The private jet hit turbulence with the enthusiasm of someone who'd decided that "smooth flight" was for peasants and today's agenda involved aggressive reminders about mortality.
Lex Luthor was approximately thirty seconds into what he'd optimistically called "eight hours of medically mandated rest" when the plane decided that physics were negotiable and gravity had strong opinions about passenger comfort.
"What the hell—" he managed, before being thrown against the cabin wall with force that reminded him his body was held together by spite and experimental medical treatments rather than actual structural integrity.
Dr. Vaughn's voice came through the intercom with professional calm that suggested she'd dealt with worse situations, though probably not while flying at 30,000 feet. "Mr. Luthor, return to your seat and secure yourself. We're experiencing unexpected atmospheric disturbances."
"Atmospheric disturbances," Lex repeated, pulling himself upright with movements that made his ribs file formal complaints. "Is that medical code for 'we're about to die in a very expensive manner'?"
"It's pilot code for 'something's happening that shouldn't be possible at this altitude,'" Dr. Vaughn corrected. "The instruments are showing wind patterns that don't match any known meteorological phenomena, and—"
The plane lurched again, harder this time, with the kind of violence that suggested the universe had taken the turbulence personally and decided to make a statement.
In the main cabin, secured in its analysis chamber, the Egyptian statue—which had survived approximately 3,500 years without significant damage—apparently decided that modern aviation was the final insult it was willing to tolerate.
It cracked.
Not a small crack. Not a hairline fracture that could be glued and passed off as "character." A proper, catastrophic structural failure that ran from base to crown like someone had taken a cosmic hammer to ancient stone and declared war on archaeological preservation.
The two halves separated with a sound like breaking bones, and something fell out from the hollow interior.
A stone. Roughly the size of a fist, carved from material that definitely wasn't Egyptian limestone.
"Doctor," Lex called, already moving toward the analysis chamber despite his body's enthusiastic protests about movement during turbulence, "I think we have a situation that transcends atmospheric disturbances."
"Mr. Luthor, secure yourself—"
The plane shuddered again, but this time the turbulence felt different. Less like natural weather patterns and more like something outside had decided the aircraft was interesting and worth examining up close.
Lex's enhanced hearing—a side effect of the neurotoxin exposure that Dr. Vaughn had mentioned but he'd been too focused on other symptoms to care about—picked up sounds that shouldn't exist at cruising altitude.
Wind. But not normal wind. Controlled wind. The kind of aerodynamic displacement that came from something large moving through atmosphere at speeds that made physics reconsider its life choices.
And then, with the casual violence of someone who'd decided doors were optional, the emergency exit ripped off its hinges.
Not opened. Not unlocked. *Ripped off* like it was made of particularly aggressive tissue paper instead of reinforced aircraft-grade materials designed to withstand pressurization differentials.
The cabin instantly transformed into a wind tunnel. Oxygen masks dropped with automated efficiency. Alarms screamed with mechanical panic. And Lex, who'd spent his entire adult life cultivating the ability to remain calm during disasters, found himself genuinely shocked by what happened next.
Someone stepped into the plane.
*Stepped*. Like walking through a door at ground level instead of entering a pressurized cabin at 20,000 feet where the outside air was cold enough to freeze exposed skin and thin enough to make breathing impossible without supplemental oxygen.
The figure was humanoid—male, tall, built with the kind of physical perfection that suggested either extensive genetic engineering or biology that operated on completely different rules than terrestrial physiology.
His eyes glowed red.
Not metaphorically. Not "reflecting light in an interesting way." Actually, genuinely glowing with internal fire that suggested either serious medical concerns or abilities that transcended conventional human limitations.
Lex tried to speak—to demand identification, to ask what the absolute fuck was happening, to deploy the kind of verbal dominance he'd spent years perfecting—but the wind stole his words and his lungs were too busy processing "we're all going to die" to manage articulation.
The figure raised one hand with casual precision, and the stone—the one that had fallen from the statue—*moved*.
Not pulled by visible force. Not affected by the wind or gravity or any conventional physical law. It simply moved through the air like it had received very polite instructions to relocate itself and had decided compliance was easier than arguing.
It slid through the cabin with impossible grace, navigating around furniture and equipment with the kind of awareness that suggested either extremely sophisticated technology or consciousness that didn't require physical contact to manipulate matter.
