Meteor Freak
Epilogue
The leather recliner groaned as the Trickster dropped into it, one leg thrown over the armrest. He fished the remote from between the cushions, gave it a theatrical twirl between his fingers, and aimed it at the flatscreen mounted above the fireplace.
The television blinked to life.
A bowl of popcorn materialized on the side table. Buttered with extra salt. The good kind, not that microwave garbage. He grabbed a fistful and shoved it into his mouth, chewing loudly in the empty room.
On screen, static. Then a slow fade-in.
"Let's see what we've got," he muttered, settling deeper into the chair.
The image resolved into an aerial shot of Metropolis. Gleaming towers. Crawling traffic. The camera pushed in, swooping between buildings, past the slowly rotating globe of the Daily Planet, diving toward the pedestrians at street level.
The Trickster popped another kernel into his mouth.
"Ah, Metropolis." He propped his feet up. "City of tomorrow. The one-day home of the big blue boy scout. And currently... Not what we're looking for. He's not there yet, one day though." He changed the channel. "That's better." He snapped his fingers, and the image shifted, zooming until it found what he was looking for.
The picture settled on a familiar face.
The Trickster grinned.
"Roll it."
The tractor idled in the south field, its engine ticking over, meaning Jonathan had finally gotten the fuel line sorted. Sprinklers clicked and hissed along the irrigation rows, throwing arcs of water across the young corn. The stalks were knee-high now, green and stubborn, pushing up through Kansas dirt that had been dry for weeks before the rain came.
Martha sat on the porch with a glass of lemonade balanced on the swell of her belly. Five months along and she'd stopped being able to hide it, not that she'd wanted to. She had one hand resting on the curve of it, fingers spread, feeling for the little kicks that had started last Tuesday and hadn't stopped since. Jonathan said the baby would be a soccer player. Martha said the baby would be whatever it wanted, and Jonathan kissed her forehead and agreed.
Emily Dinsmore was pulling weeds from the flower bed along the front walk. She'd appointed herself gardener three weeks ago, after Martha mentioned the marigolds were looking sad, and she'd attacked the project. Her overalls were dirt-streaked. Her braids were coming loose. She was talking to the flowers, which Martha pretended not to hear.
The truck came up the drive at quarter past four.
Emily's head snapped up. She dropped the trowel and was running before the engine cut. Clark stepped out, and she hit him at full speed, and he caught her the way he always did, hands under her arms, swinging her up and around in a wide circle that made her shriek.
"You're getting too big for this," he said.
"No I'm not."
"You're not," he agreed, and set her on his hip. His smile was easy.
Martha watched from the porch and didn't say anything. Didn't need to.
The passenger door opened. Kyla stepped out, stretched, rolled her neck. She'd been asleep for the last hour of the drive, her jacket balled up against the window. She came around the front of the truck and stopped when she saw Emily still clinging to Clark like a barnacle.
"Hey, Em."
Emily looked at her. Looked at Clark. Looked back at Kyla.
"Can I have a ride?"
Kyla glanced at Clark. He set Emily down. Kyla stepped back from the truck, rolled her shoulders once, and shifted. The change was fast and fluid, wolf replacing woman in a single breath. She was big in this form, silver-gray fur, broad through the chest, her ears pricked forward.
Emily climbed on carefully, the way she'd been taught, fingers gripping the thick fur at Kyla's shoulders. Kyla turned and loped across the yard, easy and smooth, Emily laughing on her back.
Clark watched them go. He put his hands in his pockets and walked up to the porch.
"Hey, Mom."
"Hey, sweetheart." Martha took a sip of her lemonade. "Hungry?"
"Starving."
The Trickster hit the button. The screen froze on Clark's back as he climbed the porch steps, then dissolved into static.
