Chapter 23 - Episode 15: Accelerate

Meteor Freak

Episode 15: Accelerate

Date: Friday, October 14, 2011.

Location: Kawatche Caves, Smallville, Kansas

"So what exactly are we looking for?" Kyla asked, as she entered the Kawatche caves with Clark, her fingers trailing along the wall as she moved deeper into the chamber. She'd been coming here since she could walk. These caves were sacred to her people.

Clark glanced around the cavern. "I don't know. A reporter friend of mine always said to explore all options. If your legends really refer to me, maybe there's something we can learn here."

Kyla's lips curved into a knowing smile. "In that case, I'll look over here." She moved toward the far wall where shadows gathered in the crevices between ancient markings.

"Okay. I'll check out the other chamber," Clark said, heading toward the passage that led deeper into the cave system.

As Clark disappeared into the adjoining chamber, Kyla approached a section of wall she'd examined countless times before.

"Clark!" Her voice echoed through the cavern, urgent enough to make him abandon his search immediately.

He appeared at her side, moving with that peculiar speed she was growing accustomed to. "What is it?"

Kyla stood before the wall, her hand hovering over what appeared to be a perfectly formed octagonal depression in the stone. The impression was roughly the size of her palm, its edges smooth and deliberate, carved with precision rather than worn by time.

"This wasn't here before," she said, and she was certain. "I've been coming to these caves since I was a child, Clark. I know every marking, every carving, every crack in these walls." She traced the air above the octagonal shape without touching it. "This is new."

Clark leaned closer. The stone around the depression was seamless, as though the impression had always been part of the original rock formation.

"You're sure?" he asked, though her face already told him.

"Positive." She stepped back, allowing Clark better access to the wall. "I was here just last week with my grandfather, helping him document some of the newer discoveries. This section was completely smooth then."

"Hey!" a voice called sharply from behind her.

Kyla spun around to find a middle-aged man with graying hair watching her, clearly unimpressed.

"This cave is off-limits," he continued, his tone condescending. "Why don't you find somewhere else to make out?"

"This cave is my people's heritage."

"Hey, you're Frederick Walden, the linguist," Clark said. "You wrote that book."

Frederick's chest puffed slightly with pride. "I've written many books."

"Did Lex Luthor hire you?" Clark asked.

"Thanks to you, Clark," Lex said as he entered the cave. "I'm counting on Professor Walden to translate these pictographs for us. It'll help the preservation effort."

Frederick turned sharply toward the new arrivals. "Hey, rule one. No guided tours."

Lex kept his expression diplomatically neutral. "They're friends of mine, Professor, and I didn't realize you'd accepted my offer."

"I have," Frederick replied curtly, "but we do things on my terms, and I don't allow anybody except for my staff on a work site."

"With all due respect, Professor, I was the one who found the caves." Kyla looked at Clark and raised an eyebrow, but didn't disagree.

Frederick's dismissal was instant. "I don't care if you discovered the Shroud of Turin, kid." He turned to Lex. "If you're unhappy with my method, I can take the first flight to Chile."

Lex paused, weighing his options. "I'm sorry, Clark."

"Lex, you can't do this," Clark protested.

"The man's one of the most renowned linguists in the world," Lex explained, though he looked uncomfortable. "If that's the way he works, we have to respect that."

"Come on, Kyla, let's go."

Lex called to them as they left, "I'll see you at the Talon opening later."

The newly renovated Talon theater had transformed from an old movie house into something spectacular. Polished hardwood floors, vintage-style sconces, and restored art deco details lining the walls. Through the open doors leading to the main theater, guests could see the new reclining seats. Students from Smallville High clustered throughout the lobby, some examining framed photographs of the theater's restoration or messing around in the arcade, others already claiming seats inside. The concession stand drew a steady stream of patrons.

Near the entrance, Lex Luthor stood in conversation with Roger Nixon, both in sharp suits that set them apart from the high school crowd. Roger gestured toward a weathered man in his fifties who lingered near the lobby's edge, clearly out of place among the younger patrons.

"Mr. Cole," Roger called out, approaching the man with Lex following behind. "Lex Luthor."

Eddie Cole immediately focused on Lex. "I know who he is."

"He's very interested in your story." Roger tried to smooth the cool reception. "Twelve years ago, Eddie here had more clients than he could handle. He spent eight hours a day dusting fields all over Smallville."

Lex studied Cole. "And then?"

Cole's jaw tightened. "FAA pulled my license."

"And why would they do that?" Lex asked.

Cole let out a bitter laugh. "They decided I wasn't fit in the head to fly anymore. Cause I couldn't keep my dumb mouth shut."

Lex reached into his jacket and withdrew a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills. "What were your rates for crop dusting, Mr. Cole?"

"Six hundred a day," Cole replied, his focus locked on the money.

Lex counted out six bills and extended them toward Cole. "I'd very much like to hear your story."

Cole took the money and pocketed it. He glanced around the lobby, noting the curious glances from passing students. A young black man approached from across the lobby, but Cole's attention stayed fixed on Lex.

"I was dusting the Baker's field, fifty acres of sweet corn, when it happened."

"The meteors?" Lex prompted.

Cole nodded. "It was like lightning all around. Pretty sure I was gonna die right there. Then one just missed my tail by about ten feet. I saw it go straight down and then swerve just before it hit."

Lex leaned in. "Doesn't sound like a meteor."

"I know aircraft better than most. The way that thing moved, it had to be a ship."

"You saw a ship crash?" Lex asked.

Cole shook his head. "It's not just that I saw a ship crash. A couple of hours later, I went and looked for it. It was gone."

"Maybe it burned," Lex suggested.

"Or maybe it was taken," Cole replied firmly. "Nobody believes me. I gave Mr. Nixon a map of the crash site."

Tyson approached the small group. "I couldn't help but overhear. We're going looking for a spaceship?"

Lex turned toward Tyson, deflecting smoothly. "Well, it's your place, Tyson. You can't really eavesdrop in your own house." He gestured around the restored lobby with genuine appreciation. "Speaking of which, congratulations on the opening. The Talon looks incredible."

"Thanks. It's been a long road getting here, but seeing everyone enjoying it tonight makes it worth it." He nodded toward the main theater where laughter and conversation drifted out. "The turnout's better than I expected."

"You should be proud," Lex said. "Smallville needed something like this. A place where the community can come together."

Tyson smiled and accepted the compliment, but he'd caught the redirect. The pivot to the Talon hadn't been flattery. It had been a door closing on the spaceship topic. Which told him everything about how seriously Lex was taking Eddie Cole's story.

"I have to admit," Tyson continued, keeping his tone light, casual, just a guy making small talk at his own party, "the spaceship comment caught my attention. Are we talking about the meteor shower from twelve years ago that I keep hearing so much about?"

Cole spoke up before Lex could respond. "Wasn't no meteor. I know what I saw."

Lex placed a hand on Tyson's shoulder. "Mr. Cole has some interesting theories about what he witnessed. It's a good story. Thanks for your time, Mr. Cole, but I believe the show's about to start." He turned and headed toward the theater to take his seat.

"Hey, I thought you'd be pleased," Roger said. "I just booked you the story you've been waiting for."

Lex paused at the door, his hand resting on the brass handle. "You brought me a desperate man and a tall tale. It's about what I expected from you." He turned to face Roger directly. "Sorry, Rog. Time's up."

Tyson turned the exchange over in his mind. Lex had paid Cole six hundred dollars, listened to his story, and then dismissed Nixon as if the information was worthless. That sequence only made sense if Lex already had what he needed and didn't want Nixon involved in whatever came next. The crash site story wasn't a tall tale to Lex. It was a lead he intended to follow alone.

Tyson filed that away. He'd need to talk to Clark.

The lights dimmed, and the opening crawl of Star Wars: The Phantom Menace filled the screen, John Williams's score swelling through the speakers Tyson had spent weeks updating. Lana's hand found his in the dark, her fingers intertwining with his as the audience settled into the kind of absorbed quiet that only happened when a room full of people forgot they were a room full of people.

Tyson watched the crowd as much as the screen; Pete leaning forward like a kid at his first movie, Chloe scribbling notes for the Torch review she'd already titled in her head, Clark doing that thing where he pretended to relax while his shoulders stayed tight enough to bounce a quarter off. Several rows ahead, Lex sat in his expensive suit. The subwoofers were making the podrace sequence rattle the restored art deco trim exactly the way he'd intended, and Lana was squeezing his hand during the lightsaber duel, and the Talon was alive and full and his.

The film reached its conclusion with fireworks across Naboo, and applause broke out through the theater.

She leaned in and kissed him softly, her hand coming up to rest against his cheek. "You didn't just renovate a theater. You gave Smallville something special."

Around them, the audience began filing out, voices animated with discussion about the movie and compliments about the venue. Several students stopped to thank Tyson personally for bringing the theater back to life. As the crowd thinned, Tyson and Lana made their way down to the main floor to begin cleaning up. Scattered popcorn containers and candy wrappers marked where the audience had been, but the mess was minimal.

"Not bad for opening night," Lana observed, gathering empty cups from the front rows.