The stone reached the figure's outstretched hand and settled into his palm like coming home.
For approximately 0.3 seconds, Lex got a clear view of the figure's face.
Young. Late teens or early twenties. Features that were simultaneously familiar and impossible to place. And those eyes—those glowing red eyes that contained something that looked like recognition mixed with absolute certainty about purpose.
Then the figure was gone.
Not walking away. Not flying in a manner that human eyes could track. Just... *gone*. Like he'd teleported or moved so fast that Lex's enhanced perception couldn't process the departure.
The wind stopped abruptly. The plane stabilized with mechanical efficiency that suggested the pilots were very good at their jobs or very lucky or possibly both.
Lex scrambled to the hole where the emergency exit used to be—ignoring Dr. Vaughn's shouted warnings about depressurization and safety protocols—and looked out at the empty sky.
Nothing. No figure. No evidence of the impossible visitor. Just clouds and moonlight and the growing certainty that he'd just witnessed something that would fundamentally challenge his understanding of what was possible.
"Did you see that?" he called to Dr. Vaughn, his voice rough from the wind and the absolute absurdity of what had just happened.
"I saw someone rip the door off our plane at twenty thousand feet, walk in like atmospheric pressure was a suggestion, and steal whatever was inside that statue using what appeared to be telekinesis," Dr. Vaughn replied with the kind of clinical detachment that suggested she was processing trauma through professional documentation. "So yes, Mr. Luthor, I saw it. And no, I don't have a medical explanation for how any of that was possible."
Lex looked down at the analysis chamber, where the Egyptian statue lay in two perfect halves, its hollow interior now clearly visible and very definitely empty.
"The stone," he said slowly, his mind already racing through implications. "The statue wasn't just a map or a key. It was a *container*. Someone in ancient Egypt found something—something that glowed green, something that could be manipulated without physical contact—and they built an entire artifact around hiding it."
"And now it's gone," Dr. Vaughn said. "Stolen by someone who can apparently fly, ignore atmospheric pressure, and move objects through telekinesis."
"Not someone," Lex corrected, his voice carrying growing certainty. "A guardian. Just like the hieroglyphs described. Beings from beyond the stars with abilities beyond human limitation."
He moved back from the hole, his body reminding him with aggressive enthusiasm that standing near a breach at altitude while still recovering from neurotoxin exposure was inadvisable from multiple medical perspectives.
"What did he take?" Dr. Vaughn asked, already moving to check his vital signs with equipment that was beeping with what could only be described as mechanical concern.
"Something the Egyptians thought was dangerous enough to seal in a statue and bury in a tomb," Lex replied.
---
# Meanwhile, at the Kent Farm...
Martha Kent stood in her kitchen holding a phone that had been ringing unanswered for five minutes, and trying to decide whether persistence was admirable or whether she'd crossed into "desperately calling someone who clearly doesn't want to talk" territory.
Virgil Swann's voicemail picked up for the fourth time—cultured British accent delivering the kind of polite message that essentially translated to "I'm either busy, dead, or avoiding you specifically, and you'll never know which."
"Dr. Swann," Martha said after the beep, her voice carrying exhaustion that went beyond physical fatigue and into existential weariness. "It's Martha Kent. Again. I know you said you'd call back when you had information, but it's been three weeks and Clark is still missing and Jonathan is still in a coma and I'm running out of people who understand what my son actually is and might have insights into what happened to him."
She paused, recognizing that rambling desperation probably wasn't the most effective communication strategy, but too tired to care about presentation.
"Please call me back," she finished. "I need help. Clark needs help. And you're one of the only people on this planet who might actually understand why an alien teenager would disappear on the same day his adoptive father ended up brain-dead."
She hung up before she could add anything that would make her sound more pathetic than she already felt.
Lois Lane was watching from the kitchen table with the expression of someone who'd been conducting mental interview questions throughout the entire phone conversation and was now preparing to deploy those questions with journalistic efficiency.
"Dr. Virgil Swann," she said carefully, like testing whether the name would trigger useful information. "The billionaire philanthropist who funds astronomical research? That Virgil Swann?"
