The rising sun shattered the darkness, painting the wheat fields in hues of honey. A gentle breeze stirred waves through the crops, while a few speckled chickens pecked leisurely in front of the barn. Nearby, the farm's windmill spun slowly, casting rhythmic shadows.
It looked like any other ordinary summer morning.
Until a black Chevy roared down the muddy country road, shattering the peace like a smudge on a painting.
"Good Lord, this road's a nightmare!" The front door flew open, and a shiny Oxford shoe landed squarely in a mud puddle.
The young agent with slicked-back hair glared at his $800 custom dress pants, now speckled with mud. "What are the taxpayers' dollars even doing? Feeding pigs for the local officials?" he fumed. "My pants! Damn it, if I find out who's in charge of this backwater, I swear I'll kick their butt with Grandpa Tom's boots!"
"Can you keep it down, Frank?" Agent Smith, gray at the temples, stepped out of the passenger side and took off his sunglasses, inhaling deeply. "This is nice," he said, squinting at the endless waves of wheat. "Reminds me of my family's farm in Nebraska. When the corn ripened, it had that same smell. My dad always said—"
"Mr. Smith," Frank cut in, rolling his eyes. "That thing probably crashed around here. Every breath you take might be laced with toxins."
Smith's face froze. He erupted into a coughing fit, nearly hacking up a lung, and scrambled for a handkerchief to cover his mouth. After catching his breath, he managed, "This the place?"
"Yeah, we're close," Frank said, waving around a clunky device. "Can't pinpoint the exact spot yet—"
"Hey, old man, where you going?"
"Young buck, here's your first lesson," Smith said with a smug grunt, strolling forward. "Don't always trust machines. Nothing beats good old-fashioned legwork. Let's just ask the local farmers, shall we?"
Frank blinked, then noticed a massive shape looming in the distance. Was that… a rusty tractor? The rumble grew louder, carrying a faint whiff of diesel mixed with the sweet aroma of blueberry pie.
As they approached, both agents froze when they saw who was driving. Sunlight filtered through the boy's dazzling blond hair, casting shadows under his lashes that made his red eyes look almost otherworldly. One hand lazily gripped the steering wheel, the other held the source of the sweet smell—a half-eaten blueberry pie.
Honestly, if you ignored the tractor, the kid looked like he was cruising in a sports car.
In the back of the tractor stood a curly-haired boy, his face smeared with mud, trying to catch a fluttering butterfly with dirt-caked hands. His checkered shirt was filthy, like he'd been rolling in a mud pit. Now that's what a farm kid should look like.
"Reminds me of myself back in the day," Smith said with a nod, a touch nostalgic. "When I was young, I drove a Ferrari F—"
"Is that the point, old man?" Frank groaned. "Since when does Kansas let minors drive farm equipment?"
"According to Section 17 of the Federal Agricultural Safety Regulations—"
"That's not the point either! We're here to recover that thing," Smith shot back, but then grinned. "Though, I gotta say, I was eight when I snuck out and drove my grandpa's combine. Nearly flattened half the cornfield—"
"Mr. Smith!" Frank snapped, exasperated. "Can you do your 'legwork' already?"
"Frank, save that passion for the ladies," Smith muttered, straightening his tie. With his friendliest smile, he approached the tractor. "Morning, kids! That was some rain yesterday, huh?"
The tractor screeched to a halt.
Dio licked the jam off his fingers, his red eyes narrowing. These guys in fancy suits looked as out of place on this dirt road as a hyena in a chicken coop. Dad had told him stories about his younger days, how he'd been hassled by men in black suits just like these. Were they here to collect money?
Summoning The World behind him, Dio braced himself.
"We had a weather satellite crash around here during that thunderstorm. You kids see anything?" Smith asked.
Dio's expression relaxed. Oh, it's about the robot thing. Phew, he'd thought they were here for cash. "Don't recall anything, Grandpa," he said with a shrug. "Just thunder last night, loud enough to keep the pigs awake."
"?"
Clark, in the back, blinked in confusion. After eating venison last night, they'd slept like logs. And everyone in Smallville knew Locke's farm didn't even have pigs—
Hiss! Clark yelped, clutching his shin like something had kicked him.
Oblivious to the exchange, Smith, thinking the curly-haired kid just had a cramp, wiped sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. "Just some big metal fragments, maybe. Anything like that around the farm?"
"A satellite?" Dio tilted his head, flashing an innocent smile. "Like the ones in space?"
"Maybe a bit smaller," Smith said, gesturing. "Shiny, silver-looking."
"Nope, haven't seen anything. Maybe check the other farms?"
Smith frowned, skeptical, about to press further when Frank raised his detector. The radiation readings were creeping up. He hurried toward a patch of blackened weeds by the road. "Smith! The soil here—"
"Hey! You can't go there!" Dio leaped off the tractor, moving so fast Frank barely saw him. The blond kid was already blocking the detector. "My dad says that field was just sprayed with herbicide."
"Oh, really?" Frank's eyes narrowed. "What brand of herbicide leaves radioactive burn marks on plants?"
The air grew tense.
Clark stood frozen in the tractor bed, clumps of dirt falling from his fingers. Dio held his ground, The World's fist clenched tight.
Just then—
"Kids!" A deep voice called from the wheat field. Locke appeared at the end of the path, hefting two bags of fertilizer.
Man, he's tall, both agents thought instantly. Had to be at least 6'3", right?
Frank swallowed hard. With a build like that, why wasn't this guy dominating on a Kansas basketball court instead of farming?