Chapter Text
Tim Drake was having a perfectly normal morning, which, in his world, meant mildly existential dread, caffeine withdrawals, and an internal debate about whether or not Bruce would notice if he replaced the entire Batcave coffee supply with decaf just to watch him implode.
He woke up groggy, limbs heavy, brain foggy. He reached for his slippers — which felt wrong. Too big. Too... farm-boy-sized.
Weird.
“Whatever,” he mumbled, his voice unusually deep and velvety. Oh well, puberty’s final revenge, maybe.
Half-asleep, he shuffled across the creaky wooden floor toward the bathroom. His body felt heavier than usual, meatier. Like he'd accidentally gone to the gym in his sleep and done too many deadlifts. Bruce would be proud, he thought, yawning.
He flicked on the bathroom light.
And froze.
No, worse than froze. His brain did a hard reboot, the kind of glitch that made you question reality.
The face in the mirror was not Tim Drake’s.
It was... sculpted. Heroic. Square-jawed and obnoxiously symmetrical. Sun-kissed skin. Hair like it had been personally styled by a Pantene commercial. It was the face of someone who didn't know what existential dread felt like. It was the face of someone who probably said things like, "Golly, shucks!" unironically.
The face of...
“CONNER KENT?!” Tim screeched, except the voice that came out was deep and heroic, like Superman reading an inspirational TED Talk.
The scream was so loud, the mirror cracked.
Nope nope nope nope—
Before Tim could recover, a warm, motherly voice floated down the hall:
“Conner, sweetie? Are you alright?”
Tim’s brain short-circuited.
Sweetie? No. No sweetie. I am not a sweetie. I am chaos incarnate, a creature fueled by coffee and spite—
And then, Ma Kent appeared at the doorway, wearing a cozy robe, her expression concerned but endlessly kind. The kind of woman who could bake pies and guilt-trip you into therapy with just one look.
“Oh heavens!” she gasped, seeing the shattered mirror. “What happened, honey?!”
Tim—in Conner’s body—snapped to attention like he’d just been caught breaking into Wayne Enterprises. Think, Drake. Think fast.
“Uh, hi, Ma—uh, Mom. Ma’am. Martha.” His mouth was moving, but the words were like throwing spaghetti at a wall and hoping for poetry.
“I, uh... screamed. Because. Uh. Spider.”
She blinked. “Spider?”
“Yes,” Tim said smoothly, pulling on every ounce of his Bat-trained lying skills. “A very... aggressive spider. Like, mutant aggressive. I screamed to scare it off.”
Martha tilted her head, her mom-sense clearly screaming liar, but her actual voice was warm. “Well, you always were dramatic in the mornings. You sure you’re alright, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
Tim’s soul left his body.
“Totally fine! Peak physical condition! Not panicking internally at all!”
He slapped on what he hoped was a Conner-ish grin, all teeth and farm-boy charm.
“By the way, uh, have you done something with your hair? Looks nice.”
Martha narrowed her eyes, clearly not buying it, but she was also too polite to question it further. “I’ll go make some pancakes. You get yourself cleaned up.”
As soon as she left, Tim slammed the bathroom door shut and hyperventilated.
“Okay,” he whispered to himself, clutching the sink. “This is fine. Totally fine. Normal, even.”
He stared at his—Conner’s—reflection, horrified.
“Why do you have such perfect cheekbones? That’s rude.”
He poked at his own—Conner’s—abs.
“Seriously? Eight-pack? Do you grow these in Kansas? Is it the corn?”
Tim splashed water on his face. It didn’t help.
“This is a dream. This has to be a dream,” he told himself. “Any second now, I’ll wake up in my normal, scrawny, Gotham body with at least three bruises and a migraine.”
He slapped his cheek. Hard.
“OW. Nope, still here. Great.”
The worst part? Out the bathroom window, all he could see was flat farmland and a giant red barn.
“...Where the hell am I?!” he demanded.
