded by a green glow. She ran at him, panicking as she neared because his shirt was cut open and there was blood. "Oh, my god, Clark!" He wasn't moving and there was blood. Someone had sliced into him just like Lex, only his marking was the Kawatche representation of the crest of his house. She looked at the altar, having a feeling this wasn't something the masses got to see. There were kryptonian symbols and grooves filled with green glowing liquid. There was some kind of urn on the side with more. If she could just get it back in there, hidden where it belonged.
She looked around, panicking, trying to think what could be strong enough to break the stone, just enough to get that liquid flowing away from Clark...
God, forgive me, she thought frantically as she picked up a heavy looking cross. It was heavy enough. It could do it. She rushed back to Clark and hacked at the edge of the altar over and over, grunting and gasping, and half wondering if lightening was about to slice through the ornate painted ceiling and strike her down. But this was life and death. Surely, she got a pass.
She let the cross drop, spent as the liquid flowed through the grooves, dripping into the urn and away from Clark. She rushed to pick up the heavy stone lid as it slowed to a trickle, growling with the effort and wishing she'd taken Lois up on her offer to start her on weight training. But she slid the lid closed, panting with relief as she heard Clark grunt above her.
She stood and rushed back to his side, trying to think what to do about the chains when he sat up, breaking them.
"Chloe. How did you..."
"Oliver's jet," she gasped, "fringe benefit of being a hero. Hi." She glanced worriedly at his wound, but his it had healed by now, leaving only trails of blood. She tried to pull at his shirt, but it was ruined. She picked up his jacket. "Whoever did this to you, we need to get out of here before they come back. We can talk later."
"Do you hear that?" He squinted at the area behind the altar.
She did hear something, not as well as he could, but there was the loud clang of metal against metal. "It sounds like..."
He squinted at the wall. "It's Lex. And Teague."
"Teague? But..."
Hi zipped up his jacket and sped off.
She sped off as well, in the other direction, moving to the safety of her hired car. Clark could come find her after he stopped whatever madness was going on in the back rooms. Clark could also easily avoid being seen by Lex. She couldn't.
************************
Lex couldn't believe that defending himself against a monk, or supposed monk, was taking this much effort. He grimly reflected that he might have to kill a man for the second time in six hours. Because Teague wasn't about to call it a draw.
After what seemed like an hour of grunts and metallic clangs, he knocked Teague's walking stick away and Teague himself began falling backwards. And he had no choice. It was Teague or him. He took note of the sharp spike that held the candle in place and drew back the candle holder, plunging it forward.
Only he hit the floor instead as the clock flew into bits before them.
He got to his knees, squinting as the debris settled. The clock. It was in pieces. He lifted his injured hand, it was empty.
He stared behind him, at the door, swearing he felt someone behind him. But there was no one. He glanced down at Teague, grunting on the floor, clutching his head. "How'd you do that?"
"I didn't," Teague nearly sneered.
"The traveler," Lex breathed, getting to his feet, dazed.
A priest and nun rushed in. "Oh, my goodness. What happened here?" the woman asked.
Lex didn't answer, he figured Teague had more to explain to them than he did. He stumbled to the table where he'd dropped the piece. It was still there. He snapped it up and turned, wondering if Teague would attack him again.
But Teague was gone, leaving just the nun and priest, staring dumbfounded at the remains of the clock.
He didn't wait around. There was nothing for him here. Outside, he saw another car, plain and black with tinted windows, much like the one he came here in. Too much like it. If Teague was in in it...
He rushed around to the back, finding his car and shutting himself in. "Back to the airstrip. Now!"
He clutched the piece in his hands. This bit of nothing that had led him all over the globe now. It didn't seem like much, but he wasn't going to let Teague take it away. It was all he had, after all.
**************************
"So Teague was alive all this time?" Chloe leaned back in her seat, waiting for take-off.
"I guess so. He must have taken cover in the monastery to stay close to the cathedral, to some clue it holds."
"And apparently also give the altar that extreme kryptonian makeover," Chloe grunted. "I wonder how he got that past the other padres."
"I don't know. I'm wondering if I should go back and look the place over."
"I don't know if I would, Clark. You said you looked Lex over and there was nothing on him. That place will be getting a lot of attention, with the damage done and the secret pagan altar Teague left there. Besides I was shrinking into my car when Lex came out, then hightailed it away. Maybe all of us will end up laying low."
"Maybe Teague has it. Maybe he'll go somewhere far away with it," Clark grunted.
"And leave us alone?"
"He just... He kept talking about me being a god, being worshipped and people dying for me. How I was this beacon and Lex was a pit of darkness."
"Well, the man was unhinged. No sane person goes around carving people up." Lex wasn't all bad. There was still something in him, that something that made her care. Maybe it was buried deep down under a huge layer of mania, never to resurface, but it didn't make him a pit of darkness. And for all her jokes about God and the crusades, she doubted people would be worshipping Clark. "Anyway, I like you well enough, maybe enough to call you a beacon... if you weren't sitting comfortably in Smallville while I have to wait for lift off."
He gave the smallest huff of laughter.
