A dozen minutes later, at the edge of Smallville, Downton clapped a hand on Clark's shoulder and chuckled.
"Alright, kid—let's call it here."
"Okay, but…" Clark eased off the gas, his foot hovering over the brake as he glanced uneasily at Downton.
Outside the truck, soldiers swarmed the town's entrance, combing every street and alley. They were clearly hunting for someone—him.
Clark had heard the stories: Downton was ruthless, unpredictable, a ghost who left chaos in his wake. But in the time they'd spent together, Clark had never seen him hurt anyone. If anything, Downton had been… oddly gentle. A little crude, sure—but not cruel.
And Martha liked him. Really liked him. If Downton were truly dangerous, wouldn't she have sensed it? She always did.
Lost in thought, Clark didn't notice Downton watching him—until the man laughed softly.
"You'd better remember this look, Clark. I doubt I'll see you this flustered again."
He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Just like you pretended not to see me pop outta thin air back there… I can pretend I didn't see you blur across that field like a damn hurricane."
A wry grin tugged at his lips. "Guess we've got a secret now, huh? Hah!"
With that, Downton shoved open the door of the old Ford, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and sauntered toward Smallville.
Clark stared after him—stunned at first, then abruptly rigid.
Oh, damn it.
In his panic over seeing Downton… naked… he'd completely forgotten he'd used his super-speed right in front of him.
Should he turn Downton in? Let the military take him?
The thought flickered—and died. Clark wasn't like that. Not unless someone was in real danger. And Downton… hadn't hurt anyone. Not that Clark had seen.
So he watched, silent, as Downton disappeared into the distance.
Minutes later, as Downton ducked into a roadside dessert shop, Clark exhaled sharply and turned the truck back toward the farm.
No more involvement.
Not after what happened with his father. Jonathan had died trying to protect Clark's secret—died so the world wouldn't see the boy as a weapon. If Clark exposed himself now, over this… wouldn't that make his father's sacrifice meaningless?
And yet… beneath the fear, there was something else.
Relief.
Because Downton knew. And Downton wasn't ordinary. He was an outsider—like Clark. Maybe not half-Kryptonian, but still… someone the world didn't quite understand.
That counted for something.
Moments later, inside the dessert shop, Downton ordered a double-scoop vanilla cone. While he waited, his eyes drifted to a booth in the corner.
Three bikers—leather jackets studded with rusted rivets, arms sleeved in faded ink—were hunched over sundaes, voices low but tense.
"Whole coffee shop got wiped out," one muttered. "Bodies everywhere."
"You see it yourself?"
"Nah. Got within fifty yards and had a half-dozen M16s shoved in my face. Like they were guarding the goddamn Ark."
"National Guard's rolling in from Topeka too. What the hell did they find out here? Oil? Aliens?"
"Who cares? I've got a shipment sitting in my garage. Can't move it with all this lockdown."
"Relax. Gang meet-up in two days. Boss'll cover your cut. Might even let you take that redhead for a spin…"
"Hey."
The word cut through their chatter like a knife.
Downton stood beside their table, ice cream in one hand, the other slamming down on the Formica with a sharp crack.
The biggest biker surged to his feet, grabbing for Downton's collar—
—and froze mid-reach as Downton seized his wrist.
"Nice jacket," Downton said, voice calm. "How 'bout you lend me your wallet while you're at it?"
Before the man could react, Downton twisted—snap—then yanked him forward by the hair and drove his face into the table.
CRASH!
Wood splintered. Glass shattered. The biker slumped, out cold before he hit the floor.
As for the remaining two thugs, they barely had time to blink before Downton's fists met their jaws.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Five precise strikes—jaw, temple, ribs—and they crumpled like wet cardboard. Downton exhaled sharply, the stale air leaving his lungs in a controlled hiss. He wiped the blood from his knuckles onto the hem of his white undershirt, leaving faint crimson streaks against the cotton.
He knelt, rifling through the pockets of the three burly men. A cracked cell phone. Three sets of motorcycle keys. A handful of loose change. And a small, crinkled bag of what looked like rock candy—but Downton knew better.
"Tsk. Amateurs," he muttered, tossing the bag back onto the unconscious thug's chest. "If you're gonna deal, at least deal something worth fighting over."
Straightening, Downton strode toward the roadside bar, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows behind him.
Behind the counter, "Miss Ice Cream"—real name unknown, but the nickname stuck—watched him approach and instinctively swallowed.
1.87 meters tall. Lean muscle under that white tee. Jeans frayed at the knee. And that sharp, calculating gaze…
He wasn't American-born, but with that jawline and posture? In another life, he could've worn the star-spangled suit—if Captain America didn't mind his hands being permanently stained with Gotham grime.
She wordlessly handed him the ice cream cone he'd ordered ten minutes ago—now half-melted.
Downton took it with a nod, then dropped all the loose change onto the bar with a metallic clatter.
"Keep it. And if those three knuckleheads wake up before sundown, tell 'em I'm Downton." He paused, eyes glinting. "Tell 'em they can find me at the Iceberg Club in Gotham—if they've got the guts."
"Y-yes, sir," she stammered.
As she reached to collect the coins, one slipped off the bar and clinked onto the floor. She bent to pick it up—
—and Downton, with a smirk, flicked one of the motorcycle keys toward her.
"Consider that a tip," he said, already turning away. "Oh—and keep the bike. I won't need it long."
She blinked up at him, but he was already gone—leaving only the scent of leather, blood, and melting vanilla in his wake.
Outside, three heavily modified Harleys gleamed under the Smallville sun. Downton chose the blackest one, slid the key in, and the engine roared to life like a caged beast finally set free.
Vroom—vroom—VROOM.
He gunned it down Main Street, wind whipping through his hair.
Two patrol soldiers stationed near the town square barely had time to react.
"Firebird Squad One to all units—visual on Downton! He's on a Harley, heading east on—"
The soldier cut off as Downton whipped a half-eaten ice cream cone through the air. It splatted squarely across the man's face.
"Son of a—!"
The second soldier raised his rifle.
Downton swerved hard, leaning so low his knee nearly scraped asphalt. The Harley's rear wheel kicked up gravel as he used a parked scooter for cover—launching it sideways into the soldiers' legs with a vicious kick of his boot.
Clang! Thud!
Before either could recover, Downton was on them. He snatched the rifle from the dazed soldier's grip and slammed the butt into his jaw—once, clean, efficient.
Then he grabbed the man's walkie-talkie.
"Hey, boys," Downton said, voice dripping with mock cheer. "It's me—Downton.
Just wanted to thank you for that lovely rocket delivery last week. Real thoughtful.
But you know the rules—what the U.S. military gives, the U.S. military gets back."
He paused, revving the Harley with one hand.
"So hold tight. I'm bringing your toys home… one explosion at a time."
He tossed the walkie-talkie into the dirt,
mounted the bike, and vanished down the road in a blur of chrome and smoke.
Visit patreon.com/ShiroTL for more chapters.