"Better than I hoped, honestly," Tyson replied, working his way down the aisle with a trash bag.

They worked in comfortable silence for several minutes. Tyson was collecting the last of the trash from the back rows when he spotted Clark waiting near the lobby entrance.

"Hey, can you handle the rest of this?" Tyson asked Lana. "Clark looks like he needs to talk."

Lana glanced toward the lobby and nodded. "Go ahead. I've got this covered."

Tyson made his way toward Clark. "Hey, everything okay? You look like you've got something on your mind."

Clark glanced back toward the theater where Lana was still collecting trash, then focused on Tyson. "Yeah, just thinking about some things. Great job with the opening, by the way. The place looks incredible."

"Thanks." Tyson studied Clark more carefully. "But that's not what's bothering you, is it?"

Clark hesitated, then shook his head. "Not exactly."

Tyson lowered his voice, moving closer to ensure their conversation remained private. "Look, I couldn't help but overhear something earlier when Lex was talking to a reporter and a pilot. The pilot, Cole, talked about seeing a ship during the meteor shower. Said it changed direction, moved like it was controlled."

Clark's face tightened. "You think he actually saw something?"

"That's not what worries me," Tyson continued, quieter still. "What worries me is that Lex was paying him for the story. And you know Lex knows about Kara, about Krypton. If he starts investigating crash sites from twelve years ago... The ship that the pilot saw might have been yours."

Clark was quiet for a long moment, staring toward the lobby entrance where a few stragglers were still making their way out into the night. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavier than usual.

"It was," Clark admitted. "My ship. It's hidden in our storm cellar. I've tried activating it, learning from it, but it won't respond. It's missing something. Like a key." He paused, and something clicked behind his eyes. "An octagonal disk."

"Octagonal?" Tyson repeated, sensing there was more to this.

"When Kyla and I were in the caves earlier today, we found something new. An octagonal impression in the wall that she swears wasn't there before." Clark's voice quickened as the pieces connected. "The impression in the ship, it's exactly the same shape. The same size."

"Kyla wanted to come back tonight and document it, but Walden's got the whole site locked down. She's furious. Those caves are her heritage, and now she can't even access them without Lex's permission. Another reason to figure this out before Lex and Walden dig up something they shouldn't."

"So you think the key, or whatever it is, might be connected to the caves somehow?"

"Maybe," Clark said. "But I don't understand how it could have just appeared."

"Well, if Cole saw your ship change direction during the meteor shower, maybe something broke off during the flight," Tyson suggested. "If you were unconscious or too young to remember, a piece could have fallen anywhere along the flight path."

Clark looked skeptical. "That's a pretty big if. And even if something did break off, finding it after twelve years would be like looking for a needle in a haystack."

"Maybe," Tyson acknowledged, "but Cole gave Nixon a map of where he saw the ship. The crash site, or at least where he thought it was going. Investigating Baker's field might be worth a look. What could it hurt? If there's even a chance that a piece of your ship broke off and it's the key you need, wouldn't it be better for you to find it than for Lex to stumble across it during his investigation?"

Clark's skepticism gave way, slowly, to reluctant agreement. "You're right about that part. If Lex finds something connected to my ship..."

"Exactly," Tyson said. "And if we don't find anything, at least we'll know."

Clark nodded slowly, the logic of Tyson's argument landing. "Okay, you've got a point. It's better that we look than leave it to chance."

"Besides," Tyson added with a slight grin, "you could always call Kara and ask her about it. She might know something about how the ship works or what you're missing."

Clark gave him a meaningful look. "Or you could call Kara."

The suggestion landed, and Tyson's stomach tightened. He glanced back toward the closed theater doors where Lana was finishing up, working her way through the rows. Kara. Their brief thing had been intense and messy, and it had ended abruptly when she'd left for Metropolis. He could still feel the pull of it.

"Nah," Tyson said finally. "That'll only complicate things."

Clark read the undercurrent easily enough. "You sure about that?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Things are good with Lana. And calling Kara..." He trailed off, not wanting to voice the rest of that thought.

"I get it," Clark said quietly. "Sometimes the past is better left in the past."

"So you'll check out Baker's field. See if you can find anything that might help you figure out your ship."

Inside the theater, Lana worked through the rows, gathering the scattered remnants of opening night, cleaning up the empty popcorn containers and candy wrappers. She had just bent to retrieve a crumpled napkin from under one of the reclining seats when the lights cut out, plunging the theater into complete darkness.

"Hello?" Lana called out, straightening and peering into the blackness. "Who's there?"

Silence. Several heartbeats of it. Then the film projector kicked to life. Light spilled across the screen, but instead of the Lucasfilm logo or credits, something else entirely began to play.

Children's voices drifted through the theater's speakers, sweet and innocent, singing in perfect harmony.

"Ring around the rosies, pocket full of posies. Ashes, ashes. We all fall down."

Lana's breath caught as she turned toward the screen. Two little girls appeared in the projection, no older than seven or eight, playing in what looked like a sunlit meadow. They laughed and spun in circles, their voices continuing the nursery rhyme as they held hands and danced. When they noticed the camera, both girls waved enthusiastically, their faces bright with innocent joy.

Behind her, the theater doors shut. She spun around, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"Would you like an apple? Lana?"

The voice came from the screen, but it was different now, directed, personal. Lana turned back to see one of the girls, a blonde child with bright eyes, speaking directly to the camera as if she could see through it.

"You're so big."

Lana looked down and gasped. The girl from the screen, Emily, stood directly in front of her, no longer a projection but solid and real. She held a worn stuffed rabbit against her chest. The child's presence was wrong, impossible, like a photograph that had stepped out of its frame. Panic flooded through her. She backed away, feet stumbling over the theater's slight incline as she turned and ran toward the exit, but when she reached the doors, Emily was already there, standing calmly in her path.

"Aaah!" Lana's scream tore through the theater as she jerked backward.

"Why are you scared?" Emily asked, with the genuine confusion of a child who couldn't understand why someone wouldn't want to play.

Lana spun and ran in the opposite direction, toward the stage. But Emily was already sitting on the edge of it, swinging her legs like any normal child waiting for a friend.

"Do you want to play with me?" Emily asked, tilting her head with that same innocent curiosity.

Terror drove Lana back toward the doors, her breath coming in sharp gasps as she fought against the impossibility of what she was experiencing. She reached the exit and yanked on the handles, but before she could process whether they would open, she collided hard with someone coming through from the lobby.

Strong arms wrapped around her immediately, and she found herself pressed against Tyson's chest, steadied by something solid and familiar. Clark appeared right behind him, both drawn by her scream.

"What's wrong?" Tyson asked, his voice tight with concern as he held her. He scanned the theater for whatever had terrified her, but there were only empty seats and the blank projection screen.

"Lana, what's going on?" Clark added.

Lana turned in Tyson's arms to look back at the theater, still breathing hard. The stage was empty. The seats had stopped their mechanical dance. The projector had gone silent, leaving only the dim house lights to illuminate the restored space. Emily was nowhere.

"I... I thought I..." She struggled to find words that wouldn't make her sound completely insane. "The lights went out, and I guess the movie creeped me out, and I just, I thought I saw—"

"Thought you saw what?" Clark pressed gently.

Lana took a shaky breath. In Tyson's arms, with the theater looking perfectly normal, the whole thing already felt like it might have been her imagination after a long day.

"Nothing," she said finally, still out of breath.

Tyson tightened his hold on her slightly, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her back. "Let's head upstairs. We'll make you some tea. Clark, I'll catch up with you later. Let me know if you find that needle in the haystack."

Clark nodded. "Sure thing. Take care of her."

As Clark headed out of the Talon, Tyson guided Lana toward the stairs that led to the apartment above the theater.

He set the kettle to boil and moved toward the hallway. "I'll be right back, just going to the bathroom," he said, giving Lana's shoulder a gentle squeeze as he passed.

Lana nodded, positioning herself near the counter where she could watch the steam begin to rise from the kettle's spout. She focused on the small wisps of vapor, trying to convince herself that her imagination had simply gotten the better of her.

"That's my favorite dress."

Lana's blood turned to ice. She spun around to find Emily standing near the kitchen table, still clutching her worn stuffed rabbit. The little girl was studying Lana's outfit the way any child might admire something pretty.

"You're... you're not real," Lana whispered.

Emily's face scrunched up the way children's faces do when adults say something that doesn't make sense. "I am too real."

"No. You died." The words came out harsher than Lana intended, but terror made her voice sharp.

Footsteps approached from the hallway as Tyson returned to the kitchen. "Who are you talking to?" he asked.

Lana looked between where Emily had been standing and Tyson's confused face. The little girl had vanished again, leaving no trace. "She was just here," Lana said, her voice shaking.

"Who was?" Tyson studied Lana's pale face and trembling hands.

Lana wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stop the shaking that had nothing to do with the temperature. The kettle's whistle grew more insistent, but neither of them moved to turn it off. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

Tyson blinked, clearly not expecting that particular question. He reached over to turn off the burner. "Ghosts? This town just keeps getting weirder." He paused, considering. "Maybe we should ask Dean? He mentioned he hunted ghosts, right?"

