Whitney Returns - The White Starling

(Author's Note: recommended theme music for this is, 'Illenium & Said The Sky - In Your Wake feat. Jeza').

There are no white starlings in Missouri, not in Merritt, not in Cloverdale, not in Kansas City, and certainly not in Smallville.

In fact there are less than one hundred white starlings out in the wild anywhere in the whole world.

White starlings are a critically endangered species found only in Java.

Whitney Fordman had been in Java. Where the US Military eventually said that he had died.

Jonathan Kent had certainly died, and that was back a while ago now.

*

Chloe Sullivan sat at her desk, looking out disconsolately at the scene outside her slatted windows. Well, it was the fact there was simply nothing at all out there, that was the problem. Clark was out of town, Whitney was dead, Lana was in another state on a story -, and she was here, in Smallville, in Summer-time, with absolutely nothing happening at all.

She could mess around with her iPhone and play some damn silly computer game maybe. Or not.

She chose 'not.'

Lucky too because it 'bleeped' just then. 'What the -.' She stared at the screen and the name it had displayed there for the incoming caller: 'Lena Luthor.'

"Yes. Lena!"

"Chloe, I need you to do something for me right away, urgently, and I need you to do it quietly. I want you to go and snoop around somewhere. Can you do that? Can you do it right away? Drop everything and do this."

*

Whitney Fordman had not died. That is, he had died, and in a blazing gun-battle, like the soldier-warrior and physical athlete that he was; he died that way. Except that this was out on a special mountain-side, a very strange and particular mountain-side. The locals out there in that far away, very distant and strange place, had a certain tradition that this mountain-side was the abode of a group of 'sky-dancers' -- kinds of, exotic fairies.

Every now and then, down through countless centuries, some of these fairies, became attracted to very athletic and brave young men. And then, they took them, as in literally abducted them, and brought them into the ranks of their chosen male counterparts, whose main pursuit thereafter, was singing and dancing and playing musical instruments -- none of which skills Whitney Fordman had the least ounce of aptitude in at all.

Just like the Valkyrie of Nordic legend, and the Keres of ancient Greek stories, the Eastern version of these beings were singularly beautiful, but they were also a touch you could say uncompromising, and had the same reputation that the Valkyrie do (and the Keres), of being kinds of female death spirits.

Of course though, they are not spirits at all, they are perfectly real, same as you and me.

Good-looking though Whitney Fordman certainly was, as well as athletic and in the prime of life, brave, intrepid -, perhaps foolish too -- yet he could neither play a musical instrument to the level demanded by these supernal beings, nor could he sing particularly well, and dance, well, he just could not, as Lana Lang could readily testify, had she been before the court of the fairy beings there.

...Which she had not been, thank god, Whitney Fordman thought, looking back over his recent episodes with those strange, almond-eyed girl 'beings.'

Their leader had asked him, seeing that it seemed he was totally unable to learn even from their best tutors, high up there on that mountain top, did he know anyone from back in his previous 'normal' life, who could dance and from whom he might be able to learn...

To him, it wasn't so much that he wasn't really able to learn, but it was so difficult for him to focus his complete attention in quite the way they all wanted him to do. To say the least of it - all those strange massages that they gave him morning and evening, all those weird medicines, that wonderful food, that made him feel amazing, and strong, but also strange inside too...

Whitney Fordman had been briefed by a 'Special Purposes Unit' -- a covert team -- before he had ever even gone up the side of that mountain. They wanted him to give immediate signals back to them if he encountered a phenomenon that J. Allen Hynek once had reported about, and had personally gone out to various tropical rainforests around the world where there had been similar local stories about it: beings who were able to disguise themselves using some kind of 'image shifting/chameleon' technology. Not many people these days knew that it was Hynek who had provided that Predator 'Alien camouflage' idea to the producers of the famous Schwarzenegger movie.

That idea wasn't a 'Hollywood made-up thing;' it was a real thing from the secret files of the CIA and J. Allen Hynek. You can read about it in small inserts tucked away in Wikipedia these days.

Of course it had been all too late for anyone to 'hot extract' Whitney, the soldier, even though he had fired off a last quick message: 'Camouflage thing real. Stop. Have encountered. Stop.'

