"Who're these guys?" Locke asked, stepping closer.
"You must be the owner of this farm, Mr. Locke?"
Agent Smith instinctively flashed his badge. "Special Investigator from the Department of Agriculture. We're here about last night's weather satellite crash."
"Oh, that thing?"
Locke nodded, then waved off a disgruntled Dio and a confused Clark.
"Look," he said, flashing the classic, good-ol'-boy farmer grin, "that satellite just dropped into my field outta nowhere, blew up like crazy, and then—poof—disappeared. Got me all kinds of worried. I didn't even know what evidence to scrape together to file a claim with you folks. Didn't expect you to show up at my door."
Rubbing his calloused hands, Locke's tanned face creased with worry, looking every bit the struggling, down-to-earth farmer.
"Then why'd you tell the kids the field was sprayed with herbicide?" Agent Vank asked, skeptical.
"Oh, about that, officer…"
Locke lowered his voice, glancing at the two boys peeking from behind the tractor. "I haven't told the kids yet. You know, if that satellite's got radiation, those two won't keep their mouths shut. Next thing you know, all of Kansas is talking about it, and my oats…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "Well, let's just say nobody's buying irradiated crops."
"No need to worry, Mr. Locke," Vank said, adjusting his glasses. "The radiation levels in the area are already decaying. By the time we come back in a few days, they might even be zero."
"What?!"
Locke's voice shot up, startling a few nearby chickens into a flapping frenzy. "You're telling me you can just wave that fancy gadget around and call it safe? My great-uncle's cousin's nephew grew potatoes near Chernobyl, and now his eggplants glow in the dark! You gonna guarantee my oats won't start glowing?!"
Agent Smith, now speckled with spit, awkwardly wiped his face.
The older agent's thoughts drifted to his cousin back in Nebraska, who nearly went bankrupt last year over unsold GMO corn.
Softening his tone, he said, "Mr. Locke, I understand your concerns—"
"Understand?"
Locke grabbed Vank's radiation detector, smudging the screen with muddy fingerprints. "Then explain why this patch of grass looks like it got struck by lightning!"
"Well, Mr. Locke," Vank started, scratching his head, "it's because the metal involved is highly unstable—"
"Ahem!"
Smith coughed sharply, cutting him off. "Vank, that material's classified."
An awkward silence settled over them.
Then Locke suddenly took off his cowboy hat, pressing it to his chest, his voice trembling.
"Officer… my family depends on these few acres to get by."
He pointed toward the farmhouse, where smoke curled from the chimney. "You see that barn? I've still got five years of loans to pay off for it. I'm just an honest farmer, you know."
The sunlight caught the faint redness in his eyes, and even Vank looked sympathetic.
Smith's throat bobbed as he remembered his own grandfather, forced to sell his land to a big agribusiness years ago.
Man…
He knew all too well how rough the farming life had gotten, squeezed dry by the agricultural associations.
"Alright," Smith said, clapping Locke's shoulder. "We'll get the paperwork started. That compensation's coming your way, I promise."
"Mr. Smith!" Vank protested. "That's against protocol—"
Smith shot his younger colleague a look, then winked at Locke. "We're farmers' kids ourselves, Mr. Locke. Let's just let this whole thing fertilize the fields and call it a day."
Ten minutes later, the black Chevy peeled out, disappearing down the country road.
Dio sauntered over only after the car was gone.
"Chernobyl?" he mocked, mimicking his dad's earlier pleading tone. "What's wrong with our oats glowing?"
Smack!
Locke's hand landed on his son's head.
"You little punk, who told you to go blabbing to strangers?"
---
Inside the Chevy:
Vank listened quietly through his earpiece.
The bug he'd slipped into the tractor's crevice—when no one was looking—was picking up the family's conversation.
[Dad, can we use the compensation money to buy a new gaming console?]
[A console? How about you copy Rule 38 from the Safe Farming Handbook twenty times first! Who said you could sneak off and drive the tractor again?]
[It was Clark's idea! He wanted to go for a joyride!]
[Dio, you jerk, don't pin this on me!]
Vank listened to the plain, down-home bickering until a sharp burst of static crackled through, followed by a crunch—the bug had clearly been crushed under a tire.
Yanking off the earpiece, Vank rubbed his aching ear.
"Damn it!" He slammed the earpiece onto the dashboard. "There goes more of our budget."
Driving with one hand, Smith leisurely puffed on his pipe, glancing at Vank's sour expression in the rearview mirror.
"Told you, high-tech gadgets don't mix with the country," he said, blowing a smoke ring. "Shoulda gone old-school and just sent someone to keep an eye on them."
"Who?"
Vank scoffed. "Your nephew who bartends at that dive? Or my cousin who's obsessed with anime?"
He started ticking off expenses on his fingers. "Surveillance needs stipends, compensation's a special budget, and don't get me started on calling in the 'cleaners.' Oh, and you—"
Fed up with Vank's whining, Smith swerved the Chevy to a screeching halt on the roadside.
"Hey! Smith, what's the—"
Vank's words died as Smith grabbed his tie, pipe embers nearly singeing his face.
"Rookie, farmers aren't pushovers," Smith growled. "That guy back there? Seems nice enough, but I can tell he's got a temper under all that. You don't shut him up, you want him running to the authorities, making a stink and getting the higher-ups' attention?"
His voice dropped, heavy with authority. "Vank, I've been in this department for thirty years. Partners come and go, but I'm still here. So tell me—wanna keep griping about the budget, or wanna keep your job?"
"I-I just…"
Staring into Smith's lion-like glare, Vank swallowed hard, seeing the older agent this angry for the first time. "Just trying to save a little cash."
"No need. Our paychecks are fat enough."
Smith started the car again, his tone back to its usual lazy drawl. "Put ten grand into that farmer's account from mine."
"Got it," Vank said, finally quiet.
---
Glancing at the bug Platinum Star had tossed under the tractor's wheel, Locke let out a relieved sigh.
Can't be too careful.
Gotta hand it to the little Superman, though—spotting a detail that even two Stand users missed.
"Clark, you're getting an extra deer leg for dinner," Locke said, ruffling the curly-haired boy's hair as Dio glared, practically grinding his teeth. "You're already catching things me and Dio can't."