"He tried to kill you," Lana pointed out.

Tyson shrugged. "That was last week."

— Meteor Freak —

Tyson and Lana stood on the wooden bridge that spanned a rushing river below, water tumbling over rocks with a constant murmur. Oaks and maples crowded both banks. Dean's boots announced his arrival as he stepped onto the bridge, the old wood creaking under his weight. He moved to join them at the railing.

Lana's fingers traced the smooth rail worn by countless hands. "Emily and I used to come out here all the time," she said, something wistful in her voice. "We'd make little boats out of flowers and float them downstream. They always sank before they got around the bend."

The water rushed past below them. Tyson studied the current, how it carved around the bend where those childhood boats had met their end.

"Is this where she drowned?" he asked.

Lana nodded, her grip tightening on the railing. "It was raining, and the bridge was slippery. The next thing I knew..." She paused, the sentence hanging unfinished. "The funny thing is, Emily always believed in ghosts. Whenever a candle flickered or a curtain rustled, she'd insist it was my mom trying to talk to me. As much as I wanted to believe her, I always knew it was make-believe. Maybe this is her way of showing me that the dead really can communicate with us."

Tyson turned to face her more directly. "If she's a ghost, why do you think she waited so long to contact you?"

"I don't know."

"There's got to be a rational explanation for this girl," he said. "Have you kept in contact with her parents?"

Lana shook her head. "No, they split up after the accident. I don't know where her mom is, but her dad moved to Grandville."

Dean had been listening quietly, but now he spoke up from where he'd been leaning against the railing. "That isn't how ghosts work," he said with certainty.

"Look, I've dealt with more spirits than I care to count, and they don't just hang around for years doing nothing before deciding to make contact. Ghosts are created when someone dies with unfinished business; something that keeps them tethered to this world instead of moving on." He pushed off from the railing, pacing the short length of the bridge. "There are different types. You've got your basic angry spirits, people who died violently or unfairly. They're usually pissed off and looking for revenge. Then you have spirits with emotional anchors, people who can't let go of someone or something they loved in life."

"What about Emily? Which type would she be?" Lana asked.

"That's the thing," Dean said, stopping to face them. "From what you're describing, she doesn't fit the typical patterns. Most spirits manifest within days or weeks of death, not years later. They're driven by immediate needs, revenge, protection, and unfinished business. They don't have the patience to wait around."

Tyson crossed his arms. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that if Emily's spirit was going to appear to you, it would have happened right after she died, when the trauma was fresh and the connection strongest." Dean's face went hard. "The fact that she's showing up now, years later, suggests something changed. Something triggered her manifestation."

"Like what?" Lana asked.

Dean considered this. "Could be a few things. Sometimes spirits get stronger around anniversaries of their death. The date becomes a focal point for their energy. Sometimes they're awakened by changes in the living world that affect their unfinished business. And sometimes..." He paused, and something grim crossed his face. "Sometimes they're not really the person you think they are."

"What do you mean?" Lana's voice went sharp.

"Shapeshifters. Demons. Other supernatural entities that can take the form of the dead. They feed on grief, on the emotional connection between the living and the dead. They'll appear as someone you've lost, someone you'd trust, to get close to you."

Tyson stepped closer to Lana instinctively. "How would we know the difference?"

"Real spirits have limitations," Dean explained. "They can't usually maintain physical form for long periods. They struggle with complex interactions; most of the time, they're stuck repeating patterns from their life or death. They're also bound to specific locations or objects that were important to them."

He gestured toward the bridge beneath their feet. "If Emily's spirit was real and tied to this place where she died, she'd probably appear here, not in the theater or the apartment. The fact that she's mobile, that she can have conversations, that's not typical ghost behavior. Some entities can read memories, either from you or from the actual spirit of the person they're impersonating. They're like supernatural identity thieves, they steal everything that made someone who they were and use it as a mask."

"There's another possibility," Dean continued. "Sometimes spirits get trapped between worlds, unable to move on but also unable to fully manifest. They exist in a kind of limbo, and it can take years for them to gather enough energy to make contact. But even then, they're usually weak, flickering in and out of visibility."

"She was there talking to me, then she was gone."

Tyson thought over what they'd learned. "So we need to determine whether this Emily is really Emily, or something else wearing her face."

"Yeah," Dean said. "And we need to figure it out fast, because if it's not really her, then whatever's pretending to be Emily has been studying Lana, learning everything it needs to know to gain her trust."

Tyson looked between Dean and Lana. "So would visiting Emily's dad be a good starting point?"

Dean shook his head. "Probably not the best move right off the bat. Look, spirits are usually tied to places or objects that held significance for them when they were alive. Since her parents moved after the accident, Emily's connection wouldn't have followed them to a new location. But if she's tied to an object, something personal that meant a lot to her, that object could theoretically allow her spirit to manifest wherever it is. Problem is, that still wouldn't explain how she's reaching all the way to the theater from wherever that object might be." He paused, looking out over the water rushing beneath the bridge. "Before we go down the rabbit hole, we should check the most obvious anchor point. Her old house here in Smallville would be a better place to start. That's where she spent most of her life, where her strongest emotional connections would be."

Lana straightened, her decision made. "Alright, let's go."

She led them off the bridge and back toward town. "It's just up here," Lana said, pointing toward a two-story house with white siding and green shutters. A small front porch held a pair of rocking chairs and flower boxes beneath the windows. "The Hendersons bought it from Emily's parents about six months after the accident."

As they approached the house, Tyson spotted movement in the backyard. "There's someone back there."

They moved around the side of the house, staying on the public sidewalk but getting a clear view of the backyard. What they saw made all three of them stop.

Emily sat on an old wooden swing that hung from a large oak tree, her feet barely touching the ground as she swayed gently back and forth. She was staring across the yard at what appeared to be a collection of empty cages lined up against the back fence.

"Is that the kind of thing that you normally see ghosts doing?" Tyson asked quietly.

Dean studied Emily. "See how she's just sitting there, staring? Most spirits in a loop would be more active. They'd be feeding the animals, talking to pets that aren't there anymore. She's... observing. Like she's waiting for something, or trying to remember." He kept watching. "And another thing. She's too solid. Most spirits flicker, especially during daylight hours. They have trouble maintaining a consistent form. But look at her."

Emily appeared as real and substantial as any living person. The swing creaked softly under her weight, and when a breeze stirred the leaves above her, her hair moved naturally in the wind. There was nothing ethereal or translucent about her.

"She had rabbits," Lana said. "She spent hours out here taking care of them, petting them, cleaning their cages."

"What happened to them?" Tyson asked.

"I think her father was using them for science experiments. When they moved out, he took them all with him."

Dean nodded slowly. "That would explain the emotional anchor. Losing someone you love is traumatic enough, but for a spirit, watching the physical reminders of their life disappear can be devastating. If Emily's spirit was already struggling to move on, seeing her rabbits taken away might have created a powerful enough emotional shock to trap her here. But that still doesn't explain the range issue. The theater's got to be at least a mile from here."

"Maybe she's not tied to the location. Maybe she's tied to Lana."

Dean turned to him with interest. "Explain that."

"Think about it. Emily and Lana were best friends. They spent years together, shared experiences, created memories. If Emily's spirit is anchored to their friendship rather than to a place or object, that would explain why she can appear wherever Lana is."

"That's... actually not impossible," Dean admitted. "Spirits can form attachments to people, especially people they had strong emotional bonds with in life. But usually that happens right after death, not years later."

Lana watched her childhood friend sitting motionless on the swing. Her stomach went cold. "So what changed? Why now?"

Tyson kept his attention on Emily as she continued her gentle swaying. "What can ghosts actually do? I mean, if she decides to attack us, can I fight her?"

Dean glanced at him, then back at Emily. "Depends on how strong she is and what type of spirit we're dealing with. Most ghosts can manipulate the physical world to some degree. They can move objects, slam doors, throw things around. The angrier they are, the more violent they tend to get."

"But can they actually hurt people?"

"Oh yeah, they can hurt people," Dean said grimly. "I've seen spirits break bones, leave scratches and burns on victims. They can throw you across a room if they're pissed off enough. Some of the nastier ones can even possess people, make them do things they'd never normally do."

Tyson absorbed this information. "So how do you fight something like that?"

"Iron works pretty well. Ghosts hate iron; it disrupts their ability to maintain physical form. A good iron poker or crowbar can scatter a spirit, at least temporarily." Dean reached into his jacket and pulled out what looked like a small cloth pouch. "Salt's even better. Pure salt creates barriers they can't cross. You can make a circle of salt around yourself for protection, or use it to trap a spirit in one location."

"Salt?" Tyson raised an eyebrow. "That sounds like something out of a fairy tale."

"Trust me, it works. I've used it more times than I can count." Dean tucked the pouch back into his jacket. "The thing is, iron and salt are temporary solutions. They'll drive a ghost away or weaken it, but they won't get rid of it permanently. For that, you need to deal with whatever's keeping the spirit anchored to this world."

