The Kent farmhouse looked like every Midwestern home improvement project that had started with good intentions and ended with "eh, good enough." Worn but loved, with that specific energy of a place that had witnessed three generations of Kents stubbornly refusing to update their decor because "the couch still works fine, Martha."
Martha Kent moved through her kitchen like a woman who'd spent decades perfecting the art of stress-baking her feelings into submission. Kettle on. Mugs out. Tea bags deployed with military precision. Clark followed her movements with the confused expression of someone watching a cooking show in a language they almost understood.
"Right then," Martha said once everyone had tea—and Harry had to admit, it was proper tea, which earned Kansas unexpected points in his mental "Places That Understand Civilization" ranking. "Time for that conversation about what fresh hell we're dealing with tonight."
"Agreed," Harry said, cradling his mug like it might spontaneously decide to explode because his life was just *like that* now. "Though fair warning: this explanation involves concepts that will make your brain hurt, possibly cry, and definitely question every life choice that led to this moment."
"Son, I've spent eighteen years raising an alien who can bench-press tractors," Martha replied with the calm of someone who'd made peace with cosmic absurdity around 2007. "My brain's already checked out. Hurt it all you want."
Harry took a breath, organizing his thoughts with the precision of someone who'd spent years explaining impossible things to skeptical authority figures who really didn't want to hear it.
"Clark isn't human," he began, because subtlety was for people who hadn't watched someone fly through a barn ceiling ten minutes ago. "But you knew that—you found him in what I'm assuming was the universe's worst baby delivery service during that meteor shower eighteen years ago."
"He's Kryptonian," Martha said quietly, like she was admitting her son was in a band. "From the planet Krypton. His birth father, Jor-El, sent him here in a spaceship before everything went ka-boom. Very *end of the world*, very *desperate parent makes terrible interstellar decisions*."
Harry's eyebrows attempted to achieve liftoff. "You know considerably more than I expected. Most people don't just casually drop 'my son's an alien' into conversation."
"Jonathan and I found documentation in the ship," Martha explained, her voice steady despite clearly holding back approximately seventeen emotions. "Crystalline technology that was basically Jor-El's very long, very intense voicemail about what Clark was, why he was here, and what superpowers he'd develop once he hit puberty. Which, let me tell you, was a *fun* parent-teacher conference topic."
"Did these messages mention anything about destiny?" Harry asked with the careful tone of someone who'd heard the word 'destiny' far too many times and developed strong opinions about its general bullshit quotient. "About Clark being meant to fulfill some predetermined cosmic role? Save humanity? Become Space Jesus?"
Martha's expression shifted to something darker—like she'd just remembered the universe's customer service was terrible and the manager was unavailable. "Oh, they mentioned it. Clark was sent to Earth to be a 'bridge between worlds.' To guide humanity toward a 'better future.' To become—" She made air quotes with aggressive precision. "—something 'more than human.' A guardian. A protector. A Superman."
"Fucking hell," Ron muttered from his corner of the room, because apparently Kansas family drama was hitting different tonight.
"That's one word for it," Martha agreed. "But Jonathan and I wanted Clark to choose his own path. To decide what his abilities meant and how to use them. Not to be shackled to some alien AI's life plan that was decided before he could even talk."
"That's remarkably sensible," Harry observed, "and exactly the kind of parenting that makes Jor-El's approach look like a cosmic control freak wrote a self-help book called *Your Destiny: A Parent's Guide to Ignoring Your Child's Actual Feelings*."
"The messages started getting pushy about five years ago," Martha continued, her voice tight. "Telling Clark he needed to 'prepare for his true calling.' That his human life was just training. A warm-up act before the main event where he embraced his Kryptonian heritage and became whatever Jor-El designed him to be."
"And Clark said no," Harry said, reading between the lines like he was speed-running a tragedy.
"Clark told Jor-El's AI to fuck right off," Martha confirmed with fierce pride that would've made any mother proud. "Said he was human by choice even if he was Kryptonian by DNA. That Earth was home. That his family was us. That his future would be defined by his choices, not some dead alien's cosmic to-do list."
The kettle started whistling again, and Martha handled it with the efficiency of someone who'd processed grief through tea preparation for decades.
