Summary: They say Clark became Superman only because of the way the Kents raised him. In an alternative universe, Clark is raised by the very opposite of the Kents. Can he still find his way to being a hero?

Author's note: Yeah, I know, it's far from original. I just couldn't help taking a stab at writing one myself. Please read and review.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to themselves. Stop the character slave-market. Oh, all right. Not mine, just borrowed.

.

Chapter One: Routine

.

In the moment before Clark died, he gazed up the long barrel of the gun, past the heavy hand that gripped it, up the flannel-clothed arm and straight into the cold, blue eyes of his old man. Strange, how those eyes scared him the most. He should be watching the finger that crept over the trigger, that was slowly squeezing it, but those eyes --

"Go back to Hell, where you belong," his old man said.

The cold eyes flashed and thunder split the air.

Clark sat up in bed, gasping for breath. His blood was pounding in his ears. He pressed a hand to his chest, but it came up gore-free. Just a dream. He exhaled a long, shuddering breath and forced himself to calm down. Just a dream.

The thunder clap sounded again and startled Clark out of bed.

"Clark Keller!" His old man's voice boomed through the door. "If you're not downstairs and ready in three minutes, I swear, there'll be the devil to pay!"

"I'll be there!" Clark called back.

He stifled a yawn, stretched, and winced. He was sore all over after yesterday. His eyes felt grainy and hot. He hadn't had a good night sleep in years, but he couldn't afford to be tired -- three minutes were a very short time without super-speed.

He pulled on some of his old man's clothes, loathing the very touch of them, and lumbered about the room to collect his school stuff. Half a minute. He'd never make it, unless... Clark cast a calculating stare at the door. Being late was never good, but using his powers was a league of badness all of its own. Still, if he could avoid being caught and make it in time...

He zoomed about the room, picking up school things and shoving them into his backpack. Done, with twenty seconds to spare. He slung the pack over one shoulder and hurried down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

The old man was waiting in the living room. Clark stopped a safe distant away and waited silently while that ice-cold stare probed him from head to toes.

"Jesus, boy, you're a mess," Marshal Keller said. "Straighten out."

Clark wanted to say, Look who's talking. He locked his jaw and said nothing, but he let his stare wander over Marshal's unkempt hair and red-rimmed eyes. He didn't need his heightened senses to smell the stench of old whiskey from across the room.

"Straighten out, I said."

Slowly, leisurely, Clark gathered the tails of the red flannel shirt and shoved them into the jeans. He'd long ago mastered the art of subtle defiance: the obedience that came a moment too late, the stares he kept locked a moment too long; the insolent postures, the half-smiles that mocked. It gave him a rush, like holding a live grenade in his hand and testing the limit of the handle --

He'd taken too long with the shirt. With three brisk steps, Marshal Keller closed the distance between them and brought up his hand. Before Clark could brace himself for the nausea and weakness, the strike exploded against his cheek, and he staggered back. The right side of his face throbbed with pain. Must have been a backhand. Damn.

"You start showing respect for your father, you hear me?"

You're not my father, you sonofabitch, Clark wanted to say. Instead he glared at the old man with all the hate he could muster.

Marshal smiled and held up his fisted hand. The meteor rock that was embedded in his ring swam before Clark's eyes. The dark drops of blood that spattered it were sizzling.

Clark forced himself to stand upright and ignore the nausea in his stomach and the sting in his cheek. Subtle defiance. All he had left.

"Get out of here," the old man said. "Go to school. And get back here as soon as school's out, you hear me?"

Clark kept his silence until the old man laid his ringed hand on Clark's shoulder, and longer still, until pain and dizziness made his knees buckle and he stumbled a step.

"You hear me?" Marshal said.

And Clark said through clenched teeth, "Yes."

Marshal clapped him once and stepped back. With the effect of the meteor-rock gone, Clark gathered himself and straightened up. The pain in his cheek, the jagged cut, both fizzled away; only on the inside he was a mesh of scars and bruises. He hoisted up the backpack that had slipped to the crook of his arm and walked to the front door.

"And keep out of trouble, boy!" his old man called after him. "If I hear from principal Reynolds again --"

Clark slammed shut the door behind him and paused in the middle of the street. The old man sober at this time of day, and demanding Clark's prompt return? That could only mean trouble. Clark shook himself and began the long trudge to school. He had a bad feeling about this day.

.

:: To be continued ::