On his birthday, Conner decided to pay his beloved parents a visit.
Smallville, Kansas was a small farming town of about 16,000 souls, the cultural center and seat of Lowell County. He arrived in town early in the morning, sidling reluctantly up the steps on the Kents' front porch.
Though it was technically the first day of spring, the last bitter chill of winter lingered, and Conner's breath misted with every exhalation.
He lost track of how long he stood there, hands jammed in his jeans pockets, before he realized that he didn't have to wait outside. Before leaving the Watchtower, Clark had magnanimously bestowed on him a key to the house, saying he would be there later in the day and to make himself 'at home.'
Uh-huh, right.
Conner fished around in his knapsack, found the small, ancient brass key, and stuck it in the lock. He twisted his wrist both ways, and found that when he twisted right, the door unlocked. He pushed it open, and was greeted with warmth and the sweet smell of chocolate.
Captivated, Conner followed the delicious aroma into the kitchen, where he found Martha standing by the oven in an apron, holding a bowl in one hand and a box of cake mix in the other. Hearing the door close, she looked up at him, a smile turning up the corners of her lips, her eyes brightening.
"Hi sweetie," she greeted, setting the bowl down on the stovetop. She wiped her hands on the apron, and closed the distance between them. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him to her in a close embrace, leaning her head against his broad shoulder. "I didn't know if you were going to come or not . . . but I'm glad you did. Happy birthday!" Martha kissed his cheek and drew back, looking Conner in the eye — closely.
"My goodness," she murmured, likely to herself. "You look just like Clark did when he was your age!"
Conner smiled amiably and nodded, but in his mind, he screamed. What did she think he was supposed to look like? He was Superman's clone, after all. Not born, but created in a Petri dish in a dim and dismal laboratory. Still, he thought to himself, at least I can't say that my parents never wanted me.
That was no longer the case, if indeed it ever had been. While Clark had been scarce and largely absent from his life thus far, Martha Kent had expressed interest in meeting him from the moment she found out about his existence.
For years, he had kept in contact with her through letter correspondence, carried by either Kara or, rarely, Bruce Wayne.
Conner couldn't pinpoint any particular reason why he had never gone to meet her, other than he thought it would be too awkward. What was he to say to her when he met her in person? He hated to think that he was just another carbon copy of Clark Kent, that he was fated (cursed) to possess all the same qualities as him, good or bad.
Martha's comparison, while genuinely made in the form of a compliment, only served to upset Conner, though he managed to hide it well. He half-smiled and nodded, turning his attention toward the bowl on the stovetop. "Is that for me?"
"What? Oh, yes!" Martha chuckled and picked the bowl up, putting it down again on the countertop. "I hope you like chocolate ― I wasn't sure what your preference was, so I went with it, because —"
"Because it's Clark's favorite."Conner smiled wryly, stuffing down the sarcastic retort that formed in his mind.
It would not do to alienate Martha Kent, especially seeing how she considered herself to be his mother. Still, Conner found that being kind and considerate around her was going to be more of a challenge than he'd thought.
Through letters, he had been able to sense her urgency to meet him, her genuine concern and support. When she wrote that she loved him, he knew it to be true. He preferred knowing of her love through paper and ink; in flesh and blood, he had no idea how she would express it.
"I was just mixing everything together," she said, as if she had not heard his remark. "It needs to bake for a little longer, about 45 minutes or so."
Martha turned the dial to 350 degrees, setting the pan on the middle rack. She wiped her hands on her apron once more, and clasped Conner's hand in hers. "It really is good to finally see you," she confessed, her voice tremulous. "I'm so glad you're here!" She wrapped her arms around him, hugging him close.
Martha left Conner to his own devices, telling him she needed to keep an eye on the cake.
She bid him to do as he wished, but asked him to greet her husband, Jonathan, who was sitting in the living room, watching some news broadcast.
Conner hung back, looking with mild interest at the reporter on the screen: a tall brunette, with her long hair swept back in a ponytail, her eyes gleaming with some indiscernible emotion as she asked a political pundit a question. "
"This woman here's my daughter-in-law," he declared, turning slightly to acknowledge Conner's presence. "Well, she will be my daughter-in-law soon enough, at any rate. Lois Lane, bigwig reporter for The Daily Planet."