"Three weeks ago, Jonathan had an accident," she said, and her voice cracked just slightly. "Tractor malfunction. Should've been minor. Ended up with catastrophic head trauma. He's been in a coma since—brain dead, according to every doctor with an opinion and a medical degree. Machines keeping his body alive while his consciousness is just... gone."
"I'm very sorry," Hermione said with genuine sympathy.
"Same day Jonathan was injured, Clark disappeared," Martha continued, pouring hot water with hands that trembled just enough to notice. "No note. No explanation. Just vanished. And now you're telling me he was found unconscious with complete amnesia, which sounds suspiciously like someone deliberately scrambled his memories and gift-wrapped him for you."
"That's my working theory," Harry confirmed. "The symbol burned into that field was Kryptonian—specifically, the crest of the House of El. Someone wanted to make it very clear what Clark was and ensure I'd recognize him as someone needing help. Or someone needing to be manipulated. Unclear which."
"Who would do that?" Martha demanded. "Who has the knowledge, technology, and motivation to erase my son's memories and arrange this cosmic blind date?"
"Either Jor-El's AI decided to take executive action," Harry replied grimly, "or someone else has been monitoring this situation and decided intervention was necessary. There's also option three: someone wants Clark vulnerable specifically so he can be reprogrammed without his human memories getting in the way."
"You think someone's trying to delete Clark Kent so Kal-El can emerge uncontaminated by humanity," Hermione said carefully, like she was identifying a particularly nasty virus.
Martha went pale. "You're saying someone's trying to erase my son so some alien weapon can take his place."
"I'm saying someone looked at Clark's refusal to embrace his Kryptonian heritage and thought, 'You know what this situation needs? Aggressive memory deletion and emotional manipulation,'" Harry said. "Which, as life choices go, ranks somewhere between 'spectacularly bad' and 'war crime.'"
"Then we help him remember," Martha said with the determination of someone who'd fought Kansas weather, bank loans, and the persistent question of 'where did we put the tractor keys' for thirty years. "Before whoever did this tries round two."
"Agreed," Harry said. "Which is why I think we should take him to his room. See if familiar surroundings can trigger memories that medical amnesia couldn't completely nuke."
Martha nodded, already standing with purpose that suggested she'd made a decision and the universe could either cooperate or get out of the way. "His room's in the barn loft. Moved out there at fifteen because teenagers need space to brood about being aliens in private, apparently."
---
The barn loft was quintessential American teenager hideout—posters, rumpled bed, homework scattered across a desk like evidence of procrastination, and approximately forty-seven photos documenting a childhood spent being human while secretly being able to juggle trucks.
Clark wandered through it like a tourist in his own life, touching things with the careful confusion of someone who felt like they should remember the Wi-Fi password but their brain had deleted the file.
One photo in particular caught Harry's attention—Clark with a blonde girl, both laughing at something the camera missed, their body language screaming *these two have been best friends since dirt was invented*.
"That's Chloe Sullivan," Martha said softly, noticing Harry's interest. "Clark's best friend since they were kids. She died three weeks ago. Same day Jonathan got hurt and Clark vanished."
Harry felt something cold settle in his chest like bad takeout. "That's a lot of coincidences for one Tuesday."
"Explosion at her workplace," Martha continued. "Official story: gas leak plus electrical malfunction equals tragic accident. But Chloe was investigating something. Documenting impossible rescues around Smallville. Asking uncomfortable questions about unexplained phenomena."
"She was investigating Clark," Hermione said quietly.
"She'd figured out he had abilities," Martha confirmed. "Didn't know about Krypton, but she knew he was doing impossible things. And then she died, which is convenient if you're trying to eliminate someone who knew too much."
Clark had been silent, but when Martha mentioned Chloe, something flickered in his expression—like his subconscious was trying to file a missing person report but couldn't find the paperwork.
"I should remember her," he said quietly. "Looking at that photo, I feel like I should remember. But there's nothing. Just this feeling that something important got deleted from my hard drive."
Martha moved to the desk, pulling out a framed family photo—her, Jonathan, and a younger Clark, all smiling like they'd just won the lottery and also figured out the meaning of life.