The answer came to him in a horrifying flash of realization.
“Kansas. Oh my god, I’m in KANSAS.”
Tim groaned, dragging a hand down his too-perfect face.
“Okay, okay, focus. Step one: don’t let Ma Kent realize her ‘sweet farm boy’ has been body-snatched by a neurotic detective gremlin. Step two: figure out what happened. Step three: wake up. Step four: yell at Conner for having the audacity to have this face.”
As he stalked toward the kitchen, he practiced his best Conner impression:
“Aw, shucks, Ma, I sure do love corn and justice!”
But inside, he was already plotting fifty-seven different escape routes—and possibly a way to blame Bart for this mess.
Tim Drake—trapped in Conner Kent’s annoyingly perfect body—sat at Ma Kent’s kitchen table, trying not to have a nervous breakdown while surrounded by gingham placemats and the faint smell of farm-fresh wholesomeness.
The room was so aggressively cozy it felt like a Hallmark movie had personally attacked him. Every surface was either covered in a quilt, a pie, or a well-polished ceramic chicken. Tim, who had been raised in Gotham where "home décor" meant bullet holes, was on the verge of screaming again.
And then there was breakfast.
Martha had cooked a feast—pancakes stacked like architectural marvels, bacon that somehow looked like it came from a stock photo, eggs so fluffy they could double as clouds.
It should have been paradise.
It was hell.
Because there was no coffee.
Tim sat there, staring at a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice like it had personally betrayed him. His left eye twitched.
“Um, Mrs. K—uh, Ma,” he said carefully, forcing Conner’s voice into something resembling farm-boy cheer. “Do you happen to have, you know, coffee? The nectar of life? The elixir of productivity? Liquid motivation?”
Martha smiled sweetly, and Tim immediately knew he was doomed.
“Oh, Conner, you know I don’t let you have coffee. It makes you too jittery.”
Tim blinked.
“Jittery?” he repeated flatly, internally screaming in Gothamite. “Jittery? No, Ma’am, caffeine balances my internal chaos. Without it, I will start seeing God and he will not like what he sees.”
Out loud, he said:
“Right! Haha. No coffee. Because… we’re wholesome here. Yay, orange juice.”
He downed the glass in one go like it was a shot of whiskey. It didn’t help.
Martha set a plate of pancakes in front of him, and Tim immediately began plotting her murder. Or maybe just a gentle kidnapping so he could interrogate her about where she hid the coffee machine.
He picked up a fork and took a bite, glaring at the golden perfection of the pancake like it had personally insulted him.
“Of course it’s delicious,” he muttered darkly. “Why wouldn’t it be? Everything here probably tastes like sunshine and moral superiority.”
Tim was halfway through trying to figure out how to fake Conner’s metabolism when a knock came at the front door.
Martha beamed. “Oh, that must be Clark! He said he was stopping by this morning.”
Tim’s entire body froze.
Clark?
As in Clark Kent?
As in Superman?
As in the literal most terrifying father figure on the planet—even scarier than Bruce because he smiled while judging you?
“No,” Tim said instantly. “Nope. Bad idea. Tell him to go home. Or fly into the sun. Either works.”
Martha gave him a puzzled look.
“Conner! That’s no way to talk about your father.”
“Not my father,” Tim muttered under his breath, then realized his mistake and quickly slapped on a fake grin.
“I mean, haha, Clark! Love that guy. So much. Can’t wait to… bond.”
The door opened, and there he was: Clark Kent, in all his corn-fed, all-American glory.
The man radiated sunshine and Dad Energy like it was a superpower. His smile was so bright it could have powered Gotham for a week.
“Conner!” Clark boomed, swooping into the room with the unstoppable force of a golden retriever who had just spotted his favorite human. “Son, I’ve been looking forward to this all week!”
Tim internally combusted.
Son?! I am not his son! I am a stressed-out detective gremlin trapped in a beefcake body! Oh god, oh no, he’s hugging me—
Clark scooped Tim into a bear hug so strong it was basically a friendly kidnapping.