Jonathan turned his attention back to the television, lowering the volume. He waited for Conner to sit down on the leather couch, making himself somewhat comfortable, before continuing:
"Yup, she was Clark's sweetheart for about five years, before he finally trusted her enough to tell her who he is. Got down on one knee right there in the barn, and she accepted. That's the story, anyway," he said, as if he wasn't sure he believed it himself.
Conner nodded politely, not sure how else he should respond.
Truthfully, he didn't much care where his progenitor had proposed to his girlfriend, or even who she was.
He waited patiently for Jonathan to speak, watching the screen mutely.
Lois Lane was scowling now, her brown eyes flashing angrily as she raised her voice.
"I don't understand, sir, how can you justify cutting off their funding? Do you know how many citizens depend on this program to help them make ends meet?"
Conner blinked, and when he opened his eyes, Lois Lane's ranting had been replaced with a church service, a stocky old man dressed in an Armani suit, a silver Rolex glinting on his wrist as he pounded the pulpit. Red-faced, he seemed to be chastising his congregation, throwing out one Scripture after another.
"Ugh, hypocrites!" Jonathan frowned, flipping through the channels until he came to an old western. "Well, ain't nothing I haven't seen before, but it's something . . . do you mind if I watch this?"
He seemed to be asking Conner for his opinion, like it mattered.
"No," he said tersely, finally speaking. "I don't mind at all." "Good!" Jonathan grinned and winked at him, the first gesture of affection he'd ever received from Jonathan Kent. Conner wasn't sure what to think of it, and it slightly unnerved him.
"Um, I'm gonna go look around the farm some," he said, springing up from the couch.
Wordlessly, he went outside, the screen door clattering shut behind him.
"Alright, son," Jonathan called after him. "But you don't know what you're missing!"
The Kent Farm was beautiful, five acres of land with a small pond at the east end of the property. The Kents owned 35 head of cattle, and also had a horse, a pig, and a small herd of goats. Conner surveyed the grounds in about three minutes, covering the distance in a healthy sprint.
He could see why Clark would enjoy growing up in such a place.
Conner went into the barn, and found what must have been Clark's original "fortress of solitude."
In the loft, he found a few tightly bound bales of hay, a blue afghan blanket draped over them to provide comfort. There was a telescope against one wall, but what captured Conner's attention the most was the bookcase against the opposing wall, completely filled.
Conner knelt down in front of the case, running his fingers over the book spines to see what he would find. The Brothers Karamazov, Crime and Punishment, The Invisible Man, Moby Dick, The Holy Bible (KJV).
He stopped when he got to a thin, red hardcover volume, labelled Smallville High '04. He pulled the tome out, blowing off a thin film of dust on the cover.
He opened it to the front page, and flipped disinterestedly through the pages, until he came across Clark's picture, smiling brightly, wearing a black blazer and tie. Underneath his picture were his name, Clark Kent, and then the inscription, most likely to reach for the stars.
Conner frowned and, suddenly overcome with anger, he ripped the page of the smiling Clark out of the book, crumpling it up into a ball and dropping it to the ground.
He dropped to his knees, stuffing a fist in his mouth to keep from screaming. Why? Why did he still get so angry, after all this time? It was not as if Clark was hateful or cruel towards him, and he was no longer the aloof, indifferent person he had been before.
If anything, his interactions with Conner over the past year had been kind, almost fraternal. That was enough, though . . . wasn't it? No, I don't think it is enough anymore!
Conner stood up, and with one sweeping motion of his arm knocked all of the books off the shelf. He pushed the shelf over as well, splintering the wood as it broke. His anger still not abated, he picked up the telescope stand, smashing it against the wall. That done, he set about kicking the hay bales, scattering straw all over. He ripped the afghan cloth in two, stomping on it with his booted feet.
Suddenly, he saw something glint out of the corner of his eye. He stood still, his rage calmed, and stooped to pick up what looked like an old ruby ring, its luster dulled over the years. Conner guessed that it must have been somewhere in the book shelf, and he just hadn't noticed it in his fury.
It was an odd thing, he thought, to keep such an allegedly valuable gemstone lying in a barn to be exposed to the dust and the elements. It apparently was of very little value to Clark, if any at all. Impulsively, Conner slipped the ring on his own finger and found that it was a perfect fit.
He felt a sudden surge of euphoria, almost giddiness. He looked about at the mess he had made and laughed. Within seconds, he descended the loft and was standing outside the barn, looking across the pasture.