"This is your father," Martha said, offering it to Clark with trembling hands. "Jonathan Kent. The man who found you, chose to raise you despite knowing you were different, and spent eighteen years teaching you to be kind, careful, and use your abilities to help people without accidentally revealing you could juggle combines."
Clark took the photo, studying Jonathan's face with the intensity of someone trying to remember where they parked.
Then something changed.
His posture went rigid—not tense, but *precise*. Military. His eyes, which had been warm despite the confusion, went cold and flat like someone had unplugged his humanity and installed a very efficient operating system.
"Jonathan Kent is dead to me," he said with the emotional range of a parking meter. "He was temporary. A guardian during preparation. His role is complete. He's irrelevant now."
Martha gasped like she'd been punched in the soul.
"Clark, what are you *saying*?" she demanded. "That's your father. The man who raised you, who loved you—"
"I am not Clark," he interrupted with robotic precision. "Clark Kent was a temporary identity. A training simulation for human psychology. That identity has served its purpose. Time to embrace my true nature."
Harry's enhanced senses picked up the change immediately—not just posture or voice, but his entire energy signature had gone from "confused farm boy" to "biological weapon accepting activation codes."
"Martha, step back," Harry said urgently. "Something's happening and it's not good."
But Martha wasn't stepping back. She was moving *forward*, reaching for her son with desperate maternal determination that transcended common sense.
"No. *No*. This isn't you," she said, voice breaking. "This is Jor-El's programming. This is whatever they did to your memories. But you're still in there, Clark. You're still my son. Please come back to me. *Please*—"
Her voice shattered on that last word, dissolving into sobs that carried three weeks of accumulated grief, terror, and hope that had been holding her together through sheer spite.
"**GIVE ME BACK MY SON!**" she screamed, and the raw anguish in those words could've cracked the foundation of the barn. "WHOEVER YOU ARE, WHATEVER YOU'VE DONE—**GIVE ME BACK MY SON!**"
And then Harry's enhanced hearing exploded with pain so intense his cosmic durability barely kept him conscious.
A sound. Not audible to humans, but piercing through enhanced auditory processing like someone had weaponized a dog whistle and aimed it directly at his brain. Ultrasonic. Precisely calibrated. Carrying information encoded in frequencies that would activate Kryptonian physiology like a biological cheat code.
Clark's—no, Kal-El's—eyes went completely blank. His posture shifted again, and he looked less like a person and more like a weapon waiting for deployment orders.
"I am Kal-El of Krypton," he announced with zero inflection. "Last son of the House of El. Sent to Earth to fulfill my destiny as guardian and guide to this primitive civilization. Time to complete preparation and embrace my purpose."
"**NO!**" Martha screamed, lunging to grab his arm with desperate strength.
"Clark Kent is dead," Kal-El said with absolute finality. "That identity was temporary. A training simulation. The simulation has ended. Time to fulfill the destiny my father designed."
And then—before anyone could react, before Martha could grab him, before Harry could process what was happening—Kal-El *launched*.
Not jumped. *Launched*. With controlled precision that said he'd been using these abilities his whole life and had just remembered the instruction manual. He shot upward through the barn ceiling like it was made of particularly aggressive tissue paper, leaving a perfect Clark-shaped hole in the architecture.
Martha made a sound somewhere between sob and scream, collapsing to her knees with the boneless despair of watching your son literally fly away while declaring everything you raised him to be was dead.
Harry stood frozen for 0.3 seconds—just long enough for his enhanced brain to process, calculate, and make several rapid decisions about appropriate response protocols.
Then he looked at Martha Kent.
This woman who'd spent eighteen years loving an alien child as her son. Who'd protected him, guided him, helped him choose humanity despite biology screaming otherwise. Who was now on her knees sobbing because something had stolen that choice and replaced her son with a programmed weapon.
And Harry felt something crack in his chest that had nothing to do with cosmic powers and everything to do with being an orphan who'd spent his whole life wondering what having a mother's love felt like.
His own mother had died protecting him. Had loved him enough to sacrifice everything so he might live.
Martha Kent had given that to Clark. Had been that person for someone who'd needed exactly what Harry had always wanted.
And something—Jor-El's programming, or whoever orchestrated this—had stolen that from both of them.