Tim wheezed.
“So… strong… can’t… breathe…”
Clark laughed heartily and set him down.
“You’ve been working out!”
“Ha,” Tim said, voice high-pitched with panic. “Yep. Push-ups. Sit-ups. Fighting for my life. You know. Classic farm fun.”
Clark’s grin widened.
“I thought today we could do a little father-son bonding. Maybe some chores around the farm, then head into town for some ice cream, maybe even—”
“—kill me,” Tim whispered.
“What was that, son?”
“I said, uh, thrilling! Ice cream! Love it. Big fan of dairy-based bonding.”
As Clark launched into an enthusiastic speech about fence repairs and cow grooming, Tim’s detective brain kicked in.
Clark was watching him too closely. Not in a paranoid way—no, Clark’s scrutiny was terrifyingly gentle. Like a microscope wrapped in a hug.
Tim could tell Clark already suspected something. The slight narrowing of his eyes. The way his smile was just a fraction too sharp.
Oh god, he knows. He totally knows I’m not Conner. I’m about to be heat-visioned into ash before I finish this pancake.
Tim needed a distraction. Fast.
He grabbed another pancake and dramatically shoved it into his mouth, talking through it like a total menace.
“Mmph y’know, Pa, jus’ thinkin’ maybe we should—mmph—resched’l our lil’ bondin’ day. Y’know. Somethin’ came up. Kryptonite allergy. Very serious.”
Clark blinked. “Kryptonite allergy?”
“Yes!” Tim swallowed, fake-grinning like a shark. “Terrible thing. Highly contagious. Don’t want you catching it.”
Clark’s brows furrowed, clearly unconvinced.
“Conner, are you feeling alright? You seem… off.”
Tim’s heart stopped.
This is it. I’m dead. He’s going to laser me through the skull and Ma Kent will have to mop me off the quilted placemats.
But outwardly, Tim gave his most Conner-esque chuckle, all false confidence and farm-boy charm.
“Me? Off? Nah. I’m totally normal. Super normal. Kryptonically normal. Just your average, everyday corn-fed alien clone!”
Martha, bless her oblivious soul, clapped her hands.
“Well, I think you two should go out and have some fun today. A little fresh air will do wonders!”
Tim stared at her, silently screaming.
Fresh air meant exposure. Exposure meant being discovered.
Being discovered meant dying horribly in Kansas, surrounded by cows and moral righteousness.
“Yaaaaay,” Tim said weakly, as Clark clapped a giant hand on his shoulder with a grin.
“This is going to be the best day ever, son!”
Internally, Tim was already writing his will.
Tim Drake had been through some terrifying experiences in his life.
He’d been kidnapped by homicidal clowns.
He’d fought ninja death cults before breakfast.
He’d once had to explain TikTok to Bruce.
But this?
Standing in a Kansas field while Clark Kent—the literal Superman—beamed at him like a proud dad about to teach his kid to ride a bike?
This was a new circle of hell.
“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” Clark said, hands on his hips, framed by a backdrop of rolling fields and aggressively blue skies.
Tim squinted at him, the sunlight stabbing into his Gotham-trained retinas like a weapon.
“Sure,” he said, voice flat. “Beautiful. If you like wide open spaces and corn that’s probably plotting against you.”
Clark laughed warmly, as if Tim hadn’t just insulted half the Midwest.
“Come on, son, let’s get going.”
And then—because apparently gravity is optional for Kryptonians—Clark floated off the ground, rising smoothly like a goddamn helium balloon. His cape fluttered dramatically in the breeze like it had been personally choreographed by the wind.
Tim’s jaw went slack.
“Cool,” he said faintly, blinking up at him. “Yeah. Totally normal. Love that for you.”
Internally: WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL, HOW DO PEOPLE LIVE LIKE THIS?!
Clark looked down at him expectantly.
“Well? Aren’t you coming?”