He was the most powerful being in the world; he could go anywhere, or do anything. He also knew that there was only one thing he really wanted to do: he would show Clark, once and for all, who was the real Superman.
Superman was on patrol, flying over the skyline in Metropolis.
It was his last patrol of the day, and then he was going back to Smallville for Conner's birthday party. Absently, he peeled back one blue spandex sleeve, checking the time on his wristwatch. It was 6:04, just a few minutes past the time Martha Kent had asked him to be at the house.
The city was mercifully quiet. Clark knew, of course, that the peace would not last. After he had spent a couple of hours socializing with his family, he would fly right back into the city to start another night shift. It was like the old saying went: there truly was 'no rest for the wicked,' nor for the heroes who pursued them, for that matter.
Superman increased his speed, and before long the Kent homestead was in sight. He descended to the ground in front of the front porch, leaping over the steps in a single bound. He raised a fist to knock on the door.
"Hey Clark, I didn't think you were going to show up. Well, aren't you gonna wish me a happy birthday?" Conner's tone was cutting and bitter, so much so that Clark felt a twinge of guilt hearing it.
Clark slowly turned and saw Conner leaning against the porch rail, his hands folded over his chest, glaring at him with an expression of utter disgust.
"Conner?" he ventured, taking a tentative step toward the younger man. "Are you alright? What happened?"
Conner snorted, laughing rudely as Clark stopped mid-stride.
"You know Clark, there was a time when I actually wanted to be like you. Just like you. I guess it must be all in the genes, 'cause honestly, I can't think of a single reason now why I ever wanted to be anything like you!"
He balled his hand into a fist, and brought it crashing down on the railing, spraying the lawn with jagged pieces of white painted vinyl.
"Conner!" Clark grabbed hold of his arm, looking into his cold, blank blue eyes. "What is the matter with you, son? Why are you acting like this?"
"So now I'm your son, am I? You hypocrite; just a month ago you could barely stand the sight of me! No matter how cool and nonchalant you try to be, you never could hide the fact that you hated me!"
Conner pushed him, so forcefully that he sent him crashing through the wall, flying into the foyer. "Mom, Dad, get out of here, now! Get to the basement!" Clark stood up, coughing, and stared at Conner ― just for a moment, before he surged toward the younger man in a full body tackle.
The two landed in a heap in the outer pasture, startling the herd of grazing cattle.
"Get off me!" Conner leaped up, his eyes glowing an ominous red.
Not missing a beat, Clark shot up into the sky, smiling down at his young clone grimly.
"I still have one advantage over you: I see that you still don't have the ability to fly."
"I'll show you what I can do!" Conner took a deep breath and jumped, gaining an equal altitude with Clark. In the split second before he began to fall, Conner grabbed Clark's cape, and vigorously began to spin around.
As they began a swift descent, Conner released him mid-flight, hurling him toward the barn. Clark fell through the roof, crashing in the hayloft – at least, what was left of it.
He staggered to his feet, surveying the damage around him. His telescope, his books, everything that he had kept up there over the years had been destroyed. He bent down to retrieve a ball of paper at his feet, uncrumpled it to find his senior class photograph. He had looked just like Conner, then; rather, Conner looked like he did.
Clark felt his eyes brim with tears as he took in his high school epitaph: Most likely to reach for the stars. . .
Down in the basement, Martha Kent was silently weeping, and unable to be comforted. Jonathan had tried to say something, anything, to make her feel better, to reassure her that everything was going to be alright, but finally decided to say nothing.
Talk was cheap, and in this case, he couldn't guarantee that everything was alright. He genuinely had no clue.
Instead he held her, patting her back as she soaked the front of his flannel shirt with her tears. She shook and sobbed, crying as she had not done since her father's funeral, since the time she'd lost her baby. Hers were the cries of a mother with a wounded, broken heart.
Jonathan hated it, witnessing his wife's misery and being powerless to do anything about it. What was worse, he felt torn.
He'd wanted to like the boy, wanted to feel some instant connection with him and love him, as he had with Clark when he found him in the cornfield. He had wanted to be a father to the boy; now, that didn't seem possible.
He couldn't begin to understand what could have caused Conner to act the way he had, but frankly he didn't care. Clark had told him several times how he himself wanted to love the boy, but that something about him was just . . . off.