"Anyway, I'll be back in a few hours. We can go over what to do next if..."
"No. It can wait till tomorrow. At least no one got hurt today."
"It's still not over," she said dryly before hanging up.
*************************
It would never be over.
On the way back to the airstrip, he'd dialed Regan, told him Milash to send Milash back with double pay and to go to the nearest library while he had the pilot fuel up for Scotland. Because this tiny piece in his hand told him absolutely nothing, but the song the clock played told him how he might get it to talk. In Scotland. Scotland now!
This year, he'd been knocked out multiple times, shot, stabbed, craved up. But not of that bothered him as much as the traveling.
If there is no traveler, there can be no destroyer.
The absent Edward Teague's words kept pulling at him. Destroyer. He'd meant Lex by that, obviously, as he tried to kill him right after. But that couldn't be true. What he was doing was protecting. It was the Traveler who was meant to destroy the world. Lex was no destroyer. And he had to keep going.
He stared at himself in the jet's small bathroom mirror, telling himself he could, no matter how much it hurt. He clutched at his side. That little wrestling match with Teague hadn't helped. He might have opened a few stitches. It didn't matter. He pulled the bottle from his pocket and shook out two pills, swallowing them dry. If he could just push through the pain, then he could keep going... and going.
Do you ever think of just stopping? Chloe's words now, the ones she taunted him with, with flimsy ideas of private islands before she pushed him away harder than ever.
No. He wouldn't stop now. He'd lost everything. There was every reason to go on, even if this search took the rest of his life. Yet he had that creepy feeling again, the one that told him the rest of his life wasn't the long stretch of time he'd always seen before.
He moved back into the cabin slowly, every step agony. Luckily, he found Regan waiting with a scotch. Maybe that would the pills along.
"I assume Milash is safely back on U.S. Soil," he grunted, lightly clutching at his chest as he sat, as if that would keep the rest of his stitches from popping out of his skin.
"I put him on the first commercial flight to Metropolis."
Lex took the scotch, thinking he really shouldn't. Hadn't he wanted to clean up? Of course, that was before he was skewered and slashed. He needed it, damn it! But he was stopped from that first blessed sip by Regan.
"I take it we won't be needing him in Scotland?"
Lex stilled. "Not if you did your homework."
"The library only had one book on St. Kilda, but I think you'll be pleased."
He doubted that. Mollified, possibly. But Lex doubted he had the capacity to be pleased these days. He let the first sip trickle down his throat and leaned his head back, staring morosely at the rather large, yellowed book on the bar.
"You mind if I ask what's so compelling about a small island off the west coast of Scotland?"
"The clock," Lex said dully. "It played a melody from an old Scottish folk song -- 'Birks of St. Kilda.' When I was learning to play the piano, my father made me play it over and over. Birks means birches." And why had his father made him play it? There were more challenging pieces. It had to have meant he wanted him to remember it. That night he finally pushed his father after years of being pushed himself, his father had spouted lies, saying he was the Traveler, that that was why he was so hard on him, pushing him to that destiny.
But there was truth in that lie. He'd been pushing him to this one. To finding the Traveler, to carrying on his work. He could feel it. But something changed in Lionel. It wasn't just the steps he took against him, it was the disinterest of these last years. He'd lived as an orphan before, but these last years... he may as well have been a stranger for all the attention Lionel paid him. what was it that changed?
He knew what the common factor was. But he was afraid to say it, even think it.
"Well, there might be birches, but that's about it," Regan said, pulling him out of those unthinkable thoughts. "The island's a bird sanctuary now." Regan thumbed through and opened it, moving to Lex. "According to the literature, there was a small town built up around a castle, until some wealthy American bought the castle... hauled it back to the U.S." He handed the open book to Lex, opened on a picture. He knew that castle. He'd spent the last seven years trapped in it.
"My father brought that castle to Smallville, stone by stone." Lex stared at the picture. An extravagant move, that's what was whispered in their circles at the time, so gauche, stinking of new money. But maybe it was more than that. "But obviously never found what he was looking for," Lex finished breathlessly. "It must still be there. Tell the pilot to change course. We're not going to Scotland." He glanced up at Regan. "We're going home."
Regan nodded and snapped the book shut. "Well, that certainly makes things simpler." He moved back to the side table. "I also did a little more homework at the library. Had the technicians email me their findings on Project Intercept." He slid a folded print-out from the book and handed it to Lex.
He just shook his head, too bleary for this after these sleepless days. He'd nearly forgot about Intercept, with the Traveler so close. "Just give me the gist." He already had an idea.
"Apparently, it's technology built to retrieve information from memories, by the use of an interrogator and a host. Your father had it developed, but didn't disclose the project to investors, he gestured to Lex with the printout. "Or you, of course. The interrogator enters the host's mind and, it seems, sees memories as if he were there."
His eyes opened wide. "And what about the healing?"
Regan thumbed through the papers. "There's no mention of any healing benefits. In fact, it seems to be quite dangerous for all involved. They're still working on the surveillance footage, but..."
"Give me that," Lex snapped, putting down the scotch and snatching the papers from his hands. "And tell the pilot to change course before we're halfway across the Atlantic."