"And if we can't figure out what's anchoring her?" Tyson asked.

"Then she stays here, and she'll probably get stronger over time. Spirits that stick around too long tend to go insane. They forget who they were in life and become pure rage and hunger. They start attacking anyone who gets too close, not just people they have a connection to."

Dean studied Emily's motionless figure. "But there's something else you should know. If this isn't really Emily, if it's something else wearing her face, then the rules change completely. Demons, shapeshifters, other supernatural entities, they don't have the same weaknesses as ghosts. Iron and salt might slow them down, but they won't stop them."

"How do we tell the difference?" Lana asked.

"We test her."

Tyson squinted, focusing on Emily, and a faint green shimmer became clearer, that telltale aura he'd learned to recognize around anyone touched by the meteor rocks. His shoulders dropped. "She's not a ghost," he said, letting out a long breath.

Dean turned to him sharply. "How do you know?"

"I can see when someone has been infected with the meteor rocks. She has that glow." Tyson gestured toward Emily, still swaying gently on the swing. "I don't know if they brought her back from the dead, or what. But she's definitely a Meteor Freak, like me."

He turned to Lana. "Why don't you try talking to her? I promise she's not a ghost. Maybe just treat her like a little girl who was your friend, and see how things go."

Dean's face went dark. "Maybe talking to the meteor zombie isn't a good idea."

"She doesn't look like a zombie," Tyson protested.

"Emily's not eating anyone," Lana said.

"Not yet," Dean replied grimly. "Ghouls can go weeks without feeding if they have to. They're patient hunters. They'll get close to their victims, gain their trust, wait for the perfect moment to strike. And if this meteor rock stuff can bring people back from the dead, who knows what kind of twisted version you're dealing with."

Dean pulled his jacket aside slightly, revealing the handle of what looked like a silver knife tucked into his belt. "Ghouls are tough to kill. You need to take their head clean off, or burn them completely. Regular weapons just slow them down."

Lana stepped forward, jaw set. "I'm going to go talk to her."

"Lana, wait," Dean started, but she was already moving toward the backyard.

Tyson caught her arm gently, pulling her into a quick embrace. "Remember, you're strong," he whispered against her ear. "And if anything happens, I'll heal you."

She squeezed him back. "I know."

Tyson released her but stayed close as she approached the fence line. Dean positioned himself on her other side, his hand resting casually near his concealed weapon.

"Emily?" Lana called softly.

The figure on the swing stopped. Emily turned toward them, smooth and natural. When she saw Lana, she broke into the same bright smile Lana remembered from their childhood.

"Lana!" Emily hopped off the swing and ran toward the fence, quick and eager. "I was hoping you'd come back. I've been sitting here thinking about the rabbits."

Up close, the green aura resolved into something definite. Fainter than most Meteor Freaks he'd encountered, but unmistakable.

"What about the rabbits?" Lana asked, gripping the fence between them.

Emily's face fell. "Daddy took them all away when we moved. I know he needed them for his work, but I missed them so much. I used to come out here every morning before school to feed them. Snowball was my favorite. She was pure white except for one gray ear."

The detail was perfect, exactly the kind of specific memory that only the real Emily would have. Tears pricked at Lana's eyes.

"I remember Snowball," she said. "You let me hold her once, and she was so soft."

"She liked you," Emily said, her smile returning. "She never liked strangers, but she let you pet her right away. I think she could tell you were good people, just like I could."

Dean watched this exchange, uneasy. The conversation was too normal, too human. In his experience, things that came back from the dead were never this coherent, this connected to their past lives.

"Emily," he said, stepping closer to the fence. "Do you remember what happened to you? How you died?"

"I'm not dead," Emily said, confusion clear in her voice. "I'm right here. I can think and feel and remember. How can I be dead if I'm talking to you?"

Her face crumpled, the bright smile vanishing as confusion and hurt flooded her features.

"I'm not... I can't be..." Her voice broke, and she took a step backward from the fence. "Why would you say that? Why would you ask me that?"

Tears began streaming down her cheeks. "I don't understand. I was just sitting here thinking about my rabbits, and now you're telling me I'm dead? That's not possible. I'm here. I'm talking to you."

"Emily, wait," Lana said. "We're just trying to understand—"

But Emily was already backing away, shaking her head violently. "No, no, this isn't right. I'm not dead. I can't be dead." Her voice rose to a near-panic. "I remember everything. I remember you, Lana. I remember our sleepovers and the time we built that fort in your backyard. Dead people can't remember things like that, can they?"

And then she was gone.

Tyson caught the blur as it went past, a streak of motion that his enhanced vision could barely track as Emily moved from the middle of the backyard to somewhere beyond the tree line in what seemed like an instant.

"Emily, please," Lana called, staring at the empty space where Emily had been standing. "She must be a ghost. She disappeared."

Tyson shook his head firmly. "She didn't disappear. She ran. I could just barely track her as she went, in a blur."

Dean frowned, scanning the backyard and the trees beyond. "I didn't see anything. One second she was there, the next she was gone."

"Erik did the same thing," Tyson explained. "He could move fast like that. I couldn't keep up; I could barely track him. Emily is the same way. Like I said, she's not a ghost. She's a Meteor Freak."

Lana searched Dean's face. He nodded reluctantly, troubled.

"If what you're saying is true, then she's definitely not a ghost," Dean admitted. "The problem is, she doesn't match up exactly with anything I recognize from the supernatural world."

"Meteor rocks aren't supernatural," Tyson pointed out. "They're alien or something."

"Maybe," Dean said, but he didn't sound convinced.

Lana wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the warm afternoon sun. "So what are you saying? That Emily is some kind of impossible thing?"

"I'm saying she doesn't fit the patterns I know," Dean replied. "Which means either the meteor rocks or an entirely new type of undead, or there's something else going on here that we haven't figured out yet."

Tyson studied the empty backyard, turning over what they'd observed. "She seemed real enough. She was solid, she cast a shadow, the swing moved under her weight. And she definitely has the meteor rock infection. I can see it."

"Yeah, that's what worries me," Dean replied. "If she really is some kind of meteor-enhanced or hybrid revenant, then we're dealing with something completely outside my experience. I don't know what her limitations are, what drives her, or how dangerous she might become."

"Lana, where is Emily buried?" Tyson asked.

Dean straightened with approval. "Good thinking. If we're dealing with some kind of revenant or enhanced undead, the grave site might give us answers. Could tell us if the body's still there, or if something's been messing with it."

Lana thought for a moment. "The cemetery is on the other side of town. Smallville Memorial, up on Hickory Hill."

"I'll drive," Dean said, already turning back toward the woods.

After about five minutes of walking, they arrived at a black classic muscle car.

Tyson let out a low whistle. The black car was immaculate. "Nice ride," he said. "Everyone in this town has cool cars. I need some way to get around faster."

The hunter vanished the moment the car was mentioned. In his place stood a guy who was deeply, earnestly proud of his ride. "This is Baby," Dean said, running his hand along the car's flank like he was petting a beloved animal. "1967 Chevy Impala, 327 small-block, four-barrel carburetor. She's got a few modifications under the hood that you won't find in any factory manual."

He walked around to the driver's side and opened the door, revealing an interior just as well-maintained as the exterior. Vinyl seats, original dashboard, and what looked like a custom sound system installed with careful attention to the car's classic appearance.

"Before we go anywhere," Dean continued, his tone dead serious, "we need to establish some ground rules about riding in Baby."

Tyson and Lana exchanged glances. Dean was completely serious.

"Rule number one," Dean said, holding up a finger. "No food in the car. I don't care if you're starving, I don't care if it's just a granola bar. You eat before you get in, or you wait until we stop. Baby's interior is pristine, and I intend to keep it that way."

"Rule number two. No drinks except water, and only if you've got a bottle with a secure cap. I've seen too many people spill coffee or soda on leather seats. It's a tragedy that doesn't need to happen."

Lana nodded, trying to keep a straight face. Dean's intensity about his car was both endearing and slightly intimidating.

"Rule number three," Dean continued, "the driver picks the music. Always. I don't care if you hate classic rock, I don't care if you think Led Zeppelin is too loud. This is my car, and we listen to real music. None of that pop garbage or whatever passes for rock these days." He opened the glove compartment and gestured to a collection of cassette tapes. "I've got Metallica, AC/DC, Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, Kansas. Music that was made by people who understood what rock and roll is supposed to sound like."

"Rule number four. If you need to throw up, you tell me immediately so I can pull over. I will not have anyone puking in Baby. I don't care if we're being chased by demons, we stop the car first."

Tyson couldn't help but grin. "How many rules are there?"

Dean didn't crack. "Rule number five. You treat Baby with respect. That means no slamming doors, no putting your feet on the dashboard, no leaning against the paint job. She's not just transportation, she's family."

He slid into the driver's seat and gestured for them to get in. Lana climbed into the passenger seat while Tyson settled into the back. The interior smelled like leather and motor oil, with just a hint of something that might have been gun oil.