"I'll bring him back," Harry said with absolute certainty, moving to Martha and gently touching her shoulder. "I promise you, Mrs. Kent. I will bring your son back. Whatever programming they installed, whatever destiny they think he needs—I'm bringing Clark Kent home."
Martha looked up at him with tear-streaked face and desperate hope that hurt to witness.
"You can't," she whispered. "You heard him. Clark Kent is dead."
"Clark Kent is not dead," Harry replied with fierce conviction. "He's buried under programming, trauma, and probably Kryptonian conditioning designed to override his human identity. But he's still there. Still fighting. Still the person you raised."
"How do you *know*?" Martha asked.
"Because I spent seven years being told I was destined for things I never asked for," Harry said quietly. "Being programmed to believe my life had a predetermined purpose that mattered more than my choices. And every time someone tried to make me into what they needed instead of what I chose to be, the people who loved me fought to bring me back to myself."
He stood, looking up through the Clark-shaped ceiling hole at the night sky.
"Now it's my turn," he said. "To fight for someone's right to choose their identity instead of accepting what others decided they should be."
"You're going after him," Lois said—not a question.
"I'm going after him," Harry confirmed. "And I'm bringing him home. However long it takes. Whatever I have to do. I will not let Jor-El's programming steal someone's humanity just because biology says they're supposed to be something else."
"What do you need from us?" Hermione asked, already standing with determined efficiency.
"Stay here," Harry said. "Protect Martha. Figure out what triggered that ultrasonic nightmare and if it's still active. And most importantly—" He looked at each of them. "—don't give up on him. Don't accept that Clark Kent is dead just because some alien AI with control issues says so."
"We won't," Ron said firmly. "We've spent years not giving up on impossible things. This is just Tuesday with extra cosmic bullshit."
"Slightly more alien than usual," Ginny observed. "But the principle holds."
Harry moved to the ceiling hole, looking up at stars with enhanced vision that could track what most people would miss.
Somewhere up there, Kal-El was following whatever programming had activated. Heading toward whatever destiny Jor-El designed.
But underneath that programming, Clark Kent was still there. Still human by choice. Still the person who'd chosen kindness over power, who'd helped people instead of dominating them, who'd refused to accept that origins defined identity.
Harry had spent his entire life fighting people who wanted to define him by prophecy, destiny, what they needed him to be.
Now he was fighting for someone else's right to make that same choice.
"I'll bring him home," he said one more time to Martha Kent. "I promise."
And then Harry Potter—wizard, cosmic entity, professional sass distributor—launched himself into the Kansas night sky with determination that transcended powers or abilities.
This wasn't about Kryptonian heritage or magical enhancement.
This was about a mother's love. About the right to choose your identity. About refusing to accept that programming was stronger than choice and love.
Clark Kent was not dead.
And Harry was going to prove it, even if he had to fight an entire alien civilization's worth of predetermined expectations.
The night sky opened before him, vast and infinite.
Time to save someone from their own destiny.
Because fuck destiny.
The real adventure was just beginning.
And it was going to be absolutely mental.
—
# Meanwhile, 30,000 Feet Above the Atlantic...
The private jet was exactly the kind of obscene luxury that screamed "I have more money than your country's GDP and I'm not even subtle about it." Leather seats that probably cost more than a house. A bar stocked with liquor that could fund a small nation's healthcare system. And enough legroom to host a yoga class, which was impressive considering the plane's occupant was currently using that space to brood at an ancient Egyptian statue like it had personally insulted his mother.
Lex Luthor sat in his custom chair—because of course it was custom, off-the-rack furniture was for peasants—examining the artifact with the focused intensity of someone who'd just spent an obscene amount of money on what most people would consider "a really old rock with questionable historical significance."
The statue was approximately two feet tall, carved from black stone that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Hieroglyphs covered its surface in patterns that suggested either profound mystical significance or the ancient Egyptian equivalent of "Steve was here, 2000 BCE." Its eyes were inlaid with what appeared to be emeralds, though Lex suspected they were something considerably more interesting than simple gemstones.