Tim’s stomach dropped.
Oh. Right. Flying.
Conner could fly.
And right now, everyone—including Clark—thought Tim was Conner.
Which meant Tim Drake had to somehow fake flight.
‘It’s just like parkour,’ Tim told himself desperately.
Except without rooftops.
Or ropes.
Or any connection to the ground whatsoever.
Okay, fine, it’s nothing like parkour, but how hard can it be?
He bent his knees slightly, like he’d seen Conner do before.
“Yup. Just… gonna, uh, launch myself into the sky like a majestic bird. Totally got this.”
Tim jumped.
Nothing happened.
He jumped again, harder this time.
Still nothing.
Clark, hovering serenely above him, tilted his head.
“Everything alright down there?”
“Peachy!” Tim wheezed, trying to maintain dignity while looking like he was failing at invisible jump rope.
“Just… warming up! Gotta, you know, stretch the—uh—flight muscles. Safety first!”
Clark floated a little lower, confusion starting to crease his perfect farm-boy face.
“Flight muscles?”
“Yes,” Tim said firmly, because if you said a lie with enough confidence, it became truth. “Very important. Wouldn’t want to pull a wing. Or, uh, a sky tendon.”
Clark blinked.
“A sky tendon?”
Tim gave him the brightest, most Conner-ish smile he could muster.
“Exactly! You don’t want me falling out of the sky like a sack of potatoes, do you? Because I’m feeling a little… tight today. Kansas humidity, you know how it is.”
Clark’s confusion deepened, but he didn’t press—because of course he didn’t. He was too nice.
“Why don’t I give you a hand up, then? You seem… off.”
Tim’s soul left his body.
No, no, no, no, no. If he physically grabs me, he’ll know something’s wrong. He’ll hear my heartbeat going Mach 5. He’ll figure out I’m not Conner and heat-vision me into next week.
He raised his hands quickly, as if to stop a charging bull.
“No! Uh, I mean, no thanks. It’s just… you know, Pa, I was thinking…”
Time to improvise, Tim Drake–style.
“…maybe it’s better if you fly solo today. Build up those cardio gains. I’ll, uh, catch up later. On foot. For health reasons. Doctor’s orders.”
Clark floated there, utterly baffled.
“Doctor’s orders? What doctor?”
“Oh, you know. The, uh, Kryptonian… bone doctor. Very specialized field. Hard to get appointments.” Tim nodded sagely, as though he wasn’t actively lying through his teeth.
“Turns out my, uh, solar cells are a little overcharged. Can’t risk spontaneous combustion midair.”
Clark’s brow furrowed, genuine concern slipping through.
“Spontaneous combustion? Conner, why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”
Tim seized the opportunity like a drowning man grabbing a lifeline.
“Because I didn’t want to worry you, Pa. You’ve got enough on your plate saving the world and milking cows or whatever it is you do here. I’ll just… jog behind you.”
There was a long, tense pause.
Clark studied him with those terrifyingly perceptive Kryptonian eyes, and Tim was this close to folding under the pressure.
Finally, Clark sighed and gave him a sympathetic smile.
“You really are growing up, Conner. Alright. If you say so. But don’t push yourself too hard, okay? I’ll keep an eye on you from above.”
Tim plastered on his most heroic grin while internally screaming.
“Totally. Absolutely. No pushing myself. I’ll just, uh, be here… appreciating gravity.”
Five minutes later, Clark was soaring majestically through the clouds, and Tim was trudging through a muddy Kansas field, muttering like a madman.
“Stupid alien clone body can’t even fake flight,” he hissed, kicking at a rock.
Above him, Clark’s voice boomed cheerfully through the sky.
“Keep up, son! Isn’t this fun?”
Tim looked up, mud splattered on his too-perfect face, and gave a thumbs-up he absolutely did not mean.
“Fun,” he called back, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Loads of fun. My favorite thing. Just me, the dirt, and the crushing weight of deception.”