"The same," Martha confirmed, setting the phone down with movements that suggested it had personally betrayed her. "He contacted us about five years ago. Said he'd been monitoring communications from space—signals that suggested intelligence rather than random cosmic noise. He thought Clark might be connected to those signals."
"Connected how?" Lois asked, her journalist instincts clearly activated despite the exhaustion evident in her posture.
Martha considered how much to share, then decided that if six British visitors with cosmic abilities already knew the truth, one more person finding out wasn't going to make the situation significantly worse.
"Clark didn't arrive alone," she said quietly. "The ship that brought him carried data—crystalline technology with information about Krypton, about Jor-El, about what Clark was supposed to become. Dr. Swann helped us understand some of that information. Helped us interpret the messages that Jor-El's AI kept sending through the ship's systems."
"The messages telling Clark to embrace his destiny and become a guardian," Lois said, connecting pieces with the kind of speed that came from years of investigative journalism.
"The messages telling Clark that his human life was temporary," Martha corrected with barely suppressed anger. "That Jonathan and I were just placeholders. That his real purpose was predetermined by an alien he'd never met and a planet that exploded before he was born."
She moved to the coffee pot—which had been working overtime tonight, producing enough caffeine to fuel a small army through an existential crisis—and poured herself a cup with movements that suggested muscle memory rather than conscious thought.
"Dr. Swann helped us understand the technology," she continued. "Helped us develop strategies for managing Jor-El's increasingly aggressive attempts to contact Clark. But three weeks ago, right when Jonathan had his accident and Clark disappeared, Dr. Swann stopped returning calls. Either he's busy with other research, or he's decided that getting involved with our situation is too complicated, or..." She trailed off, not wanting to voice the third option.
"Or he's dead," Lois finished bluntly. "Because someone decided that people helping Clark resist his predetermined destiny were liabilities that needed removing."
Martha's hand tightened on her coffee mug with enough force that she heard ceramic creak ominously. "That's the theory Harry Potter is working with. That someone—probably Jor-El's AI, possibly someone else with access to Kryptonian technology—orchestrated everything. Jonathan's accident to remove Clark's strongest anchor to humanity. Clark's disappearance to isolate him from support structures. Maybe Dr. Swann's silence because he knew too much about Kryptonian systems."
"And your cousin Chloe?" Lois asked carefully, her voice carrying layers of grief and determination. "How does her death fit into this cosmic conspiracy?"
Martha felt something cold settle in her chest. "What about Chloe?"
"She was investigating Clark," Lois said. "You know that, right? She'd documented seventeen incidents over the past eighteen months—impossible rescues, unexplained interventions, situations that suggested someone in Smallville had abilities that exceeded normal human capability."
"I suspected," Martha admitted. "Chloe was brilliant, observant, and she'd known Clark since they were children. She would have noticed patterns. Would have asked questions. Would have..." She trailed off, her voice breaking slightly. "Would have wanted to help, even if helping meant documenting things that Clark wanted to keep secret."
"She loved him," Lois said quietly. "Not just as a friend. She was in love with him. Had been since they were kids. Never told him, because she knew he was too busy being noble and self-sacrificing to notice that his best friend had feelings for him."
Martha closed her eyes, processing this information that she'd suspected but never confirmed. "She was a good person. Smart, loyal, brave. She would have made an excellent journalist—followed in your footsteps, made you proud."
"She did make me proud," Lois replied, her voice tight with emotion she was working hard to control. "And that's why I need to understand what happened to her. Why she died three weeks ago, on the same day Jonathan had his accident and Clark disappeared. Because that's too many coincidences for one Tuesday, and I don't believe in coincidences when my family's involved."
She pulled out her phone, scrolling through what appeared to be extensive notes. "I've been trying to get a meeting with Lionel Luthor. He's currently in Belle Reve Supermax—maximum security psychiatric facility—serving time for attempted murder, corporate espionage, and approximately seventeen other charges that rich people usually manage to avoid through expensive lawyers."
"Why would you want to talk to Lionel Luthor?" Martha asked with genuine alarm. "That man is dangerous, manipulative, and absolutely will use any information you give him for his own purposes."
"Because Chloe's investigation included documentation of LuthorCorp activities in Smallville," Lois explained. "Specifically, their research into meteor fragments and their effects on human physiology. She thought LuthorCorp might know something about Clark's abilities—might have been studying him, conducting unauthorized surveillance, trying to understand what made him different."