"Sir," Dr. Vaughn said from across the cabin, her voice carrying that particular tone of medical professionals who'd spent years learning to deliver bad news with clinical detachment, "I really must insist that you rest. You've been staring at that artifact for six hours. Your blood pressure is elevated, your stress markers are concerning, and considering what you survived three days ago, I'd strongly recommend—"
"What I survived," Lex interrupted without looking away from the statue, "was a concentrated dose of a neurotoxin that should have liquefied my internal organs within ninety seconds. Instead, I experienced mild discomfort, temporary paralysis, and what I can only describe as the universe's most aggressive reminder that mortality is negotiable if you're sufficiently motivated."
"You were clinically dead for forty-seven seconds," Dr. Vaughn replied with the patience of someone who'd had this conversation before and knew it wouldn't end well. "Your heart stopped. Your brain activity flat-lined. By all medical understanding, you should be in a morgue right now having deeply disappointed conversations with morticians about embalming fluid options."
"And yet," Lex said with a slight smile that suggested he found his own survival personally amusing, "here I am. Alive. Conscious. And considerably more interested in this statue than in your medical concerns about my continued existence defying conventional biology."
Dr. Vaughn pinched the bridge of her nose with the gesture of someone who'd chosen her career poorly and was only now realizing the full implications. "Mr. Luthor, you didn't survive that poisoning through luck or your body's natural defenses. You survived because I implemented an experimental treatment protocol that's keeping you alive through sheer medical intervention and aggressive chemical manipulation."
"I'm aware," Lex replied, finally looking up from the statue with eyes that were sharp despite the exhaustion evident in his posture. "You've explained it extensively. Every seventy-two hours, my blood requires purification or my organs will shut down in cascade failure that would be spectacular to observe from a medical standpoint and considerably less pleasant to experience personally."
"I'm glad you find your own mortality entertaining," Dr. Vaughn said dryly.
"I find it *motivating*," Lex corrected. "Most people live their entire lives without confronting the fundamental fragility of human existence. I get to contemplate my own biological limitations every three days with the regularity of a trash collection schedule. It's remarkably clarifying."
He turned the statue slowly, examining it from different angles with the focused attention of someone who'd spent years learning to see patterns others missed. "Tell me, Doctor, what do you know about Egyptian mysticism?"
"I know it's not covered in medical school," Dr. Vaughn replied. "I focused on keeping people alive through conventional medicine, not ancient magical artifacts and their questionable relationship with biological science."
"How disappointingly practical," Lex observed. "This statue dates to approximately 1500 BCE, during the reign of Thutmose III. It's carved from a stone that shouldn't exist according to conventional geology—the mineral composition defies classification. The hieroglyphs describe something called the 'Eye of Ra's Judgment,' which sounds either profoundly mystical or like someone got very creative with religious propaganda."
"And you think this statue is worth dying over?" Dr. Vaughn asked. "Because I should mention that traveling to Egypt, spending three days in underground tombs with questionable ventilation, and then getting poisoned by what we're fairly certain was a deliberate assassination attempt—all of that significantly compromised your already fragile health situation."
"Worth dying over?" Lex repeated, and his smile took on an edge that suggested he'd done the math and found the risk acceptable. "Doctor, I'm dying anyway. My body is currently held together by experimental treatments, aggressive chemical intervention, and what I suspect is pure spite directed at the universe for having the audacity to suggest I should accept mortality like some sort of peasant."
"That's not—"
"The neurotoxin," Lex interrupted, "was administered by someone who knew exactly what they were doing. Professional work. Expensive. The kind of assassination attempt that requires extensive planning, intimate knowledge of my security protocols, and access to compounds that aren't available through conventional channels."
He set the statue down with careful precision, his movements suggesting fatigue he was working very hard to mask. "Someone wants me dead, Doctor. Someone with resources, motivation, and apparently the patience to orchestrate an elaborate poisoning in an Egyptian tomb while making it look like I disturbed something that should have remained buried."
"Do you know who?" Dr. Vaughn asked.
"I have seventeen working theories," Lex replied, "ranging from 'business competitors who've decided hostile takeover should be interpreted literally' to 'international organizations who think my technological developments represent existential threats to global stability.' The truth is probably somewhere between 'corporate assassination' and 'someone really didn't want me finding this statue.'"