Clark waved, oblivious, and soared higher.
Tim muttered, “At least Bruce never tried to make me fly.”
Then he slipped in a puddle.
“...I take it back. This is worse than Gotham.”
Tim Drake—strategic genius, crime-solving prodigy, Batman’s favorite liability—was officially at the end of his rope.
He had spent the last thirty-seven minutes trudging through Kansas mud while Clark Kent soared through the sky above him like a sentient red balloon, blissfully unaware that the “son” beneath him was actually a caffeine-deprived Gothamite gremlin.
The sun was too bright.
The birds were too cheerful.
The cows? Judging him.
Every step squelched ominously in the mud. His perfect alien thighs were probably going to chafe.
Conner’s thighs. Not mine. This is not my body. My body is safe in Gotham, hopefully drinking coffee without me.
Tim groaned, dragging a hand down Conner’s annoyingly flawless face.
“If I survive this, I am banning all Kansas-related missions for the rest of my life.”
Above, Clark’s voice boomed like divine judgment.
“Conner! Hurry up! You’ve got to see this—it’s beautiful!”
Tim glared skyward, teeth clenched.
“Oh, sure,” he muttered. “Just let me activate my totally functional flight mode, Clark. Or maybe I’ll sprout wings out of sheer spite.”
Clark waved encouragingly.
“Come on, son! You’ll miss it!”
Tim exhaled sharply through his nose. Fine. If he couldn’t fly, he could run.
Running was safe. Logical. He was a Bat; he’d been running across Gotham rooftops since puberty hit like a truck.
“Alright, farm boy body,” he hissed, crouching like a track star about to prove a point.
“Let’s do this. Just a light jog. Maybe a sprint. Totally normal human physics—”
WHOOSH.
The world exploded.
One second, Tim was standing in a muddy field.
The next, the Kansas landscape blurred into streaks of color, vanishing so fast his brain nearly rebooted.
Wind slammed into his face like a brick wall. His hair whipped back violently. His eyes watered so badly he couldn’t see anything except speed.
“WHAT—THE—FUUUUUUUUU—”
The scream ripped out of his throat, carried away by the hurricane-force winds.
When Tim finally skidded to a stop, his sneakers dug deep trenches into cobblestone streets.
The smell of fresh baguettes filled the air.
Somewhere nearby, an accordion was playing.
Tim blinked, gasping for breath, his entire body vibrating like he’d just been shot out of a cannon.
In front of him was a sign:
BIENVENUE À PARIS
Tim stared.
Then very calmly said, “Oh, hell no.”
He spun around, wild-eyed. Instead of Kansas cornfields, he was surrounded by French cafés, wrought iron balconies, and a whole crowd of Parisians staring at him like he’d just crash-landed from Mars—which, to be fair, wasn’t far off.
A man on a bicycle shouted, “Qu’est-ce que c’est?!”
A woman clutched her tiny dog, screaming something about le démon rouge.
Tim clutched his head.
“Oh my GOD. I’m in France. I ran into France.”
His voice cracked.
“I HATE KRYPTONIANS.”
Somewhere back in Kansas, Clark hovered over the same muddy field, tilting his head in confusion.
“Conner?” he called. “Where’d you go, buddy?”
Silence. Just the mooing of a very judgmental cow.
Clark frowned, scanning the area with his x-ray vision, but somehow missed the exact trajectory to Paris.
Meanwhile, in Paris, Tim was having a meltdown.
“Okay. Breathe,” he muttered to himself, pacing wildly.
“This is fine. Totally fine. Just accidentally ran across the entire planet in less than a second.
Completely normal day.”
He jabbed a finger at Conner’s chest—well, technically his chest right now—which was annoyingly broad and heroic.
“You stupid alien clone body! You couldn’t even give me a warning? A speedometer? A ‘hey, maybe don’t sneeze or you’ll break the sound barrier’?!”
The Parisians were whispering now, phones out, recording the strange American man ranting in perfect English while wearing ripped-up Kansas mud-stained jeans.