"Well, isn't that just precious." He tossed a piece of popcorn into the air and caught it in his mouth. "The Kents. America's sweethearts. Got the farm, got the kid, got another one on the way. Got the wolf girl doing laps around the yard with little Emily riding shotgun." He chewed, swallowed, grabbed another handful. "Whole thing's so wholesome it makes my teeth hurt."
He flipped through channels. Static. Static. A brief flash of something that might have been a weather report. Static.
"And Clark." The Trickster settled on a channel showing nothing but a blue screen. "Clark Kent. Future Man of Steel. Last Son of Krypton. Future guy who wears his underwear on the outside and somehow gets taken seriously." He pointed at the screen with a popcorn-greasy finger. "Right now he's what, sixteen? Seventeen? Biggest problem in his life is whether Mom's making pot roast or meatloaf for dinner."
He wiped his hand on the armrest.
"Kid has no idea what's coming. None of them do. Except Tyson. But that's the thing about happy endings." He found the remote again, thumb hovering over the channel button. "They're only endings if you stop watching."
He pressed the button. "Let's check in on our newest hero."
The blue screen vanished. A new image started to resolve.
The Torch office smelled like toner ink and cold coffee. Chloe Sullivan stood on a swivel chair, one knee braced against the desk for balance, a red pushpin clamped between her teeth. The corkboard stretched across the entire back wall, layered three deep in places with clippings, printouts, photographs, and hand-drawn connection lines in four colors of Sharpie. She'd run out of green last week and switched to purple, which she actually liked better.
The newest addition was still warm from the printer.
She smoothed it flat against the only bare patch of cork left in the upper right quadrant, right between a grainy cell phone photo of scorch marks on the Luthor fertilizer plant and a six-month-old article about cattle mutations in Lowell County. The pushpin went through the top center.
SMALLVILLE LEDGER — LOCAL SECTION
MASKED FIGURE EXTINGUISHES MAIN STREET BLAZE
A fire that broke out at Fordman's Store late Thursday evening was extinguished before Smallville Fire & Rescue arrived on scene, according to multiple witnesses. The blaze, believed to have originated from faulty wiring in the building's basement, engulfed the store's storefront and threatened adjacent businesses along Main Street.
At least four witnesses reported seeing a figure in dark clothing enter the burning structure approximately six minutes before emergency services arrived. Security camera footage from the Talon theater, obtained by the Ledger, shows an individual moving through heavy smoke without apparent difficulty. The figure emerged carrying store owner Harold Fordman, 63, who was treated for smoke inhalation at Smallville Medical Center and released.
The fire itself was fully suppressed by the time Engine Company 7 reached the scene. Fire Chief Dale Garrity described the suppression as "unusual," noting the absence of water damage or chemical extinguishing agents typically associated with fire suppression of that scale.
"Honestly, it looked like someone just turned it off," Garrity told reporters.
Witnesses were unable to provide a detailed description of the individual. The figure wore dark clothing and what appeared to be a face covering. The only identifiable feature noted by multiple witnesses was short blonde hair.
Anyone with information is encouraged to contact the Smallville Sheriff's Department.
Chloe stepped down from the chair and pushed it back under the desk with her hip. She stood there for a moment, arms crossed, head tilted, studying the article among its neighbors on the wall.
Short blonde hair.
She pulled a purple Sharpie from behind her ear, uncapped it, and drew a careful line from the article to a cluster of pins in the board's center. The cluster she'd labeled, in her own shorthand, VERIFIED ANOMALOUS — FRIENDLY.
Chloe smiled.
She looked left, past the fire article, past the fertilizer plant photo, to a clipping she'd pinned two weeks ago and still hadn't figured out what to do with. Smallville Register, page six, below the fold.
SMALLVILLE REGISTER
STUDENT SUSPECT IN TEACHER SLAYING HAD 'IMPOSSIBLE' ALIBIS
Ian Randall, 18, a junior at Smallville High School, remains the sole suspect in the death of woodshop instructor Gerald Frankel. However, the Lowell County Sheriff's Department has acknowledged "significant inconsistencies" in witness testimony that have complicated the investigation.