Dr. Vaughn moved to the bar and poured herself something that looked expensive and probably tasted like regret. "And the statue is worth all this?"
"The statue," Lex said, returning his attention to the artifact with renewed focus, "represents something I've been searching for since I was fourteen years old and realized that the meteor shower that destroyed Smallville, killed my hair, and gave me a lifetime of medical complications might have been less 'natural disaster' and more 'cosmic event with implications that no one wants to acknowledge.'"
"The Smallville meteor shower," Dr. Vaughn said carefully, like she was confirming details for a case file that was about to become very complicated.
"October 1989," Lex confirmed. "Meteors containing mineral compositions that defy conventional analysis. Radiation signatures that don't match any known stellar sources. And most interestingly—" He gestured at the statue. "—hieroglyphs from 1500 BCE describing objects that fell from the sky carrying 'the fire of distant suns.'"
"You think the Egyptians encountered something similar to the Smallville meteors," Dr. Vaughn said slowly.
"I think the Smallville meteors weren't the first time Earth has been visited by materials from elsewhere," Lex replied. "I think the Egyptians found something, documented it, and built an entire religious framework around objects that defied their understanding of natural philosophy. And I think this statue is a map—or a key—or possibly both—to understanding what those objects actually were and where they came from."
Dr. Vaughn took a long drink. "You're talking about aliens."
"I'm talking about the possibility that Earth has been receiving cosmic deliveries for thousands of years," Lex corrected. "Whether those deliveries were intentional or accidental, whether they contained biological material or just interesting rocks—those are questions I'm very interested in answering."
"And you think this statue will help?"
"I think this statue survived thirty-five hundred years without degradation, emits low-level radiation that my equipment can detect but can't classify, and is carved with symbols that describe 'guardians from beyond the stars who would arrive when judgment was required,'" Lex said. "Which sounds either like profound mystical prophecy or ancient Egyptians had contact with something they interpreted through their existing religious framework."
He leaned back in his chair with the careful movements of someone whose body was reminding them that mortality was a persistent concern. "And yes, Doctor, I think that's worth the risk of assassination, poisoning, and requiring blood purification every seventy-two hours for the rest of my potentially abbreviated life."
"You're insane," Dr. Vaughn observed.
"I'm *curious*," Lex corrected. "There's a difference. Insane implies I've lost perspective on risk assessment. Curious implies I've decided that understanding the fundamental nature of cosmic intervention in human history is worth accepting considerable personal danger."
"Those sound functionally identical to me."
"That's because you chose medicine instead of philosophy," Lex replied with a slight smile. "Very practical, very boring, and it's kept me alive when I should be dead, so I'm not complaining about your career choices."
Dr. Vaughn finished her drink and moved to check various medical monitoring equipment that was apparently tracking Lex's vital signs with the intensity of NASA monitoring a space launch. "Your next purification treatment is in sixty-one hours. I'd recommend we schedule it earlier—your body's showing signs of toxin accumulation faster than the models predicted."
"Which suggests?" Lex asked.
"Which suggests that the neurotoxin did more damage than we initially assessed," Dr. Vaughn replied. "Your organs are working harder to filter compounds that shouldn't be there, which means they're fatiguing faster, which means the seventy-two-hour window is optimistic."
"How optimistic?"
"I'd say we should be treating you every sixty hours instead," Dr. Vaughn said bluntly. "Maybe fifty-five if we want to be safe. Your body is degrading faster than the treatment protocol can fully compensate for."
Lex absorbed this information with the calm of someone who'd already accepted that his body was a temporary vehicle for his consciousness and maintenance requirements were just part of operating biological machinery. "Then we'll adjust the schedule. What else?"
"You need actual rest," Dr. Vaughn said firmly. "Not 'staring at statues while contemplating cosmic mysteries' rest. Actual sleep. Eight hours minimum. Your brain activity shows signs of exhaustion that no amount of caffeine or stimulants can compensate for."
"Sleep is for people who don't have limited time and extensive questions about the nature of reality," Lex replied.
"Sleep is for people who want their organs to continue functioning," Dr. Vaughn corrected. "Mr. Luthor, I'm not making a suggestion. I'm telling you—as your doctor and the person responsible for keeping you alive—that if you don't sleep, your body will shut down regardless of treatment protocols. You can die conscious and curious, or you can sleep and survive long enough to find answers. Your choice."
