The rising sun broke through the darkness, painting the wheat fields a honey-gold.
A breeze rolled across, stirring wave after wave through the stalks. A few speckled hens pecked leisurely in front of the barn, while not far off, the windmill turned steadily, casting its rhythmic shadow.
It looked like nothing more than an ordinary summer morning.
Until—
A black Chevrolet tore down the muddy country road, shattering the peace like a blot of grime smeared across a painting.
"Goddamn it, this road!"
The front door slammed open, and a polished pair of Oxford shoes landed straight in a puddle.
"Did the local officials spend all the taxpayers' money feeding pigs?" The slick-haired young agent's face darkened as mud splattered up his $800 tailored trousers. "My pants! Damn bastards—don't let me find out who's in charge of this backwater, or I'll kick his ass with old Grandpa Tom's boot!"
"Can you keep it down, Vank?"
From the passenger seat, a graying man stepped out. Agent Smith removed his sunglasses and drew a long breath.
"Ahh… wonderful."
He squinted toward the endless waves of wheat. "Smells just like the cornfields back home in Nebraska. My father always used to say—"
"Mr. Smith."
"That thing probably blew up right here." Vank shot the old man a glare. "Every breath you're taking might be laced with toxins."
Smith's face froze.
Then—"Cough! Cough! Cough!"
He hacked violently, nearly coughing out a lung, fumbling for a handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth. Only after a long struggle did he rasp, "So… this is the place?"
"Yes. Pretty close." Vank shook a brick-sized scanner that wobbled in his hand. "The exact coordinates are fuzzy—hey, old man, where are you going?"
"Youngster, this is Lesson One from us old-timers." Smith shuffled forward with a grunt. "Don't trust machines too much. A field visit always gives you the real truth."
"Let's just ask a good, honest farmer, and we'll know."
Vank blinked, only just noticing a massive shadow in the distance.
A tractor, rusted and clattering, was rolling closer. Its roar carried the thick smell of diesel—blended strangely with the sweet scent of blueberry pie.
The two agents prepared to hail the driver, but when they saw who was behind the wheel, both froze.
The morning sun lit the boy's golden hair, casting a sharp shadow beneath his lashes that made those crimson eyes look eerily bright.
One hand rested casually on the steering wheel. The other held the source of that sweet aroma—
A half-eaten blueberry pie.
Honestly, if not for the tractor, his posture would've passed for someone cruising in a luxury sports car.
In the back, a mud-smeared curly-haired boy was standing upright, swiping at butterflies with hands caked in dirt. His checkered shirt was soaked with mud, like he'd been rolling around in cement.
Now that looked like a proper farm kid.
"Reminds me of myself when I was young," Smith said wistfully with a nod. "Back when I drove a Ferrari F—"
"Old man, is that the point?" Vank groaned. "Does Kansas law even let minors drive farm machinery?"
"According to Federal Agricultural Safety Regulation Article Seventeen—"
"That's not the point! We're here to recover the thing." Smith rolled his eyes, then suddenly grinned. "But truthfully? I stole Grandpa's harvester when I was eight—hah, almost flattened half a cornfield—"
"Mr. Smith!"
Vank cut him off, exasperated. "Would you please do your damn field visit already?!"
"Vank, that kind of passion would serve you better with women."
Smith straightened his tie, pasted on his most neighborly smile, and walked toward the tractor.
"Good morning, kids! Some rain last night, wasn't it?"
The tractor screeched to a halt.
Dio leisurely licked the jam from his fingertips, crimson eyes narrowing.
Men in expensive suits showing up on a muddy country road looked about as out of place as hyenas in a chicken coop.
His father had told him—back in his younger days, there was a time when these men in black had made his life miserable.
Could they be here… to collect money again?
He summoned The World behind him, ready for anything—
"We've got reports of a weather satellite crashing nearby during last night's storm. Did you happen to see anything unusual?"
Dio's tense expression eased.
Ah, so it was about the robot.
Scared him half to death—he thought they'd come to demand money.
"No idea, grandpa," Dio shrugged. "All I remember from last night was thunder so loud the pigs wouldn't even sleep."
"?"
From the truck bed, Clark blinked in confusion.
They'd slept like babies after eating venison last night. And besides, everybody in Smallville knew the Locke farm didn't even—
"Hss~!"
Clark suddenly sucked in a sharp breath, clutching his shin as though something had just kicked him hard.
Agent Smith, oblivious to the subtle exchange and assuming the curly-haired boy just had a cramp, dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief.
He pressed on with his questioning: "We're just talking about a few large metal fragments. Nothing like that around your farm, perhaps?"
"Satellites?" Dio tilted his head with wide-eyed innocence. "You mean, like, the ones from outer space?"
"No, no. Smaller." The old agent gestured with his hands. "Might've been glowing a bit, silvery."
"Then nope. Haven't seen a thing. Maybe you should try the other farms."
"..."
Smith frowned, half-skeptical, and was about to dig deeper when Vank suddenly lifted his scanner—the radiation reading was slowly climbing.
He strode toward a patch of blackened weeds at the roadside. "Smith! The soil here—"
"Hey! Don't go there!"
Dio leapt off the tractor.
His movement was so fast even Vank couldn't track it. In the blink of an eye, the golden-haired boy was standing between him and the scanner.
"My dad says we just sprayed that patch with herbicide."
"Is that so?" Vank narrowed his eyes. "And what brand of herbicide leaves radiation burn marks on plants?"
The air froze.
Clark stood stiff in the truck bed, clumps of mud crumbling from his clenched fists.
Dio held his ground, defiant, fists of his Stand tightening with a rumble.
At that hair-trigger moment—
"Kids!"
The deep voice came from the fields. Locke appeared at the far end of the path, two sacks of fertilizer slung over his broad shoulders.
He's so tall... That was the agents' first impression of Mr. Locke.
At least one meter ninety, easy.
Vank swallowed hard.
With that build, why the hell was this guy wasting his life farming in Kansas, instead of making a name for himself on the basketball court?