Multiple witnesses placed Randall at the scene of the crime on the evening of November 14th. However, at least three other witnesses have provided sworn statements placing Randall at a separate location across town at the same time. Security camera footage obtained from a gas station on Route 90 appears to corroborate the alibi, showing an individual matching Randall's description purchasing a drink at 9:47 PM, four minutes after the estimated time of the attack on Frankel.
"We have credible witnesses on both sides. Either someone is lying, or there's something about this case we don't understand yet."
Randall was found deceased on school property. The cause of death has not been released. The Sheriff's Department has declined to comment on whether additional suspects are being pursued.
Chloe had drawn a purple line from the Randall article to a question mark she'd scrawled on a sticky note.
The sticky note said, in her handwriting: HOW WAS HE IN TWO PLACES AT THE SAME TIME?
She hadn't answered it yet. But the line connected to the same central cluster as everything else.
She capped the Sharpie, dropped into her desk chair, and opened her laptop.
The Trickster changed the channel. The image of Chloe and her corkboard dissolved into static, then settled back into the blue holding screen.
"Chloe Sullivan. Intrepid girl reporter. Wall of Weird enthusiast. And now... Metahuman. Courtesy of our boy Tyson's little meteor rock cocktail."
He crunched loudly, talking through a full mouth.
"Fire and ice. Gotta love the classics. Kid walks into a burning building, puts it out with her bare hands, carries a guy twice her size to safety, and the best description anyone can give the cops is 'short blonde hair.'" He snorted. "Smallville. Town full of people who wouldn't notice a UFO if it landed on their mailbox. Which, historically speaking..."
He waved the thought away.
"But here's the fun part. She's got the powers now. She's got the investigation board. She's got that look in her eye, the one that says 'I'm going to figure this out and nobody's going to stop me.'" He pointed at the blank screen. "So what's next? Every hero needs a name. Something catchy. Something that looks good on a headline."
He stroked his chin in mock contemplation.
"Frost-Fire? Too on the nose. The Flaming Iceberg?" He made a face. "Sounds like a cocktail at a bad tiki bar. Eh, she'll figure it out. They always do."
He reached for the remote again. He changed the channel.
The image that resolved was grainy, washed out, shot from a distance like security footage pulled from a camera nobody remembered installing. Night. A cemetery. Old iron and stone, a heavy door set into a hillside, covered in symbols.
The Trickster stopped chewing.
Two figures moved through the frame. One tall, one shorter. Sam and Dean Winchester, covered in dirt and someone else's blood, fighting their way through a mess that should have killed them three times over.
"Oh," the Trickster said quietly. He set the popcorn down.
The Colt was in the lock. The devil's gate shuddered, groaned, and cracked open. Something poured out of it, a sound that wasn't a sound, a pressure that made the television speakers buzz and distort. The camera shook.
Then Dean had the Colt back in his hand. He was on the ground, bleeding from somewhere above his left eye, and Azazel was standing over him with yellow eyes and that smile, that awful smile that said he'd already won.
Dean pulled the trigger.
The bullet hit Azazel dead center in the chest. The yellow light behind those eyes flickered, stuttered, and went out like a candle flame pinched between two fingers. The body dropped.
The Trickster picked up his popcorn again.
"Atta boy, Dean."
The Trickster watched the static eat the image of Azazel's corpse, then leaned back and blew out a long breath through his teeth.
"So the Colt still popped the lock. Good for Dean. Bad for..." He circled his hand vaguely at the screen. "Everyone else on the planet, give or take."
He picked through the popcorn bowl, found a half-popped kernel, and bit down on it with a sharp crack.
"See, here's the thing about devil's gates. You kill the guy who opened it, great, gold star, have a cookie. But the door still opened. Even if it was just a crack, even if it was just for a few seconds." He held up his thumb and forefinger, barely a sliver of space between them. "That's all it takes. Things got out. Things that were buried for a reason."