Dean turned the key, and the engine roared to life with a deep, throaty rumble. He let it idle for a moment, listening with the satisfied look of a man who knew every sound his car made. He reached for the tape deck and slid in a cassette. The opening guitar riff of "Carry On Wayward Son" filled the car.

"Now," Dean said, putting the car in gear, "let's go see what's left of your friend Emily."

— Meteor Freak —

Frederick Walden stepped into Lex's study, his field jacket still bearing traces of dust from the cave site. Lex didn't look up immediately, letting the silence stretch before setting down his pen.

"Dr. Walden. I got a call this morning from the State Preservation Society. They heard a rumor that you plan on removing a section of the wall? Now, I of course told them that you wouldn't consider such a radical move without consulting me." Lex looked up, watching for any tell.

"It's a common archaeological practice," Frederick replied, his tone flat and professional.

Lex's lips curved into a humorless smile. "Among 19th century imperialists." He leaned back, fingers drumming once against the desk. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to cut me out of the process."

"You're paranoid."

Lex stood, his face going hard. "Really." He stopped just close enough to invade the older man's personal space, close enough that Frederick had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't fire you right now."

Frederick didn't flinch. "Because I'm on the verge of a major breakthrough."

Lex studied him for a long moment. "Will this, uh, breakthrough allow you to translate these symbols?"

"It's hard to say..." Frustration crept into Frederick's tone for the first time.

"I don't need excuses," Lex continued, moving back toward his desk. "I need answers." He fixed Frederick with a stare. "You've got three days."

At the Kent farm, Clark stood in the storm cellar looking down at the ship. The door creaked open, and Jonathan entered.

"Your mother told me you were back," Jonathan said.

Clark didn't turn around, still fixated on the vessel. "Ever since you told me about this ship, I wondered if there were others out there like me. Now I know about Kara. I'm not alone."

Jonathan descended the remaining steps, moving to stand beside his son. "Clark. You were never alone, son. This is your home, and we love you very much. Come on, let's go back up."

"In a minute." Something in Clark's voice made Jonathan pause.

Jonathan started to leave again, but Clark turned around, his hand emerging from his jacket pocket.

"I figured out what was missing."

Clark held up an octagonal piece of metal, its surface etched with symbols.

"It's the ship's heart, or key. Tyson gave me a hint, he overheard from Lex. It was in Baker's field."

Jonathan's eyebrows rose slightly. "That's where we found your ship. Have you used it yet?"

Clark shook his head, his fingers closing around the metal piece. "I didn't want to do it alone."

"Let's do it together."

The octagonal disk fit perfectly into the slot, sliding home with a soft click. The ship responded, rising smoothly into the air with a low hum that vibrated in their chests. The pod opened completely, revealing its interior for the first time since Clark's arrival on Earth.

Clark and Jonathan peered inside, taking in the curved walls and the unmistakable indentation at the bottom shaped in the perfect outline of a small child's body.

"It's hard to believe you were ever that small," Jonathan murmured.

The inside of the ship erupted with light, circles of rotating symbols.

"What is it, son?" Jonathan asked, squinting against the brilliant display.

Clark stared at the symbols, and the knowledge came to him unbidden, as if the language had been sleeping in his mind all along. "It's a message from my biological father. I'm sure I'm reading it wrong."

"Why? What does it say?"

Clark's face drained of color as he continued to decipher the alien text. "On this third planet from this star Sol, you will be a god among men. They are a flawed race. Rule them with strength, my son. That is where your greatness lies."

Clark stopped breathing. Not because he needed to, he'd never been entirely sure how much of his breathing was biological necessity and how much was learned habit. He became suddenly, horribly aware of his own hands. The same hands that had crushed the padlock like tissue paper, that could tear through the cellar wall as easily as damp cardboard. Hands that had never once felt fragile against anything on this planet. He'd always thought of his abilities as something to manage, to hide, to occasionally deploy when someone needed saving. He'd never considered the possibility that they were the point. That he was built for dominion, not rescue.

A flawed race.

Every memory of holding back surged up at once. Holding back in schoolyard games, pretending to struggle with hay bales, faking breathlessness after running. He'd always believed he was protecting people by hiding what he could do. Now, a voice from across the galaxy was telling him that one day the restraint would end, and he'd become what he was designed to be.

The ship hovered in the cellar. But it wasn't the same ship anymore. Five minutes ago, it had been a mystery, an artifact, the locked box that might contain answers about who he really was. Now it was a delivery pod, for what, an invasion?

Clark turned away from the ship, walking several steps toward the cellar wall as if distance could diminish their impact.

"I think I was sent here to conquer. What kind of planet am I from?"

Jonathan followed him. "Maybe you did misread it, Clark. But even if you didn't, it's you who decides what kind of a life you're gonna lead. Not me, not your mother, not your... biological parents."

"What if it's part of who I am? Is that the kind of person I will become?"

"Clark Kent, you're here to be a force for good, not a force of evil."

"How can you be so sure?"

Jonathan moved closer, placing his hands on Clark's shoulders. "Because I am your father. I raised you, and I know you better than anyone." Then he pulled Clark into a hug, the kind of embrace that had made everything better when Clark was small and afraid of his own strength.

Clark held on longer than usual. When he finally pulled back, the ship was still there.

Rule them with strength, my son.

Maybe Tyson was right about calling Kara. Or maybe that was exactly the wrong move, reaching out to someone from the same world that had written those words, someone whose warmth and openness might be as deliberate as his own arrival. And Tyson himself, Tyson who absorbed powers, who always seemed to know more than he let on. Clark trusted him. But Clark had also trusted the ship, and look what that had yielded.

He was alone with this. For now, that felt safer.

— Meteor Freak —

The rain hammered down on the weathered headstones, turning the cemetery paths into muddy streams.

"Couldn't we have waited till after the rain stopped?" Lana called in irritation as she stepped around a particularly deep puddle.

Dean didn't slow. "Ghouls don't take rain days. Besides, we've already lost too much time."

Tyson watched Dean work. This was clearly routine for him. They continued deeper into the cemetery until Dean stopped abruptly.

"Here it is."

The headstone was smaller than the others, carved from pale marble that had darkened with age and rain.

Emily Eve Dinsmore,

January 20, 1993 - April 14, 2003.

Loving Child, Blessed Angel.

Tyson stared at the dates, ten years old. "So… What now?" he asked, though his stomach was already turning. "Do we just dig up the grave, check the body?"

"Usually." Dean crouched beside the headstone, running his fingers along the carved letters. "Burning the body solves most problems. If it's not there, we'll know more."

"That's horrible," Lana whispered.

Dean looked up at her, rain streaming down his face. "What's horrible is letting it hurt innocent people. Trust me, this is mercy."

"But Emily's not hurting anyone," Lana protested. "She's just a little girl who—"

"Who's been dead for eight years," Dean cut her off. "That's not normal, even for spirits."

Tyson was about to respond when Lana went rigid, pointing into the distance. "There."

Through the sheets of rain, a small figure stood between two large monuments about fifty yards away. Even at this distance, Tyson could make out the pale dress, the dark hair plastered to her head, and the stuffed rabbit clutched against her chest. Emily stood in the downpour, water streaming off her like she was carved from the same stone as the graves around her.

"How is she—" Dean started.

She was soaked, ghosts wouldn't be soaked, right? But if she bolted at superspeed, he didn't have the reflexes to stop her. Three options, to stop her, none of them great. Ice, Electricity, Telekinesis. The ice power he'd absorbed from Sean Kelvin had worked before, in the rain, when he'd frozen Justin and the area around him. If he could slow her down enough—

Tyson spread his hands, focusing on the cold that lived just beneath his skin. Frost began to form on the wet ground at his feet, spreading outward. The rain turned to sleet where his power touched it. Ice coated the grass and tombstones in a slick, treacherous layer. The frozen zone stretched toward Emily like reaching fingers.

She vanished.

One moment she was there, the next she was gone, moving with that impossible speed that Tyson could barely track. But she crossed over the area he'd already iced. Even supernatural speed couldn't overcome basic physics. Her feet went out from under her instantly. At the velocity she was moving, the fall was catastrophic. She hit the ground hard, her small body tumbling and sliding across the ice-covered grass until she collided with a weathered headstone.

The speed vanished, leaving behind just a little girl sprawled on the frozen ground, clutching her knee and crying with the raw, heartbroken sobs of any hurt child.

"Where'd she g—" Lana began, but Tyson was already moving.

He reached Emily first, dropping to his knees beside her on the ice-slicked grass. Her knee was scraped raw against the rough stone, blood mixing with rainwater and tears on her pale skin.

"Hey, are you okay?" He kept his voice gentle, concerned. "Let me see that knee. I'm a special doctor, I can help."

Emily looked up at him through her tears, face scrunched with pain and confusion. "It hurts," she whispered, her voice small and lost.

Tyson held his hands over her injured knee, letting the healing warmth flow through his palms. His hands began to glow with soft, golden light as the scrape slowly closed, new skin forming over the wound. Emily bent her knee experimentally, her tears slowing.

"It feels better," she said, wonder replacing the pain in her voice.

Lana and Dean approached cautiously, staying back to let Tyson handle the delicate situation. The rain continued to pour around them, but Emily seemed oblivious to it now.