Lex looked at her for a long moment, clearly weighing his options with the calculating precision of someone who'd spent his life treating decisions like chess moves.
"Fine," he said finally. "Eight hours. But I want the statue secured in the analysis chamber, and I want preliminary spectroscopy results when I wake up. If I'm going to waste time sleeping, I want progress happening while I'm unconscious."
"Deal," Dr. Vaughn said, already moving to adjust various medical equipment. "Though I'd argue that staying alive isn't wasting time—it's actually the prerequisite for everything else you want to accomplish."
"Debatable," Lex muttered, but he was already standing with the careful movements of someone whose body was filing formal complaints with management about working conditions. "How long until we land?"
"Six hours," Dr. Vaughn replied. "We're heading directly to the Metropolis facility where we can run more comprehensive tests and set up your treatment schedule. I'd recommend against immediate return to Smallville—the environmental conditions there seem to exacerbate your symptoms."
"Because of the residual meteor radiation," Lex said, not a question.
"Because of something," Dr. Vaughn confirmed. "Whether it's meteor radiation, environmental toxins, or just the universe having opinions about your hometown, Smallville makes your condition worse. Metropolis is safer."
Lex nodded, already calculating routes, schedules, and contingencies with the mental efficiency of someone who'd turned paranoia into an operational philosophy. "What about the other matter? The one I asked you to investigate before we left?"
Dr. Vaughn's expression shifted to something more guarded. "The Smallville incidents you flagged? The impossible rescues and unexplained phenomena?"
"Yes."
"I have preliminary data," she said carefully. "But Mr. Luthor, I should mention that what I found raises more questions than it answers, and some of those questions venture into territory that conventional science can't adequately address."
"My favorite kind of questions," Lex said with satisfaction. "Brief summary?"
Dr. Vaughn pulled out a tablet and began scrolling through data with the efficiency of someone who'd learned to present complex information to impatient billionaires. "Seventeen documented incidents in the past eighteen months. All involving situations that should have resulted in casualties but didn't. Vehicle accidents where victims report being pulled from wreckage by someone moving too fast to identify. Building fires where survivors describe being carried to safety by 'a blur.' Agricultural equipment malfunctions that should have been fatal but somehow resolved without injury."
"Consistent characteristics?" Lex asked, his fatigue apparently forgotten in the face of interesting data.
"Speed," Dr. Vaughn said. "Every incident involves someone—or something—moving faster than human capabilities should allow. Strength beyond normal human limitations. And most interestingly, a complete absence of physical evidence. No fingerprints, no DNA, no forensic traces that would allow conventional identification."
"Someone's being very careful," Lex observed.
"Someone's being impossibly careful," Dr. Vaughn corrected. "The level of precision required to intervene in these situations without leaving evidence suggests either extensive training in forensic awareness or abilities that simply don't generate the kind of physical traces we'd normally expect."
"Or both."
"Or both," Dr. Vaughn agreed. "Which brings me to the really interesting part. Three weeks ago, all the incidents stopped. Completely. No more impossible rescues, no more unexplained interventions, nothing."
"Three weeks ago," Lex repeated slowly. "That's when Jonathan Kent had his accident."
"And when his son Clark disappeared," Dr. Vaughn confirmed. "The timing is... notable."
Lex moved to the window, looking out at clouds illuminated by moonlight with the expression of someone who'd just seen several puzzle pieces click into place and didn't like the picture they were forming.
"The Kent boy," he said quietly. "The one who arrived during the meteor shower. The one Jonathan and Martha found and raised as their own despite him quite obviously being different from every other child in Smallville."
"You think Clark Kent is responsible for the rescues?" Dr. Vaughn asked carefully.
"I think Clark Kent is the single most interesting person in Smallville," Lex replied. "I think he arrived in that meteor shower carrying genetic material from elsewhere. I think he's been developing abilities as he matured under Earth's sun—abilities that would explain impossible speed, strength, and the capacity to intervene in dangerous situations without leaving forensic evidence."
"That's a lot of speculation based on limited data."