He tossed the kernel shell into the bowl.
"Lilith's topside now. Ruby's already sharpening her knives and picking out her best 'trust me, Sam' face." He dropped his voice into a saccharine falsetto. "'I'm here to help. I'm different. Drink this, it'll make you strong.'" He let the impression die. "And Sam'll buy it, because Sam always buys it, because that kid's got a heart three sizes too big and a blind spot you could park a semi in."
The Trickster stared at the blue screen for a long moment. His jaw worked.
"Sixty-six seals. That's the play. Break enough of them, the cage opens, and my brother walks free. And my brother takes a vessel to fight him. And it leads to the end."
He shrugged and changed the channel.
"Might as well enjoy while we can."
The static cleared into a sun-washed shot of Main Street, Smallville. The camera passed the florist, Lana's aunt, with the sidewalk buckets of sunflowers, past two kids on bikes who nearly clipped a parking meter, and settled on the Beanery's front window. The afternoon crowd was visible through the glass, a dozen people nursing coffees and pretending to work on laptops.
"Ah." The Trickster sat up straighter, swinging his leg off the armrest. He grabbed the refilled popcorn bowl and pulled it into his lap. "Now this is the good stuff. The telenovela. The drama. The romance. Let's see how it goes."
The Beanery was half-full for a Tuesday afternoon. Lana Lang sat at a corner table with her back to the wall, a habit she hadn't had three months ago. Her coffee had gone lukewarm. She'd ordered it twenty minutes early on purpose, needing the time to sit with her own thoughts before the conversation she'd asked for.
She saw her come through the door and raised a hand. Jeans, a fitted denim jacket over a blue shirt, blonde hair pulled back. She stopped at the table's edge.
"Hey. You wanted to talk with me?"
Lana stood. "Kara, hi." She stepped forward and pulled the taller woman into a quick hug, one arm around her shoulders, brief and warm. She stepped back and gestured to the empty chair. "Please, sit."
Kara sat. She didn't order anything, just settled into the chair and waited.
Lana wrapped both hands around her mug.
"I wanted to thank you," she said. "For what you did. Helping to free me."
Kara shook her head. "It was mostly Tyson."
"He told me everything that happened." Lana's voice was steady, but her grip on the mug tightened. "All of it. He was alone, Kara. He was in over his head, dealing with Isobel, dealing with the possessions, dealing with Kal, trying to figure out how to get me back without..." She stopped. Took a breath. "And you were there for him when it mattered. You were there for me when it mattered."
Kara looked at her for a long moment. Whatever argument she'd been assembling, she let it go.
"You're welcome."
Lana nodded. She released the mug and sat back.
"I know we don't know each other well. I know you're here because of Clark, and because of Tyson, and you've got your own reasons for being in Smallville that aren't really my business." She met Kara's eyes directly. "But I wanted you to hear it from me. Not secondhand. Not through anyone else."
Kara tilted her head slightly. "You didn't have to do this in person."
"Yeah," Lana said. "I did."
"Tyson said you were stubborn."
Lana laughed. "Tyson says a lot of things."
Kara's head turned slightly toward the front window, tracking something Lana couldn't hear yet.
"Speaking of which," Kara said. "Here he comes."
A few seconds later Lana heard it too, the low snarl of an engine coming down Main Street considerably faster than the posted twenty-five. It downshifted somewhere near the pharmacy, the sound rolling off the storefronts.
Lana set her mug down. A slow smile spread across her face.
"Wanna see his head explode?"
Kara considered her. "What did you have in mind?"
"Let's really mess with him."
Kara glanced at the window, then back at Lana. The corner of her mouth pulled up.
"I'm game."
The black Porsche swung into a space in front of the Talon. Tyson climbed out, checked the street both ways, and crossed toward the Beanery. He pushed through the door, spotted Kara at the back table, and started weaving between chairs. Halfway there, he slowed.