Tim spun toward them, snapping, “Don’t you dare put this on TikTok!”
They all immediately kept recording.
He groaned.
“Great. I’m going viral in France. That’s exactly what I needed today.”
Then his communicator—Conner’s communicator—buzzed in his ear.
“Conner?” Clark’s voice crackled through, sounding slightly alarmed but still obnoxiously cheerful.
“Where’d you run off to, son? You missed the sunrise!”
Tim froze. His brain whirred like a finely tuned machine, calculating lies at record speed.
“Uh,” he said, voice rising several suspicious octaves. “Funny story! So, uh, I might have… jogged a little too fast.”
Clark’s pause was full of farm-boy confusion.
“Too fast? Conner, how fast could you possibly—”
“France.”
Tim winced.
“I… might be in France.”
There was a beat of silence so profound Tim swore he could hear a cow mooing back in Kansas.
“…France?” Clark repeated slowly.
“Yes,” Tim said quickly, trying to get ahead of the inevitable grilling. “The country. You know, croissants, Eiffel Tower, existential dread. Beautiful place. Would recommend. Five stars.”
“Conner,” Clark said carefully, “how… did you get to France?”
Tim threw his hands in the air.
“Your guess is as good as mine! One minute I’m running, the next minute boom, suddenly I’m surrounded by French people and bread! This is YOUR genetics, by the way, not mine. I’m just the victim here.”
Clark didn’t even sound suspicious, which was somehow worse.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “I suppose that means your powers are developing faster than we thought! That’s wonderful news, son!”
“Wonderful?!” Tim screeched, drawing even more attention from the Parisians.
“I just invented accidental international travel, Clark! You know what Gotham’s public transportation is like? I was prepared for a subway delay, not continental teleportation via cardio!”
“Calm down, Conner,” Clark said soothingly. “Just stay where you are. I’ll come get you.”
“No need!” Tim said immediately, panic shooting through him.
“The last thing I need is you showing up and realizing I don’t even know how to land. I mean, uh, I’ll just… run back! You know, for the exercise.”
“Run back?” Clark echoed, sounding like a proud dad at a science fair.
“Wow. That’s my boy!”
Tim hung up before Clark could say anything else and buried his face in his hands.
“This is my life now,” he muttered. “Stuck in a stupid perfect alien clone body with stupid perfect alien powers I can’t control.”
He peeked between his fingers at the Eiffel Tower in the distance.
“And no coffee.”
A soft growl rumbled in his throat.
“Kryptonians,” he hissed. “I hate Kryptonians.”
Then he sighed, stretched Conner’s legs like a man preparing for execution, and muttered:
“Alright, Paris to Kansas. Please don’t launch me into space this time.”
And with a WHOOSH, he vanished, leaving a crowd of confused Parisians and one very traumatized French poodle behind.
Tim Drake had been in some bad situations before.
Buried alive? Check.
Kidnapped by homicidal clowns? Double check.
Stuck in an alternate dimension where Jason wouldn’t stop making jokes about the multiverse? Triple check.
But being in Conner Kent’s ridiculously perfect body, accidentally running across the planet at speeds that mocked the concept of physics?
That was a new level of absurdity.
A WHOOSH later, Tim skidded to a stop in Germany.
Not Kansas.
Not Paris.
Germany.
He stumbled forward, catching himself on the side of a beer garden sign shaped like a giant pretzel. A crowd of very startled Germans stared at the mud-splattered, wild-eyed “Superboy” standing in the middle of their peaceful town square like he was about to audition for a very intense heavy metal band.
Tim gasped for breath, leaning against the sign.
“I hate this stupid alien body,” he wheezed. “I hate physics. I hate Clark. I hate—”
He cut himself off, looking around.
“Wait. Germany?”
A man holding a stein of beer pointed and said something in rapid German.
Tim’s limited language skills translated it roughly to: “Why is Superman’s kid here and why does he look like he just lost a bar fight with a tornado?”