"Did they?" Martha demanded.
"I don't know," Lois admitted. "But Lionel Luthor does. And he's scheduled for release in two weeks—psychiatric review board thinks he's been successfully treated, that he's no longer a danger to himself or others, that he can be safely returned to society."
"That's insane," Martha said flatly. "Lionel Luthor is many things, but 'safe to return to society' isn't one of them. He's a predator who's learned to mimic rehabilitation so convincingly that even trained psychiatrists can't tell the difference."
"Which is why I need to talk to him before he's released," Lois replied with determination. "While he's still confined, while his options are limited, while he might actually answer questions because he's bored enough to find it entertaining. Once he's free, once he has access to resources and lawyers and all the advantages that come with being a billionaire—getting information from him will be impossible."
"Have you managed to arrange a meeting?" Martha asked, though her tone suggested she hoped the answer was no.
"He's refusing visitors," Lois said with frustration. "Says he's focused on his treatment, that outside contact would disrupt his progress, that he needs to maintain psychological boundaries during his rehabilitation. His lawyers are very good at making 'I don't want to talk to you' sound like medical necessity."
"Good," Martha said firmly. "Stay away from Lionel Luthor. Stay away from anything connected to the Luthors. That family has brought nothing but pain to Smallville, and getting involved with them—even to pursue justice for Chloe—will end badly for you."
"You worked for Lionel," Lois observed. "Years ago, before Clark was born. I found records—employment at LuthorCorp facilities, direct reporting to Lionel himself. What happened? How did you escape that relationship without permanent damage?"
Martha was quiet for a long moment, staring into her coffee like it might contain answers to questions she'd spent decades avoiding.
"I didn't escape unscathed," she said finally, her voice carrying weight that suggested stories she had no intention of sharing. "Lionel Luthor is brilliant, charming, and absolutely ruthless when he wants something. He hired me because I was good at my job, kept me because I was useful, and let me go only when maintaining our professional relationship became more trouble than it was worth."
"What did he want from you?" Lois asked carefully.
"Information," Martha replied. "About agricultural systems, about Smallville's economic vulnerabilities, about which farms were struggling financially and might be willing to sell their land for development. I thought I was helping plan infrastructure improvements. Turns out I was helping identify acquisition targets for corporate expansion."
"When did you realize?"
"Too late," Martha said with bitter honesty. "By the time I understood what my research was actually being used for, LuthorCorp had acquired seventeen farms, displaced forty-three families, and established a research facility that's been studying meteor fragments and their effects on local biology for twenty-three years."
"Did Lionel know about Clark?" Lois asked. "Did he know you'd found an alien baby in the meteor shower?"
Martha's laugh was dark and humorless. "If Lionel knew about Clark, we'd already be living in a nightmare where my son was being studied in a LuthorCorp facility while lawyers argued about whether alien children had human rights. No, Lionel doesn't know. And that's the one thing I did right—I never told him, never gave him any indication that the meteor shower had brought us anything except property damage and medical complications."
"Medical complications?" Lois repeated.
Martha gestured vaguely at herself. "Meteor radiation exposure. Low-level but persistent. Enough to cause cellular damage over years, enough to require ongoing monitoring, enough to make fertility... challenging. Jonathan and I had been trying to have children for years before the meteor shower. Afterward, doctors told us it was impossible—the radiation had made conception essentially impossible without medical intervention we couldn't afford."
"And then you found Clark," Lois said softly.
"And then we found Clark," Martha agreed. "In a field, in a crater, in a ship that shouldn't exist according to any physics I'd ever studied. Perfect timing, really. The universe took away our ability to have biological children and gave us an alien baby who needed parents. Sometimes I think that was the trade-off—we got Clark because we couldn't have anyone else."
"Do you regret it?" Lois asked. "The trade, I mean. Would you have rather had your own children if you'd been given the choice?"
Martha looked at her with fierce intensity. "Clark is my son. Not by biology, not because of genetics, but because Jonathan and I chose to love him, raise him, make him ours. Would I have liked biological children? Of course. But would I trade Clark for that alternative? Never. Not even if the universe offered."
The conviction in her voice was absolute—the kind of maternal certainty that transcended biology and went straight to the core of what family actually meant.
