"There's a dark force rising in the air above Smallville!"
A boy with golden hair stood proudly in the cornfield, a toy ray gun in one hand and a slightly crumpled American flag cape draped over his back. His chest puffed up with heroic resolve.
"Are you ready, Clark?"
Clark Kent—black-haired, cautious, and already far too grounded for his age—folded his arms and frowned.
"That's not fair, Adam! You promised I'd get to be the officer this time. You're supposed to be the soldier."
Adam—young Homelander in disguise—placed his hands on his hips with all the attitude of a miniature dictator.
"The officer should be the strongest. I'm stronger. And smarter. So you're Soldier Boy."
Clark's frown deepened.
"Aunt Nier gave us a quiz last week. My score was higher than yours."
Adam's cheeks turned red with indignation. "That's only 'cause I wasn't trying! I—"
He cut himself off, suddenly pointing into the cornfield like a scene from an old serial drama.
"Hey-ya! Look! A monster! To battle!"
Without waiting, Adam dove into the tall stalks of corn, disappearing like a soldier behind enemy lines.
Clark sighed. "You know we're gonna get in trouble for using that cape…"
The flag on Adam's back had been taken from the roof of the farmhouse—Jonathan's prized old banner. If they returned without it, Clark knew there'd be lectures. But once again, Adam had no such concerns.
So Clark chased after him.
---
WHUMP!
The moment Clark stepped into the cornfield, Adam tackled him to the ground, covering his mouth.
"Don't move! Listen!" Adam whispered. "They're here."
Clark blinked, startled.
"Who's here?"
"The dark forces. They're closing in."
Adam's tone was so serious, Clark couldn't help but believe him. He pulled his Zorro mask tighter across his face and strained his ears.
At first, all he heard was the wind rustling through the corn and Adam's heavy breathing.
Then—faintly—came the rumble of vehicles on the distant road, sheep bleating from across the pasture.
More sounds followed.
Whispers. Footsteps. Human voices. All crashing into Clark's ears at once.
Then—
BUZZZZZ!
An intense, high-pitched ringing exploded inside his head. He let out a sharp groan and covered his ears.
"Aghhh—my ears!"
Adam shot up, panic in his eyes. "Clark? Clark! What's wrong?!"
Clark sat up slowly, rubbing the sides of his head.
"It stopped… but it hurt. Bad."
"Are you deaf?" Adam asked, squinting.
Clark stared at him. "What? No!"
Adam rolled his eyes. "Then stop whining. We gotta get home. If we're late again, Dad's gonna make us paint the barn—again."
Reluctantly, the two boys turned back toward the farmhouse.
---
Five minutes later
As the two ran up the gravel driveway, Adam shouted at the top of his lungs, "DAD! CLARK'S EARS EXPLODED!"
But Clark tugged his cape and pointed to the driveway.
Several black SUVs were parked out front.
Business suits. Expensive shoes. Tinted windows.
Trouble.
"Shut up," Clark whispered.
The boys crept into the house and peeked into the living room, where Steve sat across from several sharply dressed men.
"Dad."
"Godfather."
Their voices were quiet now.
Steve didn't even turn. "John. Clark. Upstairs."
"Got it."
Without another word, the two obeyed.
From the upstairs landing, they crouched low, peeking through the bannister slats.
Down below, Steve remained seated—arms folded, expression unreadable.
---
It had been six years since that night on the farm, when a spaceship crash-landed and dropped baby Adam at his feet.
In those years, both Adam and Clark had grown from infants to energetic, sharp, dangerously gifted young boys.
But Steve?
He hadn't aged a day.
To Martha Kent, it was divine luck—he looked as youthful as the day he first knocked on their door.
But the truth wasn't divine at all.
It was the wristband.
The mysterious alien device had enhanced Steve's physical strength, reflexes, and endurance over the years, and had even slowed his aging to a crawl. His bones were denser. His skin could now likely shrug off small-caliber rounds. His stamina, vision, and coordination had reached Olympic-level superhuman.
He hadn't trained for it. He hadn't asked for it.
He'd just... gotten stronger by staying alive.
By lying flat.
His only regret? The dial on the wristband still hadn't completed its rotation.
Only one-fifth remained.
Six years. And still no sign of the next meteor shower.
If this was measuring in decades, he might not live to see the next superpowered infant drop in—even with the slowed aging.
---
"Mr. Patrick," said the man across from him.
He had a hooked nose, slicked-back hair, and a manufactured corporate smile.
"We represent Luthor Group. We're planning to build a chemical plant just outside Smallville. After extensive surveying, we've determined that your farm sits in the ideal location."
He pulled a check from his coat pocket and slid it across the table.
"We'd like to purchase the land. And we're willing to compensate you generously."
Steve glanced at the check, then looked back at the man.
"What if I say no?"
The smile on the man's face didn't fade, but the chill in the room intensified.
"We don't often face rejection, Mr. Patrick," the man said slowly. "Luthor Group tends to reward its partners. Those who oppose us... tend to face competitive consequences."
Steve's eyes narrowed.
"Are you threatening me?"
"Of course not," the man replied, standing. "We're a reputable company. I'm just saying—business is business."
He extended his hand.
Steve didn't take it.
"My answer's final."
---
From the stairwell above, Adam's fists clenched.
His blue eyes glowed with the faintest flicker of red.
Clark put a hand on his shoulder.
"Don't," he whispered.
Adam gritted his teeth.
"No one threatens Dad."
---