Two Karas sat at the table. One in a blue shirt. One in red. Identical down to the part in their hair, both watching him approach with the same neutral expression.
Tyson stopped at the edge of the table.
"What is this?" he asked. "Should I be worried?"
"You should be worried," the Kara in the blue shirt said.
"Very worried," the Kara in the red shirt said. "One of us is your girlfriend. You have to pick which."
Tyson laughed. He hooked a chair with his foot but didn't sit. "Oh. Really? I just get to pick? And end up with one of you?"
Red shirt Kara looked at blue shirt Kara, who shrugged. Red shirt shrugged too, mirroring the motion a half-beat behind. They both turned back to him.
Tyson held his hands out, palms up, one toward each woman.
Neither took them.
"No cheating by stealing powers," red-shirted Kara said.
"Fine, fine." He dropped his hands and pulled the chair around, straddling it backward, forearms folded across the top. He studied them both like a man reading a menu.
He turned to red-shirted Kara first.
"Kara. You were one of the first people I met when I came to Smallville. The moment I saw you on that bus, it was like love at first sight. I lost myself in those blue eyes of yours." His voice dropped the joking edge somewhere in the middle of the sentence and didn't pick it back up. "The depth of your strength is unfathomable. And I don't mean that you could rip me in half, although, noted. I mean what you've survived. What you've endured. The loss of your people. Your whole world. And you're still here, still helping. You still have room in your heart for me." He shook his head slowly. "It's humbling."
Red shirt Kara's expression didn't move, but her hands, folded on the table, tightened slightly against each other.
Tyson turned to the blue shirt.
"Lana. You were one of the first people I met when I came to Smallville. You're beautiful, obviously. Well. Obvious when you're actually wearing your own face. Not that Kara isn't beautiful." He waved a hand. "Anyway. The first time I saw you, you helped Clark pick up his books after he dropped them. Nobody was watching. Well, I was, and Chloe, and Pete, oh, and Whitney too, but you know what I mean. You just did it. That's one of your best features. You put other people ahead of yourself without even thinking about it. And your strength runs deep too. You couldn't tear me apart, but what you've survived is nothing short of remarkable. You lost your parents when you were young. You've been targeted by meteor freaks. You got taken over by a four-hundred-year-old witch with consent issues. And you're still pushing forward. Still strong. Still smiling."
Blue shirt Kara's jaw shifted.
Tyson leaned back and looked between them.
"You're both amazing women. I'm lucky to have had either of you in my life." He drummed his fingers on the chair back. "Honestly, I can't even choose. I mean, are you sure one of you is actually my girlfriend? You're not just both Kara, and you found some weird new Kryptonite that split you in half? Because that happens. That's definitely a thing that would happen around here. Wait. If Kara was my girlfriend and she got split in half, doesn't that mean you're both my girlfriend?" He pointed between them. "Which one of you even made up this game? I bet it was the red shirt."
"Stop stalling," blue shirt Kara said, "and pick."
"You're definitely Kara," Tyson said, pointing at the blue shirt.
"Why did you call me Kara, then?" red shirt Kara asked.
Tyson leaned across the table and kissed red shirt Kara. It was unhurried, deliberate, the kiss of a man with no doubt in his body. When he pulled back, red shirt Kara was blinking at him.
"Just to mess with you," he said. "You do know I can tell you apart, right?"
"How?" blue shirt Kara asked.
"Auras." He tapped his temple. "Yours has been that bright gold since the day I met you. Like the sun. Yours is green. Like the meteor rocks. Lana."
The red shirt Kara sagged, Kara's features melting down into Lana Lang's. She slumped back in her chair, arms crossed.
"Damn. I try to get you one time, and it's not even fun."
Tyson pulled his chair around and sat down properly next to her.
"You already had me."