"Then help me find out what happened to him," Lois said with matching determination. "Help me understand why Chloe died, why Jonathan ended up in a coma, why Clark disappeared. Because someone orchestrated all of this, and I need to know who and why before they have a chance to complete whatever plan they started three weeks ago."
Martha was about to respond when her phone rang—not Virgil Swann returning her call, but an unknown number with a 317 area code that she didn't recognize.
She answered with cautious optimism. "Hello?"
"Mrs. Kent?" An unfamiliar voice—male, young, carrying urgency that suggested this wasn't a social call. "This is Bart Allen. You don't know me, but Dr. Virgil Swann gave me your number before he died."
Martha felt the world tilt slightly. "Before he what?"
"Died," Bart repeated, and there was genuine grief in his voice despite the clinical delivery. "Three weeks ago. Heart attack, according to official records. But he told me to contact you if anything happened to him, said you'd need to know that someone was systematically eliminating people who understood Kryptonian technology and its implications for Earth."
"Who are you?" Martha demanded. "How did you know Dr. Swann? Why should I trust anything you're telling me?"
"I'm... complicated," Bart said with what might have been dark humor. "Short version: I've got abilities that exceed normal human capability, Dr. Swann was helping me understand those abilities, and right before he died he told me that someone was targeting anyone who knew too much about alien visitors to Earth. He said you needed to know, needed to be warned, needed to understand that whatever happened to your son was probably connected to a larger pattern of eliminating support structures around individuals with superhuman abilities."
Martha absorbed this information with the kind of calm that came from having already accepted that the universe was conspiring against her family.
"Can you help us?" she asked quietly. "Can you help us find Clark, understand what happened to him, maybe prevent whoever killed Dr. Swann from completing whatever plan they've started?"
"I can try," Bart said. "But Mrs. Kent, you need to understand—whoever's behind this has resources, knowledge of alien technology, and the capability to orchestrate events across multiple locations simultaneously. They took out Dr. Swann, your husband, and Clark all on the same day. That's not random violence—that's coordinated assault on everyone who might help Clark resist his predetermined destiny."
"Then we fight back," Martha said with fierce determination. "We find Clark, we help him remember who he chose to be, and we make sure that whoever orchestrated this understands that mothers don't give up on their children just because cosmic forces think they have better plans."
"That's either the bravest thing I've ever heard or the most suicidal," Bart observed.
"Both things can be true," Martha replied. "And usually are when you're dealing with teenage aliens who can bench-press tractors and cosmic conspiracies that think destiny is more important than choice."
She looked at Lois, who was watching this phone conversation with obvious interest and growing determination.
"Come to Smallville," Martha said to Bart. "Come to the Kent farm. We've got six British visitors with their own cosmic abilities, one investigative journalist who's determined to avenge her cousin's death, and one mother who's absolutely refused to accept that her son is dead just because programming says he should be something else. If you want to help, if Dr. Swann trusted you enough to send you to us—we'll take all the help we can get."
"I'll be there in three hours," Bart promised. "And Mrs. Kent? I'm very sorry about Dr. Swann. He was a good man, and he cared about understanding the truth even when that truth was dangerous. He would have wanted you to know that he died trying to help protect people like Clark from being exploited by those who'd rather control them than understand them."
The call ended, leaving Martha staring at her phone with the growing certainty that her life had somehow become even more complicated than "raising an alien while dealing with a comatose husband."
"Someone killed Dr. Swann," she said quietly to Lois. "Three weeks ago. Same day as everything else. Which means Hermione was right—this wasn't coincidence or bad luck. This was coordinated assault on everyone who might help Clark maintain his human identity."
"Then we need to find out who orchestrated it," Lois replied with determination. "And we need to do it before they realize that we're still fighting back despite their best efforts to isolate Clark from everyone who cares about him."
Martha nodded, already formulating plans with the kind of determined efficiency that had gotten the Kent farm through droughts, economic disasters, and the persistent question of how to raise an alien without anyone noticing he could accidentally destroy agricultural equipment through casual strength application.
"Right," she said, setting down her phone with renewed purpose. "We've got three hours before Bart Allen arrives. In that time, I'm going to contact everyone I can think of who might have information about Kryptonian technology or suspicious deaths in the past three weeks. You're going to keep trying to arrange that meeting with Lionel Luthor, because as much as I hate admitting it, he might actually know something useful about who has the resources and motivation to orchestrate this kind of coordinated attack."