"What are you doing out here in the rain?" Tyson asked gently.

Emily clutched her stuffed rabbit tighter. "Lana said I was dead, but I'm not dead. So I came here to see."

Tyson nodded seriously. "I don't think you're dead either. Maybe we should get you out of the rain. Do you have parents?"

Emily's face crumpled. "I don't want to go back and be locked up. I want to be with Lana. She's my best friend."

"I'm here, Emily," Lana said softly, stepping closer despite Dean's warning look.

"Why were you locked up?" Tyson asked gently, adjusting his position on the wet ground to face her better.

Emily's grip tightened on her stuffed rabbit, and fresh tears mixed with the rainwater on her cheeks. "Because my dad said I can't visit Lana. He said I can't go back to the old house, I need to stay in my room. But my room is boring and lonely." Her voice broke on the last word, the raw loneliness of a child who didn't understand why her world had suddenly become so small.

Whatever Emily was, almost certainly living, not dead, or something in between, she was still just a scared little girl who missed her friend. He glanced back at Lana, who had tears streaming down her face, then at Dean, who looked more conflicted than wary now.

"Would you like to come back to the movie theater with us?" Tyson offered. "Lana will be there. We can get you warm, and some dry clothes. Maybe watch a movie with Lana. That sounds like fun, right?"

Emily's whole face changed. She nodded eagerly, bouncing slightly on her heels. "Can we really? Lana and me can watch a movie together?"

"Of course," Tyson said, standing and brushing ice crystals from his knees. "But first we need to get you out of this rain before you catch pneumonia."

He looked down at Emily, who was shivering in her thin dress despite the supernatural circumstances of her presence. "Okay. Do you want to ride in the car, or do you want me to give you a piggyback ride?"

"Piggyback ride!" Emily exclaimed without hesitation, clapping her hands together.

Tyson turned his back to her and crouched down. "Climb on."

Emily scrambled up onto his back with the eager energy of any ten-year-old, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. Her stuffed rabbit was squished between them, but she managed to keep hold of it.

"Hold on tight," he told her, then called to Lana and Dean, "Meet you back at the Talon?"

Without waiting for an answer, he started running toward Main Street. His speed let him move faster than any normal human. As his feet found their rhythm on the wet pavement, Tyson carefully opened the locket he wore around his neck. He palmed the meteor rock inside.

Emily giggled as they moved, delighted by the adventure. "This is fun!"

"Just like flying, right?" Tyson said, keeping his voice light while his focus turned to something far more complex.

Very carefully, he began channeling the electrical power he'd stolen from Jeremy Creek. The current was subtle, barely perceptible, like the gentle static charge that built up when walking across carpet. He let it flow through his body and into Emily through the points where she touched him; her arms around his neck, her legs against his sides. Just as he had when he'd stolen Desiree's power without her ever noticing. Tyson had learned that the key was patience and subtlety. Too much force and the target would sense something wrong. But a gentle, persistent draw, like water slowly draining from a bathtub, could go completely unnoticed.

Emily's power was cool, flowing, and impossibly fast. Her supernatural speed wasn't just physical velocity; it was almost temporal, a way of life moving faster than it should in a way that normal physics couldn't explain. He coaxed it out of her body and into his, the electrical current serving as a bridge between them.

A ten-year-old girl who trusted him because he'd healed her knee and offered her a piggyback ride. She was chattering against his ear about something, happy and trusting and completely unaware. Tyson noted the feeling that produced, not guilt exactly, more like the awareness of a line being crossed and the deliberate decision to cross it anyway. A scared kid clinging to his back, and he was using that closeness to take something from her she didn't know she was giving. But Emily with superspeed was Emily that Dean would never stop treating as a threat, Emily that her father would keep locked up, Emily that any number of interested parties would want to contain or study or weaponize. Emily without superspeed was just a girl who needed a safe place to stay.

She'd be safer without it. Safer, slower, and completely dependent on the people around her for protection instead of being able to outrun anything that frightened her…

He took the power anyway.

Sometimes the kind thing and the self-serving thing wore the same clothes. Sometimes they didn't. But he kept encountering strange things, and if his fight with Eric had taught him anything, it was that he wasn't ready to fight the upper-tier threats if they showed up.

The meteor rock grew warmer in his palm as it facilitated the transfer, helping him draw the power through the connection point by point. Emily's arms around his neck, her breath against his ear as she chattered excitedly about the buildings they passed, each contact point became a pathway for the energy to flow from her to him.

"Look, there's the coffee shop where Lana and I used to get hot chocolate!" Emily pointed over his shoulder, completely oblivious to what was happening. "And there's the bookstore! Do you think they still have the fairy tale section?"

"I'm sure they do," Tyson replied, maintaining the gentle electrical flow while keeping his voice warm. The power transfer was working perfectly, and Emily showed no sign of distress or awareness that anything was happening.

The Talon Theater came into view ahead of them, its vintage marquee dark since the theater was closed. Tyson could feel Emily's power settling into him, adding its unique signature to the collection of abilities he'd gathered.

As they reached the theater's front entrance, the distinctive rumble of Dean's Impala came down the street behind them.

Emily slid off Tyson's back, her face flushed with excitement despite the rain still plastering her hair to her forehead. "That was so fast! Can we do it again?"

"Maybe later," Tyson said, unlocking the Talon's front door. "Let's get you inside and dry first."

Dean climbed out of the Impala, Lana right behind him. His expression said he was a man biting back several things he didn't want to say in front of a child.

"Lana, why don't you take Emily upstairs and find her some dry clothes?" Tyson said. "There should be towels in the bathroom closet."

Lana took Emily's hand, and the two of them disappeared through the lobby and up the stairs, Emily chattering about the posters on the wall. The moment the stairwell door closed, Dean stepped into Tyson's space.

"You took off with an unidentified possibly-undead creature on your back and ran through downtown Smallville."

"I took off with a scared little girl who was shivering in the rain."

"Same thing. Different framing. I had a silver knife ready. I had salt in my pocket. I had a plan. And you just scooped her up and bolted."

"Your plan involved weapons. My plan involved a warm building and a movie." Tyson held Dean's look. "She's not dangerous anymore."

Something in his tone made Dean pause. "What do you mean, 'anymore'?"

"I mean, I handled it. She's a normal kid now. No speed, no powers. Just a girl who wants to watch a movie with her best friend."

Dean stared at him for a long moment, reading the implications. Then he exhaled through his nose. "You and I are going to have a conversation about boundaries sometime."

"Looking forward to it."

— Meteor Freak —

Clark climbed the wooden steps to the loft. The moment he reached the top, the noise started again, haunting him. He paused, listening as the sound seemed to pull him toward the far side of the barn. The noise grew stronger as he approached the old cupboard tucked against the wall. His parents had stored farm equipment here for years, but now something inside called to him with an urgency he couldn't ignore. Clark gripped the wooden handles and pulled the doors open. Inside, behind coils of rope and forgotten tools, sat a weathered tackle box. Clark lifted it carefully and set it on top of the cupboard. The metal surface was scratched and dented from years of use, secured with a simple padlock.

Clark wrapped his fingers around the lock and squeezed. The metal crumpled like paper in his grip, falling to the floor with a dull clank. He lifted the lid. Golden light poured from the box. Clark squinted against the brightness as he moved aside fishing lures and tangled line. At the bottom, nestled in a bed of old cloth, lay the octagonal disk. The same symbols that had been etched into its surface now glowed with golden radiance. The moment Clark's fingers closed around the disk, both the light and the sound vanished. Silence returned to the barn. Clark stared down at his closed fist, feeling the metal's warmth against his palm…

…The cave felt different when Clark entered it this time. He held the octagonal piece up to the wall, comparing the symbols etched into its surface with those carved into the stone. The markings were identical, not just similar, but perfectly matched. He rotated the disk slowly, aligning each symbol on its edge with the corresponding carving on the wall. The disk suddenly pulled from his grasp as if drawn by invisible strings. It struck the octagonal groove in the center of the wall with a click, fitting perfectly into place.

The symbols on the disk began to glow. Red light emanated from the top symbols, while green illuminated the bottom left corner and blue the bottom right.

Every carved symbol burst into light, and the concentric circles of markings began to rotate. The inner ring spun clockwise while the outer ring moved in the opposite direction.

A stream of pure energy erupted from the disk's core, striking Clark squarely in the chest. The beam passed completely through his body, emerging from his back in a brilliant column of light. Clark's feet left the ground as the energy lifted him into the air. His eyes and mouth opened in shock as the power coursed through him.

Everything faded to white.

"Clark." A hand gripped his shoulder, shaking gently. "Are you okay?"

He opened his eyes to find Lex crouched beside him. He lay sprawled on the cave floor, dust motes drifting in the dim light filtering through the entrance. Clark pushed himself up on his elbows, head spinning. "Lex. What happened?"

"I was hoping you could tell me." Lex helped him sit up, steadying him with a firm grip on his arm. "What were you doing down here?"