"It's informed speculation based on patterns," Lex corrected. "Jonathan Kent's accident happens, Clark disappears, and suddenly all the impossible rescues stop. Either we have the world's most elaborate coincidence, or we have a situation where someone with extraordinary abilities has been removed from the field through deliberate intervention."
"You think someone targeted the Kent family," Dr. Vaughn said.
"I think someone wanted Clark Kent isolated, vulnerable, and separated from his support structure," Lex replied. "The question is why, and more importantly, who has the capability to orchestrate something that sophisticated."
He turned back to the statue, examining it with renewed interest. "The Egyptians wrote about guardians from the stars. About beings with abilities beyond human limitation who would arrive when judgment was required. What if that wasn't mythology? What if that was documentation of actual contact with something from elsewhere?"
"You think Clark Kent is one of these guardians?"
"I think Clark Kent is evidence that Earth has been receiving visitors for considerably longer than modern science wants to acknowledge," Lex said. "And I think someone else has figured that out and decided intervention was necessary."
Dr. Vaughn was quiet for a moment, processing implications that ventured well beyond her medical training. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to sleep for eight hours because you've convinced me that organ failure would be inconvenient," Lex replied. "And then I'm going to start asking very pointed questions about what happened to Clark Kent, who targeted his family, and whether the guardians the Egyptians wrote about are preparing for judgment that humanity isn't ready to face."
"That sounds ominous."
"It sounds *fascinating*," Lex corrected. "Ominous would be if I didn't care about finding answers before my body's maintenance requirements become impossible to manage. As it stands, I'm racing against my own biology to understand cosmic mysteries. Very motivating, really."
He moved toward the private sleeping quarters at the rear of the jet, pausing at the doorway to look back at Dr. Vaughn. "When I wake up, I want everything you can compile on Clark Kent. His arrival, his development, any incidents that might indicate extraordinary capabilities. Medical records if you can access them legally, school performance data, anything that might explain what he is and why someone wanted him removed from Smallville."
"That's going to take considerable resources," Dr. Vaughn observed.
"I have considerable resources," Lex replied. "And currently, I have considerable motivation to understand whether the boy who arrived in the meteor shower is connected to ancient Egyptian prophecies about guardians from the stars. If those two things are related, if Clark Kent represents evidence of cosmic intervention in human history..." He smiled. "Then my seventy-two-hour maintenance schedule seems like a minor inconvenience compared to the implications of what I might discover."
"You're insane," Dr. Vaughn repeated.
"I'm *dying*," Lex corrected. "There's a difference. Insane implies I've lost my grip on reality. Dying implies I've decided that understanding reality is worth accepting mortality as the cost of admission."
He disappeared into the sleeping quarters, leaving Dr. Vaughn alone with the statue, the medical equipment tracking a billionaire's failing organs, and the growing certainty that her employer's curiosity was going to lead them all somewhere between "absolutely fascinating" and "catastrophically dangerous."
She poured herself another drink—expensive scotch that tasted like regret and poor career decisions—and pulled up her secure files on Clark Kent.
If Lex Luthor wanted answers, she'd get him answers.
Even if those answers led to questions about cosmic guardians, ancient prophecies, and whether humanity was prepared for judgment from beings who made impossibility look routine.
Outside the window, clouds parted to reveal stars that seemed to shine with particular intensity, as though the universe itself was watching with interest to see what happened when human curiosity collided with cosmic mysteries that had been waiting thousands of years to be discovered.
The private jet continued its journey toward Metropolis, carrying a dying billionaire, an ancient statue, and questions that would change everything.
Three weeks ago, something had happened in Smallville that removed a guardian from the field.
Lex Luthor was going to find out what, why, and most importantly—whether that guardian could be convinced that understanding cosmic mysteries was worth answering a few questions from someone whose biology was on a very tight maintenance schedule.
The game was just beginning.
And knowing Lex Luthor's luck, it was going to be absolutely fascinating right up until the moment it became catastrophically dangerous.
But then again, that was just how he preferred it.
Sleep could wait eight hours.
The universe could wait until he was ready.
And Clark Kent—wherever he was, whatever he'd become—was about to discover that Lex Luthor's curiosity was considerably more persistent than conventional mortality.
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