'Stop' all right. End of messages, really.

So now there was only new Whitney, the metahuman.

He could 'disappear.' He could fly. And he could turn himself into one of those rare birds - the white starling birds.

There he was now, sitting on the front fence post thirty yards from the porch of Martha Kent's modest farmhouse -, a little white starling.

There were summer-time purple poppy-mallow flowers in the front yard, and Black-eyed Susan flowers too. Nothing much else. Martha didn't seem to have the time or the energy any more.

She was not, in the prime of life, as it were, not like Whitney once had been, and quite recently.

There she was though, 'large as life' nonetheless, standing in the doorway, one hand on a hip, one hand on the side frame of the door, the other side across from the hinges and actual door.

Her once blazing red hair had lots of silver streaks all through it, and her skin tone was not the soft, Collagen plump and glowing Irish sheen it once had been.

Her waist and hips though, were kind of still there just the same. Maybe it was that incredible Harris Tweed leather strap skirt she was wearing, Whitney Fordman mused.

It was summer but getting quite late in the afternoon right now, and Martha Kent was wearing knee-high long socks. Did she feel cold these days? Whitney turned it over in his mind. Cold because, what, thinning skin from just plain age? Or 'cold' because, well -, no man...

Martha without a man. Not a good thing, Whitney registered it again for the umpteenth time to himself in his head.

Yes, Martha was a good dancer, and she was a trained dancer, but that was not the most of why he was here now.

He had always had a crush on Martha.

That was really why.

The white starling bird flew right up to Martha Kent, right past her hair, real close.

And then it flew around for a bit and flew back out again.

She thought to herself that she had never seen a bird like that before. And she never had done either.

Her black Dodge RAM was parked out front -, still had its Washington D.C. plates.

Was she really the same person now that she had been for years and years, back in the 'old days?'

Farm girl. Mother. Housewife. Superman's mom.

Practical, calm, sensitive, realistic too.

She was still some of those things but Washington had certainly added several other facets. She was regularly amazed at herself for thinking about all the things she 'had missed out on' in life, and that she actually felt as if she harboured some odd kind of envy of the PYT's in the offices in D.C. She sniffed....And laughed at herself.

Yes her life still had been unique, amazing in so many ways, but also deficient in so many other, seemingly paltry by comparison ways, too....And when she had observed the lifestyles of those young women there, the 'parties,' the nights that accounted for their pathetic attitudes the next days, the personal dramas, the excitement, the thrill of it all. The power. The stimulation. The stimulations...

The only time she had ever owned a vibrator was sometime after a junior staff member showed her a video clip of the singer Katy Perry insouciantly talking about her vibrator on very public 'social media!'

*

Why did she have a black Dodge RAM? Whitney wondered. Surely she wasn't in one of those 'Special Purpose' units?

He had returned back to human form and was crouching down behind the Dodge.

Martha turned around, turning her back on the sweeping, flat vista out front, and walked back inside the house without closing the front door. Whitney could easily see the curvature of her hips from where he was, from her rear, from her rear end, actually - smooth and attractive in that tight Harris Tweed.

His eyesight was vastly improved too now.

The Dodge doors were unlocked. Typical Martha.

God the keys were even still left in the start bay.

He opened the driver's side door and got in, turned the key and gunned the engine. And then he pressed on the horn.

Nothing happened. No one came out. He blasted the horn hard.

Martha eventually came to the doorway with a 45-70 in her hands.

And just stood there, with her mouth open.

Whitney turned off the vehicle's engine and stepped out of the Dodge.

"Hi Martha.' He said, into the relative quiet and stillness of the Smallville afternoon.

"Oh my Lord, Whitney! But I thought you were dead!"

"Well I'm not." He replied.

He walked towards her, up towards the porch where she was standing, rifle now pointed downwards.

"Martha, I have something to ask you. It's a kind of a secret mission thing that I can't explain to you fully right now."

Martha Kent knew all about those kinds of things. Ah, she thought, now that would explain that it was all a cover story about his death down there in Indonesia.

"Oh sure, Whitney dear. Why don't you come inside," she said sweetly to him.