Lana's shape rippled again. Suddenly Tyson was sitting next to himself, same jacket, same jawline, same posture. The second Tyson spread his arms wide.
"Oh, I'm so clever. Look at me with my Porsche. I'm just like Lex." Lana's impression of his voice was pitched somewhere between a game show host and a used car salesman. She turned to Kara. "Hey babe, wanna come up to my apartment? I can do this crazy thing with my electricity."
Kara cracked up. Actually cracked up, head tipping back, one hand flat on the table.
"That's a terrible impression of me," Tyson said. "And Lex's Porsche is silver, mine is black. I'm more like Mike Lowrey."
Lana kept going, gesturing grandly at the room with his hands. "Oh no, two Karas. Whatever shall I do? I must get two girlfriends then."
Kara laughed harder, wiping at her eye with the heel of her hand. Lana let the disguise dissolve and settled back into herself, looking enormously pleased.
Tyson puckered his lips and rocked his head side to side.
"Guess I can't argue against that one."
"Yeah," Kara said, getting the last of the laughter out of her system. "It's not like we'd let you have both of us." She caught her breath and added, "I don't like to share."
"What if you don't have to share?" he countered.
Kara's laughter died down into something more careful. She looked at him sideways. "What are you talking about?"
Tyson nodded toward the window. Across the street, the passenger door of the Porsche swung open, and another Tyson stepped out.
Lana's mouth fell open. "No way," she mumbled.
The second Tyson crossed the street with the same loose stride, pushed through the Beanery door, and walked up to the table.
"Hey," he said, and sat down next to Kara.
Kara and Lana both turned to the first Tyson with identical expressions that said, Explain. Now.
"Mr. Frankel, the shop teacher who died?" Tyson said. "Turns out he was killed by a meteor freak whose power was duplication. A built-in alibi to hide what he was doing." He tapped his temple again. "What he couldn't hide, just like you two, was his aura."
Lana pressed a hand over her eyes. "You're incorrigible."
The second Tyson looked at Kara. "So..."
Kara looked across the table at Lana and shrugged. Lana shrugged back.
The second Tyson leaned in, and Kara accepted his kiss.
The television clicked off.
The Trickster sat in the dark for a moment, the popcorn bowl balanced on his stomach, the remote loose in his hand.
Then he started laughing.
"Duplication." He shook his head, still chuckling, and pointed the remote at the dead screen like he was toasting it. "The kid walks into a two-girlfriend problem and solves it with more Tysons. Of course. Why choose when you can carry the one?"
He tipped the bowl up, funneled the last crumbs and unpopped kernels into his mouth, and set it aside.
"You know, I've been doing this a long time. Long, long time. I've watched heroes brood on rooftops, I've watched them nail themselves to their own crosses, I've watched them agonize over choices for entire seasons. And this guy shows up, gets handed the same tired love-triangle script everybody gets handed, looks at it, and says nah. Rewrites the ending. Everybody wins. Nobody cries."
He snapped his fingers, and the recliner vanished. The room began folding up around him, walls peeling away into soft golden light.
"I gotta say it." He grinned, walking toward nothing in particular, hands in his pockets. "I like his style."
He snapped his fingers one last time, and the light went out.
— Meteor Freak —
Final Author's Note
That's all, folks. This is the first time I've written an ending for a story. Meteor Freak was the last fanfiction I started, but the first one I ended. I never intended to write so much of it. The first episode was a fun diversion, something I did while bored one week when I was ahead on writing Rogue and Star Jumper. But I enjoyed it so much that I wrote a few more. I intended to keep it light and easy, episodic, one season. Short. But then I wrote another.
Meteor Freak, imo, is the best of my fanfictions. It has the benefit of all the experience and mistakes I made and learned from with the others. But because it started so much later, it was also the easiest to tie up.
