At the Kent farm, Clark pulled his pickup truck to a stop near the pasture. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the fields as he stepped out, the soft lowing of the cows echoing behind him. Their hooves had just been trimmed by a local farrier—no need for x-ray vision or super-strength this time, though he'd been tempted to do it himself.
With no neighbors in sight and no security cameras dotting the peaceful stretch of Kansas farmland, Clark lifted the gate and gently guided the animals out, one by one. No need to draw attention—even here, where everyone knew him as "the Kents' boy."
Martha stood on the porch, arms crossed but eyes warm. She watched him a moment before speaking.
"When Jonathan was still with us," she began softly, voice edged with memory, "we'd have our share of arguments. Nothing serious—just stubbornness, mostly. But what I remember most is how we'd each find our own way back to calm."
She stepped down onto the dirt, brushing a hand over the worn railing.
"I'd throw on my old leather riding pants and take Duchess out through the clover fields. The scent of those wildflowers… it always smoothed the rough edges off my mood."
A small smile tugged at her lips.
"Jonathan? He'd disappear into the barn and spend hours trimming hooves—horses, cows, even that old mule from the Petersons. Said there was something honest about it. Grounded. After every disagreement, every last animal on the property ended up with freshly filed hooves and new shoes."
She reached out and placed a weathered hand on Clark's broad shoulder.
"You've been distant lately, Clark. I can see it in the way you look at the horizon like it's holding secrets."
Clark opened his mouth, then closed it. His gaze dropped to the dust at his boots.
Martha let out a quiet sigh. "Smallville's a good town. But it's just a dot on the map. Metropolis is bigger, sure—but even that's just one city in a country of hundreds. And Gotham? Well…" She gave a wry chuckle. "They say Gotham's got ten million souls, most of them running from something. But you, Clark—you've got the whole world out there. Why limit yourself to just this patch of earth?"
She turned to face him fully, hands on her hips now—the same stance Jonathan used to take when he meant business.
"You're twenty-three. You've finished your degree, you've worked odd jobs from the Daily Planet's mailroom to that gas station on Route 9. But you're not meant to spend your life pumping fuel or patching tires, son. Not when you can do so much more."
Clark swallowed. "I'm worried about leaving you alone, Martha."
She waved a hand. "Don't be ridiculous. I've lived in Smallville longer than most of these kids have been alive. Mrs. Lang waves from her porch every morning. Pete Ross still brings over firewood in winter. And if some fool thinks this old farm is an easy target…" Her eyes flashed. "Let him try. Your father taught me how to handle a shotgun. I may not have your… advantages, but I can still put a hole in a scarecrow at fifty paces."
Then, softer: "When did it become your job to protect me from life, Clark? I raised you to live—not just watch from the sidelines."
He hesitated. "It's not just that. There's… someone coming to Smallville soon. Someone I don't fully understand yet."
"Downton," Martha said, nodding as if she'd known all along.
Clark blinked. "You've heard of him?"
"I hear things," she said simply. "Smallville's small, but gossip travels fast—especially when it involves men from Gotham with no last name and too many questions."
She studied him. "If you're worried he'll bring trouble, then maybe that's all the more reason you should be here. Or maybe it's a sign you need to understand why he's coming."
She turned toward the house, calling over her shoulder, "Now, enough talk. That farrier did decent work, but Jonathan would've filed those heels smoother. Still, I'll take it. How about beef stew for dinner? With extra potatoes?"
Clark smiled—really smiled—for the first time in days. "Anything you make is perfect, Mom."
He hugged her quickly, then led the last of the cows into the barn. As he closed the gate, he glanced back at Martha's retreating figure, the worry returning like a slow tide.
If Downton's coming… it's not just curiosity that's brought him here.
Clark's fingers tightened around the fence post—just enough to leave a faint dent in the wood.
And if he threatens this place… this family… he'll learn why even Gotham's shadows fear the sun.
…
Meanwhile, at the Philharmonic Café in Smallville, General Sam Lane's walkie-talkie crackled to life.
"Reporting, General. Downton's driving a stolen Maybach S680 toward Smallville. He's fifteen minutes out from the café!"
"Roger that," Lane replied, then turned and placed a firm hand on his daughter's shoulder.
"Lois," he said, voice low and urgent. "You don't need to see him again. Sticking to the plan is our best move. Once he hits the first ambush point outside town, my team can take him down clean. If you show up—if he even sees you—it'll escalate everything."
He leaned closer, eyes tight with worry. "What if he kidnaps you again? What if he hurts you? I couldn't face your mother if anything happened to you."
"But it's my promise, Dad!" Lois shot back, jaw set. "I know it sounds reckless, but I have to get this interview. Gotham's drowning in criminals, yet none of them walk around like Downton—calm, almost casual, like he owns the shadows. And he's Asian, possibly smuggled into the U.S. His story? That's Pulitzer territory. The board adores layered narratives like this."
"No award is worth your life, Lois," Lane cut in, his tone brooking no argument. He squeezed her shoulder. "Stay here. Don't leave this café. The moment we've got him secured, I'll pull strings for a supervised interview—same protocol as the Luthor exposé. You'll get your shot. But not like this."
Without waiting for a reply, he strode out, barking orders into his comms as he headed for the command vehicle.
Inside, surveillance feeds showed the black Maybach speeding down County Route 9. Lane's eyes locked onto it like a hawk on prey.
In the driver's seat, Downton cruised with one hand on the wheel, the other scrolling through GPS on his phone. He'd sent Battul back to Gotham the moment they hit Metropolis—no sense dragging his lieutenant into a military-grade takedown. Not even a rookie Batman could stand against a mechanized infantry unit on open ground, let alone a street enforcer like Battul.
After ditching his accomplice, Downton had stopped at a boutique near the riverfront. He'd "borrowed" fresh clothes from the owner—amidst a very confused police response—and taken a quick shower in the back. Metropolis PD was sharp, no doubt—faster and better coordinated than Gotham's—but still no match for him. He'd slipped through their net like smoke.
Now, behind the wheel of the villa owner's Maybach (a surprisingly smooth ride—he might just keep it), he was almost amused by the predictability of it all.
Thud.
The car lurched violently as the front left tire blew. Downton sighed. Tire spikes. How quaint.
He rolled his eyes. "Really, Sam? That's your opening move?"
Expecting tranquilizer darts or flashbangs the second he stepped out, he opened the door, phone still in hand.
"Honestly, you guys rush in so—"
ZZZT!
A high-voltage net snapped over him before his foot even hit the pavement. Current ripped through his body, locking his muscles. His carefully styled hair stood on end, his limbs jerking as the taser system held him in place.
In the command vehicle, General Lane watched the feed—Downton writhing but not vanishing in a puff of smoke or teleporting away. For once, the bastard stayed real.
Lane clenched his fist. "He's down. Operation Iron Quill is a go."
His voice crackled over the comms, sharp and triumphant:
"Move in!"