He stepped up onto the porch. She didn't suspect anything about him, that he was......different now.

She stepped inside first and went to put the gun away in its cabinet. She had her back to him, again. His eyes could not help but fall on her hips and ass once more, except this time it was at a much closer proximity. How come he found her so darn attractive? She was a bazillion years older than him. But he found her hot! She had lots of silver-grey hair and he found her hot....So what was happening down there, under her skirt -- silver hair too? His mind was racing, flooded with adrenaline and testosterone.

She turned around and just caught him looking at her as his eyes quickly averted away from her ass.

"So now, Whitney,' she said, smoothing her hands down the sides of her textured, rather rustic-looking but in fact expensive, D.C.-bought designer skirt. "How can I help you?"

And then she took a step closer to him, and quickly burst out: "How have you been, Whitney?" She asked earnestly. "What happened to you down there? Can you tell me at all?"

He shook his head. "No, not really Martha. In fact, maybe I should have asked you, how have you been Martha -, especially, you know, since Clark's been gone and what with Jonathan..." His voice trailed off.

"Oh I got by, Whitney. Washington was a hoot. But in the end, I decided it was not the place for barn-owls! Maybe just city owls. It's too racy there for the likes of me, dear." She gave him a longing look, not one that she would have ever dared to give him in the past -, but now ever since Washington... Her eyes scanned his crotch area. In her impossible dream imaginings, she fancied there was a really huge bulge there.

There was too, but she was too unfocused without her glasses to really see it.

Ah well, she thought, tonight there was always the vibrator at least! And that was for sure, at least now!

Surely she was sweating, Whitney thought. And so he looked, intentionally at her underarms, and sure enough, there were tell-tale dark patches there against the rest of the light dusky pink linen of her blouse. It was not all that hot today. Why was she even wearing those damn long-socks?

She was wearing flat shoes, real leather, locally crafted things.

"Martha, I need to learn to dance real quick. It's really important. And I have two left feet, pretty much, and I know you are a real good dancer. So I was thinking, maybe you could show me. You know, some way that I could learn quickly."

Martha Kent raised her eyebrows. Well that was a twist there son, she thought. Yes she sure could show him, and it would be a real good reason to get right up close to the young buck too, right up close to his well-muscled young man's body. Get all that man hormone juice into her yearning nostrils.

'What the hell am I thinking?!' She scolded herself silently. But then she countermanded that; she knew exactly what she was thinking after all. All those days -- and nights -- in D.C. watching helplessly as the young girls got laid and came back to the office, with that look.

"So, young Whitney -- you need to dance quickly, or you need to learn in a hurry? Which is it?"

They both laughed, slightly nervously, you would have to say, if you were watching.

"Do you think you can do it for me, Martha?"

"Dancers never stop, boy. I can still high kick if I want to." She almost glowered at him. Even so, bravado aside, she knew things were not like they used to be with her body. It would be a serious stretch for her now, but hell, she thought, why not? I'll push myself. I'll go by a lifetime of dancing and 'muscle memory' and being pretty reasonably fit and in shape.

"Martha. I have some special um, abilities these days. They gave me special training down there. And I have, um, electronic implants in my body." He lied. "They beam out proton plasma energy and electron showers. They can regenerate muscles and re-new tissue. It only takes a few minutes. You will go back oh, maybe ten years..."

"Really? Whitney! You'll make a fortune!"

"It's secret military technology though, Martha."

"Oh. Shame."

"Let me show you. If you just hold out an arm, I'll be able to show you."

"I think I might be in need of a shot of spirit, young man!" She laughed and held out her right arm towards him.

But he lifted his two hands and using his opened palms felt for her electromagnetic fields, and then, sensing them, he aligned his polarities with hers and let the two energy fields merge together through her extended arm.

"Oh!" She exclaimed. "That's not Reiki, is it?"

"No, Martha. No. It isn't. How does it feel though?"

"God, Whitney, it feels amazing. What are doing there?"

Hers was a typical human mortal energy field. His was metahuman.

It would have been so easy to just 'knock her unconscious' right there and then with the energy field procedure, but what would have been the point of that. Already he was able to feel that she was certainly not averse to him at all.