Clark looked across the cave wall where the disk had been moments before. The octagonal groove remained carved into the stone, but it was empty. No trace of the artifact, no sign of the brilliant light show that had knocked him unconscious.

Had it all been a dream?

Clark pushed himself to his feet, brushing dirt from his jacket. "I was just checking one of the paintings I'd photographed days ago. The next thing I know, you're shaking me awake."

The lie came easily, which bothered him more than the headache. He'd come to this cave the first time looking for answers about who he was, and the cave had obliged. The octagonal groove, the disk waiting in Baker's field, the ship's key leading him back here like a thread being reeled in. Every step had felt like a discovery, but standing here now with the taste of stone dust in his mouth and Lex's careful eyes measuring him, Clark wondered if he'd been discovering anything at all, or just following instructions carved into rock before he was born.

Lex studied him. "The guard said there was an explosion. You didn't touch any equipment, did you?"

Before Clark could respond, Dr. Frederick Walden entered the cave, suspicion and irritation written across his face as he surveyed the scene.

"I find it interesting that you managed to get around the guard in the first place," Frederick said, his tone accusatory. "What's your secret, Mr. Kent?"

Lex stepped between them. "Back off, Doctor. Can't you see he's been hurt?"

Clark straightened, forcing steadiness into his voice despite the lingering dizziness. "I'm okay. I just need to get some air."

He moved toward the cave entrance, eager to escape Frederick's probing stare and the questions he couldn't answer. Lex fell into step beside him as they emerged into the afternoon sunlight.

"Clark, I found you lying unconscious in the middle of a cave." Genuine worry in Lex's voice now. "I really think you should get to the hospital."

Too many strange things were happening, too many close calls. "Lex, I'm fine. I just have to get home before my parents start to worry."

Lex stopped walking, studying Clark's face. "Okay. But until we figure out what happened, I don't want you down here by yourself."

Clark met his eyes. The protective concern was genuine. Despite everything, Lex was trying to look out for him. He turned and walked away, leaving Lex at the cave entrance. He didn't look back, but he could feel Lex watching him go.

Behind him, Dr. Walden's frustration boiled over. "Why'd you just let him walk out of here?" he demanded. "He knows more than he's telling us."

Lex remained facing the direction Clark had gone. "Probably. But you've got enough on your plate, Doctor. Let me worry about Clark Kent."

An hour later, Clark hefted another bale of hay from the stack, working through the motions while the morning's events turned over and over in his head. The weight that would have challenged most men was nothing in his hands, but today even simple tasks couldn't distract him from the questions.

The sound of boots on gravel made him look up. Jonathan emerged from the farmhouse, stretching as he surveyed the work already done.

"Wow, you're up early," Jonathan said, moving to help with the remaining bales.

Clark set down the bale. "I woke up in the Kawatche Caves this morning."

"What?"

"I dreamt about the ship's key, and the space it fit into in the cave's wall. I got hit with a light from the cave when I inserted it. But Dad, I don't think it was a dream. I can't find the ship's key anywhere. And I remember it so vividly. I think my dream might have been real."

"That's troubling. Have you thought about asking Kara about any of this?"

Clark's shoulders tensed. "I'm nervous about what she might say."

The more Clark learned about the ship, the key, the message, the harder it became to imagine explaining any of it. They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes, the familiar farm work providing a backdrop to Clark's troubled thoughts. Jonathan glanced toward the house, checking his watch.

"I'm taking your mother into town for a checkup," he said.

Clark looked up from the bale he was positioning. "How's Mom feeling?"

A smile broke across Jonathan's weathered face. "Pregnant. I still can't believe it."

"Me neither." Clark couldn't help but grin despite his earlier worries. "How soon can we start telling everyone?"

"As soon as your mother says she's ready. Don't worry, Clark, this is one secret we can all be very happy to share."

Something wistful crossed Clark's face. "Yeah. The baby's lucky."

"Hey, son, I didn't mean for it to sound that way. Look, having this child is gonna be a big adjustment for all of us, but it doesn't change the way we feel about you."

"I know that," Clark said quietly.

Jonathan clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm just glad things are back to normal."

The farmhouse door opened with a bang, and Martha appeared on the porch. "Jonathan, we're late! We gotta go!"

Jonathan immediately moved to join her, abandoning the hay loading to his son. "We'll finish this when we get back," he called over his shoulder.

Clark waved them off, turning back to the remaining bales. He bent to lift another one, then the sound started. The high-pitched frequency was piercing and relentless. Clark dropped the hay bale, hands flying to the sides of his head as the noise drove into his skull. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out, but it only grew louder. Heat built behind his eyes, a familiar burning sensation that he'd learned to control. But this time was different. This time, the heat came whether he wanted it or not.

His eyes snapped open, blazing with red fire. Twin beams of heat erupted from them, completely beyond his control. The beams whipped in every direction as his head moved involuntarily, trying to escape the piercing frequency. The red-hot energy slashed across the barn wall, scorching deep lines into the weathered wood.

"Jonathan!" Martha's voice cut through the air, sharp with alarm.

The heat vision stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Clark blinked, eyes returning to normal as he stared in horror at what he'd done. Smoke rose from multiple burn marks across the barn wall, and small flames were already beginning to catch on the dry wood.

He spotted the garden hose coiled near the house and ran for it. Behind him, Jonathan's footsteps pounded as his father rushed back from the car.

"I'll get it! I'll get it! Go on!" Jonathan shouted, diving for the spigot.

Water burst from the hose as Clark aimed it at the growing flames. The fire hissed and steamed as the water hit it, but the damage was already extensive. Black scorch marks covered a large section of the barn wall in a pattern that made Clark's blood run cold.

"Clark, what happened?" Jonathan demanded, breathing hard from his sprint.

"I don't know!" Clark kept the water trained on the last of the flames, his voice tight with confusion and fear.

From the driveway, Martha called out, "Lana's here!"

Clark looked up to see Lana walking up the road with Tyson and a young girl. They were moving quickly, drawn by the commotion.

"What happened?" Lana asked as they approached, eyes wide as she took in the scene.

Martha gestured helplessly at the barn. "We came out, and it was... on fire."

Without a word, Tyson held out his hand toward the remaining flames. The fire simply vanished, snuffed out as if it had never existed. No water, no smothering, just gone.

Martha stepped closer to the barn, her face pale with shock at what the smoke had revealed. Jonathan and Clark moved away from the wall, equally stunned. Burned deep into the wooden planks was a perfect symbol. The same symbol that had been carved into the cave wall. The same symbol that had been on the octagonal disk.

Jonathan grabbed a wooden plank from the pile near the barn. He positioned the first board over the burned symbol, pulling nails from his tool belt. Clark moved to help without being asked, holding boards in place while his father nailed them down. Tyson joined them, handing Jonathan additional planks.

"Well, that ought to keep the looky-loos away, at least till I have a chance to patch it up better," Jonathan said, stepping back to examine their work.

The makeshift patch job wasn't pretty, but it would serve. They headed inside and joined Martha, Lana, and the girl in the kitchen. Martha was already moving around, gathering glasses and checking the refrigerator.

"So, who is this young lady? You look familiar," she asked, sliding a glass of orange juice across the counter to the girl.

"I'm Emily," the girl replied quietly.

Lana stepped closer, her hand resting protectively on Emily's shoulder. "This is Emily Dinsmore. If you remember, Mrs. Kent, we were best friends."

Jonathan studied the girl's face. "I remember... But... that was years ago." He looked at Emily pointedly, the unspoken question obvious.

Tyson answered, "We're still trying to figure that out. But Emily's having some family difficulties. I was hoping she could stay here for a little while. Since you live across the street from Lana, her best friend. And I know that you have an open guest room."

Martha and Jonathan shared a look, and Martha nodded slightly.

"Lana, why don't you show her up to the guest room?" Martha said, warm with the same hospitality she'd always shown. "There are some fresh sheets in the linen closet."

Emily brightened. "Lana will be right across the street?"

"I sure will, come on, I'll show you, you can see my bedroom from the window," Lana said, taking Emily's hand and leading her toward the stairs.

Clark waited until he heard the guest room door close before speaking. "There's nothing uncontrolled about that drawing," he said. "I didn't just lose control of my heat vision. It's a symbol where I'm from. It means hope."

Martha set down the glass she'd been holding, her full attention on her son. "How do you know that? Since when can you read the symbols?"

"Since I put the key in the ship. It became even clearer after I put it in the cave wall," Clark replied.

"Wait, so you found it then? Was it out in the field? What cave wall? Where is the key now?"

"I don't know. When I put the key in the wall in the Kawatche Cave, there was a blinding light, and I blacked out. Lex and Dr. Walden found me. I don't think they have the key. I think it disintegrated."

"You're not 100% sure?" Jonathan shook his head. "Clark, we understand you wanting to know more about your origins, but you're putting your own life in danger here."

"Some things are worth the risk."

"Like what?" Jonathan challenged.

"Like the truth."

Clark looked at Tyson, uncertainly.

Jonathan followed his son's look, then took a deep breath. "Let's shelve that discussion for later." He turned to Tyson. "Okay, son. I'm gonna need you to explain what's going on."