"And if Lionel refuses to meet with me?" Lois asked.
"Then we find another way to get information from him," Martha replied. "Belle Reve has corrupt staff, guards who can be bribed, and security protocols that probably have exploitable weaknesses. Where there's determination and sufficient motivation, there's usually a way to get what you need."
"That sounds suspiciously like 'we're going to break into a supermax psychiatric facility,'" Lois observed.
"I prefer 'we're going to conduct unauthorized information gathering using creative interpretation of visiting protocols,'" Martha corrected. "But yes, if necessary, we're absolutely going to break into Belle Reve and have a conversation with Lionel Luthor whether he wants to talk to us or not."
"I like you," Lois said with genuine admiration. "You're not what I expected from a Kansas farmwife."
"I've spent eighteen years protecting an alien from discovery while dealing with meteor-induced medical complications and a husband who thought 'appropriate risk assessment' was for people who didn't love their children enough," Martha replied. "My tolerance for 'appropriate behavior' was exhausted approximately fifteen years ago. Now I just do what's necessary and apologize to law enforcement later if required."
Outside, the Kansas night was clear and cold, painted with stars that seemed to shine with particular intensity.
Somewhere up there, Harry Potter was chasing Clark Kent—or whatever Clark had become—trying to bring him back to humanity before programming made that return impossible.
Somewhere in Metropolis, Lex Luthor was recovering from an impossible encounter with a being who could rip doors off aircraft and manipulate matter through telekinesis.
And somewhere in Belle Reve Supermax, Lionel Luthor waited for release while holding information that might explain who had the resources and motivation to orchestrate coordinated assault on everyone who might help a Kryptonian teenager resist his cosmic destiny.
Three weeks ago, something had happened that removed a guardian from the field and scattered his support structure through death, trauma, and carefully arranged isolation.
Martha Kent was going to find out what, why, and who thought it was acceptable to target her family.
And then she was going to make sure they understood that mothers who'd spent eighteen years raising aliens were considerably more dangerous than cosmic conspirators anticipated.
The game had changed.
And Martha Kent was playing to win.
Even if winning required breaking into supermax facilities, coordinating with British wizards who had reality-altering abilities, and refusing to accept that destiny was stronger than a mother's love.
Clark Kent was not dead.
He was lost.
And Martha was going to find him, whatever it took.
Because that's what mothers did.
—
# Meanwhile, 30,000 Feet Above Kansas...
Harry Potter was flying at speeds that made commercial aviation look like a particularly slow walk through treacle, and his enhanced senses were filing formal complaints about the whole experience.
Not the flying part—flying was brilliant, liberating, the kind of freedom that made him understand why birds spent so much time singing instead of using their wings for more practical pursuits like interspecies communication or aerial food delivery.
No, the complaints were about the fact that he was chasing someone who apparently understood Kryptonian flight mechanics considerably better than Harry's one month of cosmic education had prepared him for.
Kal-El wasn't just fast. He was *precise*. Every movement suggested muscle memory developed over years rather than sudden programming activation. He banked through clouds with the grace of someone who'd spent extensive time practicing three-dimensional navigation. He adjusted altitude with efficiency that spoke to understanding aerodynamics at an intuitive level that exceeded conscious calculation.
"Bloody hell," Harry muttered, accelerating hard enough that the air around him started making concerning sounds about structural integrity and whether molecules appreciated being displaced this aggressively. "Either Jor-El's programming came with a complete flight instruction manual, or Clark's been practicing in secret and nobody noticed."
He pushed harder, drawing on reserves of cosmic energy that his enhanced metabolism assured him were completely sustainable and definitely wouldn't result in catastrophic burnout approximately thirty seconds from now.
The gap between them began to close—not quickly, but measurably. Harry's raw power advantage was compensating for Kal-El's superior technique. Like watching a Formula One race between a driver with decades of experience and a teenager in a rocket-powered go-kart who'd just discovered that "faster" was a valid response to most challenges.
They were over Kansas farmland now—endless fields painted silver by moonlight, occasional farmhouses marking human habitation, and in the distance, the distinctive aerodynamic shape of a private jet flying considerably lower than standard commercial altitude.