For one thing, it was now apparent that the boy was unstable.
Jonathan remembered Clark telling him that Conner had been created from two donors: himself, and Lex Luthor. He reckoned that, while Conner had inherited Clark's strengths and abilities, he had also apparently inherited Lex's instability, his psychopathology. Or at least unstable tendencies.
Was Conner Kent a psychopath? Jonathan couldn't say, and he wasn't sure it was a question he dared to ask aloud.
"Jonathan!" Martha cried out suddenly, pulling away from her husband's embrace. "Jonathan, we have to go out there. We have to go to Conner, show him that we love him! Come on!" She pushed herself to her feet, staggering slightly, and made her way toward the staircase.
She ascended the steps, and was nearing the top when she turned around to see that her husband was not following her. "What's wrong, Jonathan? Aren't you going to come with me?"
In that moment, Jonathan made his decision. "Yes sweetheart, of course I'm coming."
He got up and made his way up the stairs, taking his wife's hand. "Let's go on out there," he said. "Let's go speak with our sons."
Conner was ready to give in. He had followed Clark into the barn, and within minutes of resuming their brawl, most of the structure had caved in on them. They were largely buried under the rubble, but he still felt Clark's fists pounding against his chest, his cheek and jaw.
Every blow winded him, so that he gasped for breath, digging his nails futilely into Clark's fist.
Abruptly, Clark stopped beating him, and Conner nearly cried out with relief. Clark took hold of his hand, and slipped the ring off his finger. "Where did you get this?" He sounded aghast, but mildly amused, too. Conner murmured in reply, something vague about finding it in the loft. "Why?"
"Why? That's a great question, Conner, and one I'm glad you asked. Do you know what the gem on this ring is?"
"Isn't it a ruby?"
"No, Conner, it's not. Far from it: this beautiful class ring of mine that you seemed to like so much is actually made out of red kryptonite."
He waited to see how the boy would respond. When he didn't, Clark went on to explain:
"You know how regular green kryptonite weakens us physically, drains us of our energy? The red ones adversely affect us mentally. You felt invincible, on top of the world, right? Like you could take me on, put me in my place . . ." Clark trailed off, his eyes widening as he realized something.
"It's kind of like alcohol in a human. It erases all our inhibitions, and makes us act like we would, if we had no limitations, no boundaries."
Clark stood up, pushing the wall of debris off of them. The sun was a bright glare, and so brilliant that it made Conner's head ache. Conner groaned, covering his eyes with his hand as he sat up.
Correction: it wasn't just his head, he ached all over. He tried to stand, swaying, holding onto Clark's sleeve for support.
Clark held onto him, allowing him to lean against him as they slowly made their way back to the house.
Martha met them at the door. She did not try to hide her tears as she clung to them both, sobbing.
Most of what she said was indistinguishable, but Conner was able to make out the phrase: "So glad you're safe! My boys are safe!" over and over. Meanwhile, Clark had pulled Jonathan aside, and was hesitantly explaining the situation to him.
Her boys. He was one of her boys. He belonged to her, in that sense; she was his mother. She loved him. He had known that all along, and yet it came as something of a shock to him. How could she love me? After I destroyed their barn, caused such damage to their home? How . . .?
"It's good to see you back, son." This from Jonathan, who half an hour ago hadn't seemed to be able to tear himself away from the TV. "I remember we had a problem with that red kryptonite with Clark, too. Son, I thought you'd destroyed that darn thing years ago!"
"Well, I didn't want to throw it away, exactly. But how was I supposed to know that Conner would go snooping around in the barn? It's not like I wanted him to."
"Please," Martha sputtered, using her sleeve to wipe some of the dust off of Conner's face. "Let's not talk about this anymore. Conner, if you want to go on inside and get washed up, we'll have that cake now. It's fresh out of the oven. It was Mama's recipe, so it's delicious!" She planted a soft kiss on Conner's cheek, turning away to go back inside.
Jonathan followed after her, wordlessly, but he smiled at Conner approvingly.
Conner limped after them, grunting at the pain and stiffness he felt in his legs. "Ugh, I'm going to be feeling this tomorrow." He felt a hand on his back, steadying him. "You'll be alright," Clark said amiably. "I made sure to pull my punches." He leaned in close to whisper in Conner's ear:
"Just kidding! Happy birthday, Conner."