Regan nodded. "Sir."
Lex stared at the pages as he left him, looking for something, any indication that this was what healed him. Because he didn't want to think, had nearly refused to think, that he'd been brought to that warehouse, nearly dead, for anything other than the thing that healed him. He read through, but there was no indication that Intercept did anything but let some "interrogator" dig through an unwilling mind.
These last days, there'd been this undercurrent. Even with all that was going on, he'd felt this strange gratitude to Clark, to Chloe, Lana, even his father. Because he'd assumed, like an idiot, that as fucked up as things were, they cared about him. They cared at least enough to work together, with this project, to make sure he lived. Hell, it had him moving mountains to help Lana, giving Clark one last chance to offer him some truths, leaving Chloe alone... mostly. Every thought of them, every bitter, suspicious thought, he'd pushed away as if it was some betrayal after what they'd done for him.
But they'd done nothing for him. Maybe Lionel had. He must have been telling the truth about that mythical healing serum. But Lex had been brought in on a stretcher. Whatever Lionel did for him, he also dug in his mind, his memories and he let the three of them in on it.
Now he understood, now he had some idea how Kara and Lois escaped the psychopath that shot him in Detroit. Nearly-dead men tell no tales, after all. Lionel must have agreed to it somehow, for Clark's cousin, for Chloe's cousin, for Lana's... Well, he supposed she was just along for the ride, wasn't she? And his life was obviously some after thought compared to whatever answers they sought.
He crumpled the papers in his hand. Project Intercept was no more than some tool to use him. They didn't care about him.
And he didn't care about them.
He was done. Let Lana rot in that asylum. Let Clark grow old and self-righteous on his farm. Let Chloe...
"Chloe," he breathed, reaching for the scotch, then straightening and pushing it away. He needed to be clearer.
That weekend, after he was shot, there she was, all softness and perfume and nearly sweet words. Maybe she cared just enough to feel guilty. That whole weekend, hidden away together, was probably nothing but guilt. Clark and Lana had never made any overture, even veiled after that. But someone as obsessed with truth and justice as Chloe Sullivan would surely feel guilty that they all colluded to cannibalize his mind while he was at death's door.
She obviously didn't feel guilty anymore, the way she sneered at him now. As if she were so far above him, as if she tread on some higher ground.
"Fuck her," he growled, picking up the scotch, before he hurled it to the floor. "Fuck all of them."
He stared at the shards and reflected that might be the last drink he ever had. He wasn't about to let anything cloud his mind now.
A twinge across his chest begged to differ, but he slapped the rest of the decanters on his bar to the floor. Then pulled out the vicodin, stumbling to the bathroom.
He upended the bottle and flushed them down, leaned against the wall as the bright blue water swirled them away.
"Sir? I heard crashing. Are you alright?"
"I'm fine. I'm clear," he breathed. "I'm finally seeing things clearly."
PREVIOUS CHAPTER
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Don't worry. There are some techies working away on that video.
I just really needed to get Lex good and mad because there's more Quest coming up and, if you watched it and remember, Chloe may say some really messed up things before the end for no good reason. I need to give her a reason.
I'll be back to this in a few weeks. I need to spend the next week starting a promised fic, the week after finishing a Chlark fic that's very close to its end, then I should be back to finish this one (I'm still gunning for May 12th to finish).
Rant time:
Oh, the logistics and the wanking of them. There's about no way Lex could just wander easily into the sacristy of a Catholic church, let alone a cathedral (I know this as a Catholic who cantors mass). The entrances to those parts aren't under heavy guard or anything, but he couldn't just slip in so easily. He'd have had to go through the church (and see Clark pinned on an altar). I mean, it could be argued he was in the vestibule. The area looked more like a vestibule than a sacristy, with the decor, but they very obviously had him put his bag on top of vestments. So I had to decide Lex was in a sacristy rather than change hundreds of years of custom and decide priests leave their vestments sitting around in the vestibule.
Honestly, as a Catholic, this entire episode bugs me. How the hell could Edward Teague, even masquerading as a monk for years, get all those kryptonian symbols and trappings into a church? Are his higher ups blind and stupid? And how didn't they catch on to the fact that he didn't actually believe in their stuff, but was obviously following some kind of ancient kryptonian religious beliefs? Traveler and Jesus aren't exactly interchangeable.
I suppose Smallville was trying to play DaVinci code here in its own silly, ridiculous, dumbass way. But I hate all the Clark/ reluctant Jesus crap. It's just stupid.
And all those candles burning with open flames? It's a fire hazard! We don't do that! And them making Chloe use a crucifix as a weapon? Why not one of those unrealistically lit candelabras? I just hate having to add shit to wank Smallville into making sense. I'd not bother, but I'm anal about certain things. As for Chloe, I've often wanked she was raised Catholic with such an Irish name. So I definitely had to add a few mea culpas in there before she used a cross to break an altar. Ugh! They couldn't have had her push him off it and drag him away? She's done that kind of thing before.
Really, the idea that Smallville toys with religion at all annoys me! Sorry, Show. You may think you're being edgy, but you're not. You're just being silly and derivative and desperate.
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