Adrian looked up at the bright sun and felt the heat settle into his bones. He lowered his head and clenched his fists, puzzled by how much stronger his heat vision felt when he was bathed in sunlight.
He checked his system template again, the one that tracked his progress. The display still read eighty five percent. The progress had not unlocked, so why did his power seem to surge?
A theory formed in his mind. To test it, he moved with super speed to his room and pulled a lead box from beneath the bed. When the lid opened and the green fragment inside encountered air, a wave of weakness hit him instantly. Pain stung his eyes and fingertips, and his skin felt singed, as if every nerve were aflame.
He slammed the lid closed and cursed in a half-joke he had learned from Jonathan, sour and rough on his tongue, "Sour radish Bitch." The curse landed better than any other expletive he could think of.
It confirmed what he suspected. When the ship had activated, it emitted a kind of radiation. Martha had the body of a normal human and could not withstand that energy, which explained why she had collapsed. Clark had been drained of strength and had grown even weaker.
And that strange energy had affected Adrian as well. Something about the pulse had recognized the similarities between his body and a Kryptonian template and had, in some way, altered him. That would explain why sunlight nourished him and green kryptonite hurt him. The reaction was not as severe as Clark's, but it was real.
So the conclusion was clear, even if the specifics were not. He had used a kind of psychological suggestion in the past to cover up a fear of kryptonite, but he no longer needed an act. In some key ways he was becoming Kryptonian, an existence that echoed the powers he had once only modeled. He kept that thought to himself and did not dwell on the implications.
He tucked the lead box back under his bed, leaving the green fragment sealed, and moved toward the barn. Clark's condition had worsened; a thin streak of blood had started at the corner of his nose. When Clark wiped it in a panic, his voice trembled.
"I'm bleeding, Adrian, am I bleeding?"
This was Clark's first time facing anything like this, and the fear in him was sharp, like a swimmer who suddenly finds herself far from shore. Adrian softened at the sight. He drew a tissue from his pocket and handed it to Clark without a word.
"Wipe it. Breathe. You'll be okay," he said quietly.
"I need to hide the ship," Adrian told him. The DCA teams would be at the farm soon, claiming public safety. They must not find the craft.
Clark's face registered alarm even as he dabbed at his nose. "Where can we put it?"
"Pete house has a larger cellar. If we stash it there, no routine inspection will find it," Adrian said, thinking through logistics even as his energy hummed with fatigue.
"I'll call him now," Clark said, scrubbing his palms on his jeans, and stumbled for the living room.
Adrian moved the ship with care. He lifted it slowly and felt the alien mass in his arms, its surface still warm from the activation. For a moment he almost hesitated, the familiar old caution fighting with the need to act. He chose the latter. With a burst of speed, he carried the ship out of the barn and rose above the farm, tracing a quick path through the night air toward Pete's place.
A convoy of DCA vehicles, delayed by the earlier accident, made its way onto the farm. Jonathan had arrived from the hospital and watched with relieved exhaustion when the teams failed to find the ship in the cellar.
Still, technicians in hazmat suits dug into the cellar soil and called it in. "Radioactive spores in the soil," one of them reported. "We suspect Mrs. Kent came into contact with this material."
"We'll decontaminate and run tests," the DCA representative told Jonathan. "If you find anything, call us."
Jonathan nodded, relief tempered by worry. Evening folded over the farmhouse and the living room remained dim. He sat on the sofa with his hand over his forehead, worn thin by a thousand small fears.
Footsteps made him look up. Adrian had returned, his face settled but tired.
"Is the ship safe?" Jonathan asked immediately.
"Yes, hidden at Pete cellar," Adrian replied. He hesitated a moment then added, softer than he normally allowed himself to be, "Clark knows about it now."
Jonathan closed his eyes for a second and let out a long breath. "I had hoped to tell him myself, to find the right way," he said. "This will hurt him. It hurts me that I didn't—"
Adrian watched his father's shoulders. He crossed the room and sat on the arm of the couch, a small, deliberate attempt to bridge the distance between them.
"It's not your fault, Dad," Adrian said. He kept his voice steady, but softer. "We all made choices to protect the family. Now we fix what we can."
Jonathan managed a short, grateful look. He told Adrian about the doctors. Martha's condition was not improving, he said. She had woken once earlier and told him a fragment of the night she had climbed down into the cellar. A bright light had washed through her, she had said, and afterward she feared that if the boys ever found the ship, they would leave.
Jonathan told the story of how he had first met Martha years ago at Metropolis University. He painted the image of a girl in a blue coat borrowing his notes and teasing that she might not return them. He had trusted her, he said, and in that moment he had imagined making her his wife. He still wanted that simple, ordinary life. He had not given up that idea then and he refused to give up that idea now.
Adrian listened without interrupting. The quiet in the room kept him present with the small human things that mattered most, the mundane stitches that held the family together.
When Jonathan finished, Adrian looked up, his resolve setting into a steady line. "I promise, Dad. I will make sure Mother is safe. No matter the cost."
Jonathan's eyes shone with a raw, weary gratitude. The promise hung in the air, a vow that did not require explanation. Adrian felt the weight of it and accepted it without hesitation.
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