The next morning.
The blizzard that had raged all night finally burned itself out, leaving behind a world blanketed in thick, pristine snow.
Sunlight pierced through the thin clouds, spilling over Kent Farm and reflecting in dazzling bursts.
The air was crisp and clear, each breath carrying a sharp, icy chill.
Last night's chaos felt like a bad dream, with only the massive icicles hanging from the eaves and the fences nearly buried in snow silently testifying to the white havoc.
The rumble of a pickup truck's engine broke the snow-draped morning's quiet.
A mud-splattered, dark green military 4x4 and a slightly beat-up brown sedan, like two small boats in a sea of snow, churned through knee-deep drifts before coming to a stop on the nearly buried path in front of the Kent house.
The doors opened almost simultaneously, and a group of people spilled out, their urgency impossible to hide.
Leading them was a broad-shouldered man in a crisp Army uniform, silver stars gleaming on his shoulder boards. His face was chiseled, his eyes sharp as a hawk's, carrying the steely resolve of a career soldier mixed with a trace of suppressed exhaustion.
The moment he stepped out, his gaze swept toward the farmhouse door like a searchlight, his feet itching to charge forward.
At that same moment, the door swung open.
Lock and Old Henry, bundled in a thick coat, stepped out, their eyes meeting the soldier's intense stare head-on.
For a split second, Lock's calm eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
Last night, when he'd heard "Gabe and Sam" over the phone, he'd thought "Sam" was just a common name, nothing worth dwelling on.
But now, standing before him was a familiar, hard-edged face—one he'd seen countless times in military news briefings—paired with a uniform that screamed power and responsibility.
It clicked.
Sam Lane.
Lieutenant General of the U.S. Army, senior advisor to the Department of Defense, and in countless timelines, Clark's father-in-law. For now, though, their paths hadn't crossed in any meaningful way.
Well… young Lock had yet to learn about the tangled history between General Lane and his good buddy Logan.
"You must be Henry's family," Lock said, his gaze shifting past Sam Lane.
Behind the general was a man in a thick parka, his face covered in stubble and his eyes red and swollen like walnuts, clearly emotional as he supported a young woman who was crying her eyes out.
The woman clutched two sniffling, teary-eyed little girls tightly in her arms.
Old Henry hurried forward, and the family of four collapsed into a tearful, joyful embrace, their sobs and laughter breaking the snowy silence.
No doubt about it.
Old Henry was the stubbled man's father, Sam Lane was the crying woman's brother, and the man and woman were…
"Mr. Kent!"
Before Lock could fully process the intricate family ties, Sam Lane strode forward.
This man, who usually called the shots in the Pentagon with eyes full of suspicion and calculation, dropped all pretense now. His gaze, which had seen countless crises, held only raw gratitude and lingering fear.
He reached out, gripping Lock's shoulders firmly with a soldier's sincerity.
"Thank you!"
"Thank you so much… really, I can't thank you enough! If you hadn't saved Henry in time, then…"
"My sister Moira, her husband Gabe, Chloe, and Lois… this family…"
He trailed off, giving Lock's shoulders another firm squeeze, his eyes flickering to his sobbing sister and brother-in-law behind him. The unspoken words were clear:
This family had nearly been shattered.
Feeling the warmth and weight of Lane's gratitude through his hands, Lock shook his head slightly, offering a gentle, understanding smile. He echoed what he'd told Old Henry last night, his voice steady and grounded, like the earth itself:
"No need to thank me."
"Since Henry's here in Smallville, we're all Smallville folks. Neighbors."
"Helping each other out? That's just what we've always done around here for generations."
Sam Lane met Lock's open, unassuming gaze and nodded heavily.
He could feel the sincerity and strength in Lock's words. From what he knew of small-town life, this wasn't just politeness—it was a deep-rooted belief woven into the fabric of this place.
Then, the high-ranking general did something that caught Lock off guard.
A flicker of awkwardness crossed his stern face, almost clumsy, as he reached into the inner pocket of his crisp uniform jacket. After fumbling for a moment, he pulled out a plain, thick, dark gray business card.
No frills, no embellishments—just two lines: a name and a phone number.
With a solemn air, almost like a ritual, Sam Lane handed the card to Lock.
"Mr. Kent, words can't express my gratitude." His tone was blunt, soldierly, with a touch of self-deprecating humor. "I don't have much to offer that's truly worth anything."
"Keep this card. If you or your family ever run into… well, anything out of the ordinary, something you can't handle through normal means, anything that feels off or involves 'special' dangers…" He paused, his eyes deadly serious. "Call this number. Use my name."
"As long as it's within my authority and ability, I'll do everything I can to help."
"…"
Lock looked at the weighty card in his hand, then back at Sam Lane's earnest face, which seemed to say, "I'm sorry, this is all I can offer."
He couldn't help but let out a small, amused huff.
A cash reward?
Pulling strings for some worldly favor?
Those weren't Sam Lane's style.
A glance at the general's family—crying together in their plain winter clothes—made it clear he didn't use his position to shower them with special treatment.
The only "repayment" he could think to offer was tied to his core duty:
Dealing with threats beyond human understanding, like metahumans.
It was absurd… but so very Sam Lane.
Lock got it. He weighed the card in his hand, didn't refuse, and slipped it into his work pants pocket.
Meeting Sam's sincere gaze, he gave a calm smile and said slowly, "General Lane, I appreciate the gesture."
"I'm just a simple farmer, so I'm not sure I follow all that, but…"
He glanced out at the snow-covered Smallville plains, bathed in the morning sun, his tone steady but certain. "I hope I never have to make that call."
Sam Lane froze for a moment.
Then, a rare, relieved smile broke across his usually stern face.
The sunlight glinted off the snow.
It fell on these two men—one a farmer, one a general—brought together briefly by a blizzard and an old man, their worlds so different yet united in this moment.
The air carried the fresh scent of snow and a strange, unspoken calm.
---
Inside, the crackle of the fireplace mingled with the low, grateful voices of the adults, their conversation drifting faintly through the windows.
Outside, on the blindingly bright snowfield in front of the Kent farmhouse, three kids—
Lois Lane, Chloe Sullivan, and Clark Kent—
stood awkwardly, eyeing each other.
As for Dio?
He was already upstairs in the nursery, buried in dense books with Sarafiel, oblivious to the sunlight and voices outside.