When Clark came downstairs that morning, the smell of oatmeal and brewed coffee filled the Kent farmhouse. He took his seat at the dining table, ready for breakfast—until his eyes caught something glimmering in Adrian's hand.
It was a piece of green meteorite.
Clark froze instantly, every muscle in his body tensing. A familiar dizziness crept up his neck as he pushed his chair back and stood up abruptly.
"Adrian… that meteorite in your hand!" he said, voice tight.
Adrian looked up, calm as ever, completely unfazed by Clark's sudden alarm. He turned the glowing stone in his fingers before tossing it casually onto the table.
"Relax. It's fake," he said. "Lately, Smallville's been crawling with cheap knockoff meteorites. Tourists buy them like candy."
Clark hesitated. Then, slowly, he reached out and touched the fragment. Nothing happened. The tension drained from his shoulders.
"Fake?" he repeated.
"Probably Hamilton's work," came Martha's voice from the kitchen as she carried over two bowls of oatmeal. "Dr. Hamilton's been selling those fragments to visitors for years. He's Smallville's so-called Meteorite Man."
Before Clark could reply, Jonathan Kent entered through the back door, wiping grease from his hands after morning chores.
"Now, hold on, Martha," Jonathan said firmly. "Let's not spread rumors. I don't know Hamilton personally. He's just been spouting nonsense for years—claims the strange things around town aren't caused by LuthorCorp pollution, but by meteorites. I've never agreed with that."
Adrian leaned back in his chair, thoughtful, his sharp eyes reflecting the faint green of the fake rock. "Hamilton," he repeated under his breath, as though filing the name away.
---
Sunday. Outskirts of Smallville.
An old warehouse sat isolated among overgrown weeds and cracked concrete. Rust ate away at its metal siding, and the faded "No Trespassing" sign hung crooked.
Adrian stood at the entrance, his gaze distant and unreadable. He swept the interior with his X-ray vision, mapping the structure and its contents in an instant.
Then he pushed open the heavy iron door.
Creak.
Dim light flickered from a few overhead bulbs, casting deep shadows across the room. Inside were shelves lined with meteorite fragments—most of them glowing faintly green—and a cluttered workbench piled with microscopes, flasks, and stacks of papers.
To any outsider, it looked like the lair of a half-mad scientist.
Adrian stepped inside, eyes sweeping over the room until they landed on a meteorite fragment displayed on a steel rack. He reached out to touch it—
"Don't touch that!" a sharp voice barked.
Adrian turned. A thin, middle-aged man stood at the far side of the room, setting down a wooden crate. His lab coat was dusty, his expression irritated.
"Your hands aren't sterilized," he said curtly. "And you're not me."
He dusted his palms and squinted suspiciously at his visitor. "Who are you? Don't tell me you found me through some conspiracy website. Usually, only those kinds of weirdos track me down."
Adrian's eyes narrowed slightly. His tone was calm, but there was an unmistakable authority in it. "I'm not one of your 'weirdos.' I just heard someone's been selling counterfeit meteorite fragments around town. I figured that someone might be you, Dr. Steven Hamilton."
Hamilton frowned as Adrian approached the meteorite shelf again. Adrian picked up one of the stones between his fingers, studying it.
"This one, for example," he said. "Definitely not genuine."
The doctor stiffened. "Who are you?"
"Adrian Kent," he replied, meeting Hamilton's gaze. "And I'm very interested in your work."
Hamilton let out a dismissive grunt. "Ah, one of the Kent boys. You should be in school, not sneaking around in here. Go help out in a chemistry lab if you want experiments. I'm a mineralogist, not a science fair exhibit."
"Mineralogist," Adrian echoed, a faint smile curling on his lips. "Funny. I didn't know mineralogists had access to the first lunar sample recovered by Apollo."
Hamilton's eyes twitched. "That was a long time ago," he muttered.
"Back when I was still a respected scientist. Now I'm here. Times change. People fall. Even scientists have to make a living."
He turned away, emptying rocks from the crate onto the table. His hands were steady but his voice betrayed bitterness.
Adrian observed quietly. The doctor was eccentric—paranoid even—but clearly brilliant. He'd been studying meteorites for years, maybe decades.
And Adrian needed him.
He walked closer, his voice low and deliberate. "Dr. Hamilton, I've read your paper on cellular mutation and meteor exposure. It's impressive. The theory that meteorites can alter human biology—it's more accurate than you think."
Hamilton didn't look up. "You're not the first one to say that, but you're the youngest."
"My body's been… reacting strangely," Adrian continued. "And I suspect it's connected to the meteorites. That's why I came here. I want to fund your research."
The older man laughed dryly. "You? Fund me? You're a kid."
Adrian's eyes hardened slightly, that unmistakable confidence flashing through. "Don't be so sure. I have resources—and I'm not asking for charity. You'd get full equipment, a proper lab, and freedom to experiment. You'll get credit. I'll get results. Fair trade."
Hamilton hesitated. His curiosity was piqued, but suspicion lingered. "And why should I trust you?"
Adrian turned toward the exit. "You'd rather keep selling rocks to tourists than uncover something that could rewrite biology itself?"
He stopped at the doorway and glanced back. "If you change your mind, you know how to find me."
The iron door creaked shut behind him.
---
Outside, the sun was already dipping over the distant fields. Adrian stood for a moment, eyes reflecting the fading gold light. His mind was already elsewhere
He needed capital to start Hamilton's research properly.
The gold and precious metals he had taken from the Court of Owls could finally serve a purpose.
He just needed the right city to sell them.
And as he looked to the horizon, a single name surfaced in his mind—
Gotham.
______
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