Walk Through The Fire

Wither

A/N: I don't own Smallville or any characters and places in the DC universe. Nor do I own the episodes that these chapters are based on and contained from.

I also don't claim to be a writer. My inspiration is simply to get a creative outlet going.

I only own Tyla Nevin and what pertains to her character story.

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A book clattered to the floor. The blue-haired woman held on to the banister as images whirred through her mind with eyes rolled back. She clenched her fists as she crouched to the floor, unable to keep her weight up.

"Ty...Tyla!" 

She could hear Lex's voice. It echoed in her mind then she saw Lex's face in pain. "No!" She screamed, bolting forward and almost colliding with her husband.

"Tyla! Are you okay?" He clutched her shoulders and watched her questionably. He searched her eyes, trying to see if they were in some sort of pain but the white light was fading slowly.

She blinked and looked around at his desk. The whoosh of all the images started to dissipate and was now replaced to Bach's music, playing from radio. "I-" She moved away, her fingers dug into his shirt, and started to search for a pen and paper to jot down all the symbols in her mind. "I need to write this down."

Lex pressed his lips together and walked over to her. "It's been a while since you've had them this bad," he noted. He watched her scrawl a bunch of symbols on the paper, very reminiscent of when she fell ill from the visions. "What's going on, honey?" He looked at her face, trying to search her expression to see if there were any headaches coming.

"Huh? Oh...it didn't hurt," she dismissed him. "They're just more intense." She looked down at the writing, it was the same few words over and over again. "Huh."

"You've gotten fluent?"

"Uh....no," she mused, although it was half a lie. She would have to show this to Clark soon. She folded the piece of paper and stuffed it in the back pocket of her jeans. "It's a pattern. Maybe a code. I'll have to break it later."

Lex narrowed his eyes. Even since his father put it into his head that his wife was keeping him in the dark, he was started to mistrust the woman. "I'm worried," he admitted. Of her. Of them. Of the entire ordeal.

"Don't be," she reassured him, carefully raising herself up to her toes. "What did you find out in D.C.?"

His attention snapped back to her, rather than the voices in his head telling him to put walls up. "Oh, uh, a lot of plausible deniability. From the Pentagon to the White House, no one can verify the existence of Milton Fine," he said, defeated. "Even your people couldn't work anything out. They just told me that they will keep trying."

She nodded, putting her hands on her hips. "Well, Fine mentioned that he worked in a covert branch of the government. Maybe it's even more secretive than we think."

"If he even works there at all."

"You think the documents he gave you are forgeries?"

"No," he shook his head. "I had them authenticated. It might be a long shot but I'm wondering if Milton Fine is really his name."

"So," she mused, glancing at the book on the floor and went to pick it up. "We may not know who this guy really is. Sounds like he's part of some secret society at this point." It was a long shot, but anything was better than nothing. "I can call National City, see if my old connects can brush up everything they can find. At least, we will be able to scour the earth without having to lift a finger."