Tyson smiled at Jonathan Kent referring to him as son. "This one's a doozy," he began. "So the little girl, Emily, appeared to Lana and then disappeared. She died eight years ago, drowned, saving Lana. We thought she was a ghost, you know, not so out of the ordinary for the weirdness that happens around here." He paused, glancing toward the stairs where they could hear muffled voices from the guest room. "Turns out it's even stranger. What we do know, she was a Meteor Freak who had superspeed. It's why she seemed to appear and disappear; she was moving too fast for everyone to track. I took her power, so she's normal now. But she's afraid of her father, who'd been keeping her locked up as a prisoner… or, from the way she described it, it seems like she's an experiment of some kind."

Martha's hand flew to her mouth. "That's horrible."

"Coming here was the only thing I could think of," Tyson continued, more earnest now. "I can't take care of her. Imagine the new kid in town suddenly has a kid who's half his age and looks nothing like him. It couldn't work. Lana's Aunt Nell would freak. Lex would have too many questions. I figured you had to have some kind of connection since you adopted Clark, maybe you could do the same thing for Emily."

The Kents exchanged another look.

"I know this is a big ask," Tyson said quickly, seeing their hesitation. "I just figured that with all the upgrades I got for the farm and the mortgage payoff, it would lighten your burden a little bit. Sorry if this just lays it back on. I know a kid is a big responsibility, but I can pay for whatever she needs."

Jonathan shifted uncomfortably. "It's not that…"

The sound of footsteps on the stairs interrupted him. Lana appeared in the kitchen doorway.

"Emily is getting situated in the guest room," she announced.

Martha took a deep breath, her hand unconsciously moving to her stomach. "I'm pregnant."

The kitchen went silent. Lana gasped, her eyes widening with delight and surprise.

Martha smiled at Lana's reaction, but her voice was unsteady when she continued. "I know. Believe me, I know. We were told years ago that it wasn't possible. We tried everything, and eventually we made our peace with it. Jonathan always said that Clark was more than enough, and he was right. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't grieve it. And then I started getting sick in the mornings, and I thought it was the flu, and the doctor said…"

She couldn't finish. Jonathan was already beside her, his arm around her shoulders.

"Uhhhh…" Tyson's voice went uncertain.

Everyone turned to look at him. Lana frowned. "What did you do?"

Tyson hesitated, looking sheepish. "So you all know how I can heal, thanks to absorbing Cyrus's power. Well, right after that happened, I was here, and Mrs. Kent was complaining of a headache. So I thought it'd be nice to just heal it."

Martha nodded slowly. "I remember that. You said it was a tension headache, and you gave me a shoulder massage, and it went away."

"Right. Well, I was using my healing power..." Tyson's voice grew smaller. "Ummm, it took longer to heal you than a headache should have. And that was around two months ago…"

He remembered it clearly now. The warmth flowing through his hands into Martha's shoulders, expecting a tension headache to dissolve in seconds. Instead the healing power had reached deeper, spreading through her body with a thoroughness that puzzled him. Almost a full minute, far longer than a headache warranted. He'd chalked it up to unfamiliarity with the power. He hadn't considered that there was something else, something Martha had carried for years, and that his hands had quietly, without asking, undone it.

Jonathan stared at him. "You healed her? You healed her whole body, and you hadn't realized it?"

"I'm sorry. It was a new power, and I didn't think anything of it—"

Tyson was interrupted when Jonathan stepped forward and pulled him into a fierce hug. "Thank you, son."

Tyson patted his back. "Uh, no problem, pops."

Clark laughed, open and real, as he moved to join them, wrapping his arms around both men. Martha wiped tears from her eyes as she stood and added herself to the embrace, followed by Lana, who couldn't stop grinning.

For a moment, the day's problems were somewhere else. The kitchen was just a kitchen, and they were just people holding on to each other.

Emily's small footsteps could be heard coming down the steps. Tyson spotted her hovering in the doorway, unsure whether she belonged.

"Get in here, Emily," he called. "Family hug!"

— Meteor Freak —

Dr. Walden's flashlight beam swept across the cave wall, illuminating the octagonal groove carved into the stone. Symbols surrounded it, their meaning lost to time, but their importance undeniable. He'd been studying these markings for hours, cross-referencing them with the wall paintings that covered every surface of the cavern. The paintings told a story. Fragments of a civilization that had vanished long ago. Warriors wielding impossible weapons, beings of light descending from the heavens, and always, the recurring symbols. Frederick traced the groove with his finger, feeling the edges.

A glint of metal caught his attention from across the cave. He turned his flashlight toward the opposite wall, where something protruded from between the rocks. Moving closer, he could make out the edge of what appeared to be a disk, embedded sideways in the stone face.

Frederick pulled his pick from his belt and began chipping away at the surrounding rock. A few strikes and the disk came free. The metal had an unusual weight to it, neither heavy nor light but somehow perfectly balanced. Symbols covered its surface, matching those surrounding the octagonal groove on the opposite stone face. Frederick's pulse quickened as he recognized the connection. He turned back toward the wall, the disk's size exactly matching the groove's dimensions. This was it. The key he'd been searching for.

Clark had just reached the cave entrance as Frederick crossed the chamber. "Dr. Walden?"

Frederick reached the wall and positioned the disk over the octagonal groove. The symbols aligned perfectly, each marking on the artifact corresponding to its counterpart carved in stone. He pressed the disk forward, and it slid into place with a satisfying click.

The response was immediate. Light erupted from the symbols, brilliant and pure. Frederick stepped back, a wide smile breaking across his face.

Stone moved against stone with surprising smoothness, revealing an opening that promised access to whatever lay beyond. Frederick's heart raced with the thrill of discovery. This was why he'd dedicated his life to archaeology, for moments like this when the past revealed its secrets. But something was wrong.

"Dr. Walden!" Alarm in Clark's voice now.

Frederick raised his hand to shield his eyes, but it was too late. The opening erupted in a blinding beam of energy that struck him square in the chest. The force lifted him off his feet and sent him flying backward across the cave. He hit the far wall and crumpled to the ground, his flashlight spinning away into the darkness.

Clark threw his arms up against the brilliant light, squeezing his eyes shut as the beam continued to pour from the wall. When the light finally faded, he blinked rapidly, trying to clear the spots from his vision. The cave had returned to its previous dimness, lit only by Frederick's fallen flashlight where it lay against a rock.

"Dr. Walden!" Clark rushed over, dropping to his knees. "Dr. Walden!"

Frederick lay unconscious, his breathing shallow but steady. Clark checked for obvious injuries, relieved to find no blood or broken bones, his x-ray vision revealed no internal damage.

"Dr. Walden?" Clark tried again, gently shaking the older man's shoulder.

The disk lay nearby, apparently ejected from the wall mechanism during the energy discharge. Clark pocketed it, then returned his attention to the unconscious archaeologist.

Hours later, Frederick's face lay motionless against the white hospital pillow, his eyes open but unseeing. The pupils had vanished entirely, leaving only blank white orbs that stared at nothing. His chest rose and fell, signaling he was alive. Lex stepped through the doorway into the hallway where Clark waited.

"How's he doing?" Clark asked.

"The doctors have never seen anything like it. He's completely catatonic."

"Is he gonna be okay?"

"It's impossible to determine without knowing the cause." Lex moved closer, something more pointed entering his tone. "I mysteriously find you unconscious in the caves, then you find Walden in the caves in a similar state, but he's catatonic. That's a coincidence and a mystery unto itself, don't you think?"

"Not really." Clark's response came too quickly, too flat.

Lex's mouth thinned, but he said nothing more. The silence stretched between them until Clark turned to leave. "I hope he recovers quickly."

Back in Frederick's room, Lex stood beside another doctor reviewing the chart. The older physician's expression remained grim as he flipped through the test results. "Whatever he was exposed to over-stimulated his cerebral cortex, causing a massive seizure," the doctor explained. "The neural activity we recorded was unlike anything in medical literature."

"You're saying he suffered from information overload?" Lex asked.

"In layman's terms, yes. It's doubtful he'll ever regain consciousness. I'm sorry, Mr. Luthor." The doctor closed the chart with a soft snap and moved toward the door.

Lex remained beside the bed, staring at Frederick's blank white eyes. The older man's face showed no recognition, no awareness, but his stillness looked less like absence and more like a mind trapped somewhere it couldn't get back from.

Lex leaned closer, his voice low. "Don't worry, Doctor. One day you'll share your secrets with me."

He glanced at the monitors one final time before turning to leave, but movement caught his peripheral vision. Frederick's left hand, clenched in a tight fist since his discovery in the cave, suddenly relaxed. The fingers uncurled slowly, as if releasing something precious.

Lex stepped closer. Inside Frederick's palm lay a small stone. He carefully lifted the stone from Frederick's open hand. It was warm to the touch and heavier than it looked. The doctors had mentioned nothing about Frederick clutching anything when he was brought in. Either they hadn't noticed, or...

Lex slipped the stone into his jacket pocket. Whatever this was, it was worth investigating. He walked toward the door without looking back.