I would've written another season, but I've been making a real push to move away from fanfictions. Over the next several months I'll be winding down Rogue and Star Jumper as well. If you haven't checked out those stories and like those IPs, they're posted on every site this story is on, under the same author name. If you really like my stuff, I have another pen name where I've released published works, and you can check out the Patron site to find those. Also, there will likely be a Meteor Freak bonus chapter at some point. But that won't be posted on the public sites.
I hope you enjoyed this story, and thank you for sticking around until the end. Carry On… My Wayward Son
Behind the Scenes
- Tyson was immune to Isobel's binding because of his Perk, Like A Fortress. He wasn't aware of his sheet, but it was as he described to Isobel, a leap of faith. The Character Sheet was posted way back with the first chapter, but I'll reference that perk here so you don't have to go back and look for it.
[400] Like A Fortress (Smallville)
Honestly, can anyone tell me how many times Clark's mind has been affected by powers, abilities, or materials? I have personally counted at least four; having his mind swapped with Lionel's, the silver K, Desiree Atkins, and Red K, and again those are just the ones I remember. And you can easily enter this jump without protection but honestly, why would you? Complete with protection from having your mind swapped or possessed, having it read and most importantly having it manipulated and this includes from powers or items or magic, etc. Whether it's from Darkseid, The Devil, or hell for you Kryptonians Red and Silver K. No matter, your mind and memories are now YOUR mind and memories; safe and sound, now and forever. Comes with a toggle, allowing you to shut off parts of this ability while keeping other parts active or toggling off the entire power.
- The duplication power and story surrounding it in the Epilogue came from Smallville Season 2, Episode 9: Dichotic. Ian Randall, played by Jonathan Taylor Thomas, tries dating both Lana and Chloe at the same time. It felt like a fitting way to tie things up, even if it happened off-screen. I know it might read as a cop-out; Tyson didn't have to choose between Lana and Kara, and he could have both. But I tried to make it clear that Tyson did choose. I won't make you go back and read it to catch the subtext, but there were two keying moments.
During the word-vomit when Tyson visits Kara in Metropolis.
When Tyson is choosing between the two 'Karas' and kisses, then sits next to the Lana-kara.
Yup, he 'chose' Lana.
- The Supernatural scene in the Epilogue was based on the Season Two Finale, All Hell Breaks Loose: Part 2.
- The Methodology behind Meteor Freak:
I usually make outlines (some very rough and broad) for Seasons of my stories, so I have a rough direction as I write. With Meteor Freak, I did something different. I made a spreadsheet of every episode with a Meteor Freak. Then I tried to arrange them, or pair them up in a sensible way, deleting powers that were too strange or uninteresting. I didn't want everything to be done chronologically, so I planned to have seasons 1-4 smashed into one year.
- The Things I never got to:
A college season which would've led into Clark being Superman and lots of Metropolis/Gotham crossovers. At this time in Smallville, Meteor Freaks became less common, so the gaps would've been filled with enemies from the movies, cartoons, and comics. I tried to take this concept and smash it into the finale arc, which is how we got the Batman/Joker/Harly/Ivy stuff.
Introducing the other Justice League members seen in Smallville, probably adding the movie version of Wonder Woman, and Grant Gustin's Flash for crossover goodness. I've been watching the new Lanterns series, good so far, definitely something I would've found a way to fit in.
As for love interests, it was supposed to be Kara -> Alicia -> Lana, with the Lana culmination being that Vampire episode, which also didn't happen. Not getting Alicia into the story is my biggest regret. Alicia is best-girl. Fight me.
The Jason/Dean link seemed like a fun thing to play with; I didn't plan it initially, just ran with it and tried to fill in the lore as I went. There was a strong possibility that I would've tied the Lana/vampire story in with Adam Knight, who was played by Ian Somerhalder, ie Damon on The Vampire Diaries. This was never more than a passing thought… And now that I'm thinking about it, the Lana/Isobel storyline is kinda similar to the Elena/Katherine storyline… huh, never noticed until just now.