Maybe it was the time now to just tell her about how he had long held a crush on her.

"Whitney, I need to sit down." She told him. She stepped back a little, though just a little, and turned to look at the sofa and squinted at it. "You know, I hate to have to admit it, but my short focus eyesight is not great these days!" She laughed at herself.

"I can fix that too." Whitney whispered towards her.

"Come and sit down here with me." She sat herself down and patted the sofa surface right next to her.

He went over and sat there, but not right up close to her though. He was still keeping his distance to some extent at least. And frankly, he had to admit to himself, this whole business now in reality, was completely intimidating him, and that was even given all of his new metahuman powers.

There she was, after all, Martha Kent, right there sitting in front of him, the woman he had had all of those fantasies about, those imaginings, all of those many years. She could have been his mother, she could have been his grandmother!

What he really wanted to do, was admit to her that he had had fantasies about her. Sexual fantasies......obviously, sexual ones.

There was going to come a point though, regardless of that he was feeling intimidated inside - and he already knew that before he had even come here - that if she wasn't going to be interested in having sex, he was basically going to have to overpower her will -- he could do that too, and do it easily now, with his new capacities.

"Whitney," she said, speaking directly at him, looking with her clear pale green eyes into his face. "How bad do you need to learn to dance?"

Well now, Whitney thought, that was an interesting thing for her to say to him... It was an interesting question to put to him at all, that way.

"Bad. I really really need to learn. A lot of things can happen good for me if I can learn. Alternatively, it could be not so good for me if I don't learn."

Martha was 'observing herself' almost like she was in a dream -, shaking her head metaphorically at her forward manners -- a way of being that she had learned in D.C., and that was totally not like how she had ever been before, that was for sure.

She had acquired the 'always push forward' mindset of the Washington bureaucratic elites. Since ever she had seen what those girls - they were really only girls -- what those young girls did out there... After a couple of months of watching them, the attitude was lodged in her own head at least, if that she had never actually used it in this kind of actual real context! Because for one thing the men closer to her age out there were horrible!

In the old days, she would have certainly halted herself even much earlier on than this, this point now, with the thought 'oh, what if he rejects me?'

"Well now Whitney, there are certain things you can do for me though too now, isn't that right?"

Oh god, she could hardly believe those words had come out of her mouth!

"Martha, I could do just about anything for you..." his voice was not much more than a whisper.

For a good few long very long seconds they both just sat there, stunned at each other, stunned by each other's behaviour, stunned at themselves.

"You know, I don't know about you boy, but I am an experienced woman, and I know what this is, and where it all goes next from here. Do you want to go there? Would you like that?"

"Jesus, Martha. I think have to make a confession to you."

"Go on."

"I have always fantasized about you." He found himself biting his lip. 'What the hell!' He cursed himself for what a little kid he was being here. Well but then, after all though, she was a lot older than him. So it was only natural for him to feel like he was just a kid in her company!

They both smiled just a little, and then went back to wearing pretty serious, earnest faces before each other.

Martha Kent broke the silence: "You know, this is not the 'can do' state around here,Whitney. This is the 'show me' state. So......show me, what you fantasized about. Can you do that? Do you think you can do that?"

"Yes I'm pretty sure I can do that."

"Why don't you give it a try? I tell you what though, let's go to my bedroom."

"Right now?" It was just a rhetorical question.

"Yes right now."

*

"Whitney -- do that thing that you did with your hands."

"I was planning to, Martha."

Martha Kent once again for that afternoon turned her back to Whitney Fordman, this time to adjust the pillows on her bed. He could see her slim waist as her back bent and she leaned forward, and he could see her rear end swell and tighten against the thick textured skirt fabric. Martha had one of those naturally well-shaped bodies, and Whitney still had no absolute certainty about what she looked like perfectly naked -, bare. The fact was though, that she had one of those particular body types that only got more sexually attractive in positions to do with the actual carnal performance of sex; her pelvis in particular, would shape inside subtly in order to be receptive, but in doing so thereby also pushing her buttocks outward, and making her ass actually seem much wider, especially counterpoised with her upper torso and waist.