“Don’t you people have Oktoberfest to get back to?!” Tim snapped, flailing dramatically.
The crowd immediately took out their phones to record him.
Tim groaned, running his hands down Conner’s infuriatingly symmetrical face.
“This is going to be all over TikTok. #FarmBoyGoesFeral. Just great.”
He slumped down on a bench, glaring at the horizon like it had personally betrayed him.
“Okay, think, Drake. You are a detective. A genius. A man with a very fragile grip on sanity but a great GPA. You can solve this.”
Tim closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.
“You went too far because you didn’t calculate. Running at Kryptonian speed isn’t like jogging across Gotham rooftops. It’s like firing yourself out of a human-shaped railgun.”
He began muttering to himself, fingers twitching like he was writing equations in the air.
“Distance from Paris to Kansas… approximately 7,300 kilometers. Speed output… unknown, but let’s assume Mach 6, based on the sonic booms. Factor in wind resistance, Earth’s rotation, body mass…”
The Germans nearby were whispering nervously.
To them, it probably looked like Superman’s clone was having a nervous breakdown while solving physics equations in real time.
Which, to be fair, was exactly what was happening.
Tim’s eyes snapped open, gleaming with manic certainty.
“Yes,” he whispered, grinning like a lunatic.
“Math. Math will save me.”
He stood, dramatically pointing toward the horizon.
“Alright, alien body. We’re doing this my way. Science over instinct. Precision over chaos.”
He crouched low, calculating every muscle movement like a man playing 4D chess with gravity itself.
“If I run at approximately 62% of my previous speed and decelerate 0.7 seconds before touchdown, I should land squarely in Kansas. Probably. Hopefully. Worst-case scenario, I overshoot and end up in the moon’s craters.”
He spat into his palm and rubbed his hands together like a mad scientist.
“Let’s ride, nightmare legs.”
WHOOSH!
The world blurred again, but this time, Tim’s mind was sharp, counting every microsecond, every shift of air pressure. He adjusted speed like a conductor leading an orchestra of pure velocity.
“Seventy-five percent speed,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “Now decelerate at the Rockies, adjust for curvature of the Earth—oh god, cows incoming—”
He slammed into a muddy Kansas field with surgical precision, stopping just before faceplanting into a hay bale.
Tim staggered upright, covered in mud but victorious.
He threw his hands in the air and screamed to the heavens:
“MATH! I LOVE YOU!”
A startled cow mooed in the distance, unimpressed.
“Conner?”
Clark’s voice floated down from above, warm and oblivious.
He descended gracefully, cape fluttering like the smug flag of someone who didn’t have to deal with surprise international travel.
“Where did you run off to, son? I couldn’t find you anywhere!”
Clark looked Tim over, eyebrows furrowing.
“Why are you covered in mud… and, uh, sauerkraut?”
Tim froze, glancing down.
Sure enough, somewhere in Germany he’d apparently run through a street food cart.
“Long story!” Tim blurted, standing at attention like he hadn’t just broken the sound barrier twice.
“Super boring, though. You’d hate it. Nothing heroic at all. Definitely not international. Let’s just… never speak of it again.”
Clark smiled indulgently, clearly buying every word because Tim had spent years perfecting the art of strategic lying.
“Well, at least you’re back safe and sound. Ready to see that beautiful view I wanted to show you?”
“Absolutely,” Tim said, plastering on a smile while silently screaming.
“Lead the way, Pa. But maybe, uh… let’s walk this time.”
As Clark floated gently ahead, humming happily, Tim muttered under his breath:
“Stupid Kryptonian legs. Stupid perfect alien powers. Thank god for math.”
He glanced upward, glaring at Clark’s back.
“Next time, I’m staying in Gotham. The only thing there that moves this fast is Bruce when he smells someone using his private coffee stash.”
And with that, Tim trudged after Clark, plotting how to murder Conner once he got his own body back.