- Chapter 1 - A Farmer's Plight -
Chloe leaned back in her fake-leather car seat and stared out the passenger window at the passing scenery, cornfields and cows that was Smallville for you. Chloe might have shared her sarcastic conclusion with her Dad, but he wasn't in much of a chatting mood. It didn't bother her. She could totally relate. If she had to put up with all the stress he did at work lately, she'd probably be in a touchy mood too. With rumors about layoffs and constant union meetings, he just seemed so tired. Chloe smiled over at her dad and turned back to watch her lovely view of corn.
Chloe felt a funny fluttering in her chest, and she blinked against the late afternoon sun. There was a very important scenery enhancer she'd forgotten about, farm boys. The blue-jean clad Greek god sitting atop one of the fence posts they were rapidly approaching was ample reminder. Thick slightly curly black hair and classical sharp features were perfectly presented atop a broad muscular chest and long lean legs. Clark Kent had no right to look so appealing. He belonged in a magazine spread, not on a farm pitching hay. Would he look her way? Chloe waited for it, but their car zipped past without him even turning.
Of course he didn't look. If Lana Lang had driven by he'd have noticed. The boy had Lana radar, but Chloe practically needed a siren to get his attention sometimes. It wasn't that he was dense either. He was just oblivious, and she was caught up in the friendship curse.
Clark might have missed noticing Chloe, but she would have been happy to know that he hadn't been thinking about the lovely Lana Lang either. His thoughts were with the farm, the fall crop. The corn tassels were emerging, waving in a warm afternoon breeze. It was going to be a good one. They had avoided rot through the wet season, insects in the spring, and finally they seemed to have dodged the early burn August heat could inflict. It was just too bad that the market was saturated.
The Kent farm had remained a mom and pop operation while most of the rest of the farming world had become mechanized multimillion-dollar corporations. If it hadn't been for Clark and his ability to help make things work out, the farm might not have lasted as long as it had. Clark dropped off his perch and began moving carefully through the thick rows of corn. It was like stepping off into a leafy green sea. Neither a good season nor super powers seemed to be able to stop the winds of change from blowing at their door. The Kent farm was sinking into a dismal pit of debt. The cows they'd lost in the freak poisoning a few weeks earlier hadn't helped matters, and now the corn prices were at an all time low.
Unless something miraculous happened, there was no way his parents were going to be able to make the annual mortgage without selling land. That meant less land for the next year, which meant even less profit. It was a cycle that once surrendered to, could destroy a farm within a very few growing seasons.
Clark pushed his way gently through the brickle corn stalks, not willing to damage a single one when things were so desperate. If they lost the farm it would kill his dad. This farm was his life, but Clark couldn't think of any way to help. He could ask Lex, and Lex would almost certainly ride to the rescue, checkbook in hand. But Jonathan Kent did not take handouts, especially not from Luthors. It would be better not to even start that argument again with his dad. There was nothing to do but wait and hope for the best.
The smell of dirt, rich and wet, full of life, filled the air. Martha Kent dug her fingers down into the soil and raked it around a new seedling in her backdoor herb patch. Her straight shiny red hair was pulled back ponytail-style through a baseball cap while an old ratty pair of jeans collected new stains. She worked quietly, with only the sound of her own breathing and the occasional vocal cricket to break the silence. Evening was fast coming on and she should stop the gardening and go inside. Dinner wasn't even on the table.
A single tear rolled down her face, mingling with one of the rivers of sweat, and dropped off her chin into the dirt. "I don't want to lose this," Martha said. She dropped her trowel and came to her feet. This place wasn't just an herb garden or a house or even the Kent Family Farm. It was the porch where Clark first called her Mom, and the barn loft where Jonathan first kissed her. This place was full of their memories. This place was their home. It just wasn't fair that they could do everything right, work every day, and still not be able to make ends meet.
They had tried to keep the situation from Clark at first. He was a kid, and he shouldn't have to worry about mortgages or losing his home, but they had to discuss their options and he deserved a say. Martha gathered up her tools and abandoned the spotless little herb garden. She made her way up the stairs and stripped away the layers of dirt-encrusted clothes. The swift hot water from her shower pounded and massaged the dirt away. Martha felt clearer, less mournful, with the water steaming into her face. Whatever happened, at least they had each other. They were a family, and they would survive.
Johnathan Kent shifted his old truck into fifth gear and griped the faded, cracked steering wheel. His truck was beginning to show its age like everything they owned. Their rust red Allis Chalmers tractor was officially an antique and the house paint was beginning to peel. Jonathan couldn't remember the last time Martha had actually bought a new dress, and Clark was probably sporting the most limited wardrobe in the history of teenagers. They didn't ask for more. They shouldn't have to. He'd let them down. His family was depending on him to provide for them and protect them. Martha deserved better and so did Clark.
The rutted dirt road was more than a match for the ancient shocks on the old Chevy, and Jonathan was bouncing up and down in his seat, occasionally bumping his head against the cab. With a twist to the radio's volume knob, Waylon Jennings strong country twang filled the vehicle. Jonathan visibly relaxed and slowed down a bit. His father was probably rolling over in his grave. The Kent Farm had been in the family for seven generations, and Jonathan Kent was going to be the man that lost it.
The truck slowed and veered off onto the shoulder. Jonathan threw his door open and headed out into a scrub-covered field. An old pond covered in a layer of green scum, his fishing hole, lay stagnant and still under the fading August sun. "What else could I do? I grew a crop anybody could be proud of. You would have been proud of this crop, Dad. It won't be enough though. The red ink wins however I add."
Johnathan ran his hands through his sandy blond hair and turned his sun-weathered face up, but no answers came down from the heavens. It was time to decide, sell it in pieces over a couple of years as the bills slowly overran them, or sell the farm intact. "I hate this."
A compact spacecraft, black, sleek, and teardrop shaped, entered the Earth's atmosphere. The complicated satellites monitoring the heavens didn't detect anything amiss. The ship landed in an opportune place, amidst Dave Martin's tree farm, far from any road or civilization.
A seam split around the circumference of the ship and it opened smoothly. The Eradicator's first glimpse of Earth was the red light of twilight filtered through a canopy of leaves. Dressed in a tight black synthetic material, she stepped out onto a soft green carpet of moss. With two efficient motions, she took hold of her long black curls and twisted them into a knot at the base of her neck. The Eradicator reached into a small leather pouch clipped to her hip and removed a clear azure crystal. It flashed brightly in her palm, and she moved away from her landing site with purpose.