Kal-El dove toward it with purpose that suggested this wasn't random trajectory but intentional destination. Harry's enhanced vision picked up details that should have been impossible at this distance—the LuthorCorp logo on the jet's tail, the breach in the fuselage where an emergency exit used to be, and most concerning, the green glow emanating from inside the aircraft.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Harry breathed, accelerating hard enough that his cosmic enhancement protocols started filing complaints about sustainable velocity versus "trying to impress someone through reckless speed application."
Kal-El reached the jet approximately three seconds before Harry could intercept. His hand extended with casual precision, and something flew out through the breach—not pulled by visible force, but responding to manipulation that transcended conventional physics.
A stone. Roughly fist-sized. Glowing green with the kind of sickly luminescence that made Harry's enhanced senses scream warnings about "materials that definitely shouldn't exist and probably cause cancer, cosmic corruption, or aggressive personality changes."
The stone settled into Kal-El's palm like coming home, and for approximately 0.8 seconds, Harry got close enough to see his face properly.
Not Clark Kent. Not the confused young man who'd been looking at family photos trying to remember his own life.
This was something else. Something that wore Clark's face but had all the emotional warmth of a particularly efficient computer program executing predetermined instructions.
"CLARK!" Harry shouted, his voice carrying through atmosphere with volume that probably violated several noise ordinances and definitely startled some cows in the farmland below. "WHATEVER THAT STONE IS, PUT IT DOWN! IT'S NOT SAFE!"
Kal-El turned to look at him—really look, for the first time since the programming had activated. His eyes glowed red with internal fire that suggested either serious medical concerns or abilities that were very close to being deployed in Harry's general direction.
"You are not authorized for interference," Kal-El said with mechanical precision. "This stone belongs to my father's legacy. It is required for the next phase of preparation."
"Your father's legacy?" Harry repeated, still closing distance despite every survival instinct he possessed screaming that approaching someone with glowing red eyes while they held mysterious green stones was inadvisable. "Clark, your father is Jonathan Kent. He's lying in a hospital bed because someone wanted him out of the way while they reprogrammed you. Don't let Jor-El's AI convince you that biology matters more than the people who actually raised you!"
"Jonathan Kent was temporary," Kal-El replied with absolute finality. "A guardian during preparation. His role is complete. Time to embrace my true purpose as—"
Harry didn't let him finish. Couldn't let him finish. Because letting someone complete their villain monologue about destiny and cosmic purpose had never, in the history of confrontations, led to anything except escalating conflict and somebody getting punched through a mountain.
He accelerated the final distance between them and tackled Kal-El with the kind of aggressive enthusiasm that probably qualified as assault but definitely prevented completion of speeches about predetermined destiny.
They tumbled through the air in a tangle of limbs, cosmic energy, and what Harry could only describe as "two people who were very good at flying but absolutely terrible at aerial combat coordination."
"LET GO OF THE STONE!" Harry shouted, trying to pry Kal-El's fingers open while simultaneously avoiding the casual elbow that could probably shatter his enhanced ribs if it connected properly.
"RELEASE ME!" Kal-El commanded with mechanical authority that suggested he'd never been contradicted before and found the experience personally offensive.
"ABSOLUTELY NOT!" Harry replied, because apparently the appropriate response to cosmic programming was aggressive British sarcasm combined with physically restraining someone while flying at speeds that made commercial aviation look pedestrian.
They hit something—a cloud, probably, though at their current velocity it felt more like concrete that had decided to cosplay as water vapor. The impact scattered them temporarily, and Harry used the opportunity to deploy what he privately thought of as "aggressive magical intervention."
"*Expelliarmus!*" he shouted, his wand hand moving in the familiar pattern despite lacking an actual wand because apparently cosmic enhancement included "your body is the wand now, just visualize what you want and physics will probably cooperate."
A blast of golden energy—not the standard red of Disarming Charms, but something that combined Kryptonian power with terrestrial magic in ways that made both systems reconsider their fundamental operating principles—shot from Harry's outstretched hand and connected with Kal-El's chest.
The stone flew from Kal-El's grasp, tumbling through empty air with the kind of lazy trajectory that suggested it had no opinions about gravity and wasn't particularly concerned about where it landed.
---
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