Clark felt amazing. He had all the power in the world, all the time in the world. He could go anywhere. Have anything he wanted. Anyone he wanted, if he played his cards right. He never had to think about illness or injury, grief or death; it was all beneath him. He could hardly remember why he'd ever felt bad, or for that matter, why he'd ever hung around the farm in the first place. The world was his oyster. There was no use in moping about . . .

I killed my brother.

My parents are going to be worried sick about me.

Clark pushed the thoughts aside. Even with the red ring, it took effort. But he could do it.

The motorcycle was running low on gas by the time Clark reached the outskirts of Metropolis. It didn't matter, of course—he could always ditch it and run—but he liked the motorcycle. It made him feel . . . cool. Made him feel free. His father—no, Jonathan Kent, his true father was dead—had once bought the motorcycle behind his own father's back. It felt like Clark was following in the footsteps of the man who'd raised him, in the way that would irritate him the most.

He focused on the road ahead, the feeling of the wind in his hair. It was best if he didn't think about the Kents at all. He wasn't one of them, never had been, and he thanked God for that. Even the name Clark didn't suit him; it was Martha Kent's maiden name, better fit for her own son, which she would never have.

He was Kal El. That was how he would introduce himself. Kal.

Kal wished he'd stolen one of the Kents' emergency credit cards again along with this class ring, though they'd started hiding them a lot better after his last stunt on red kryptonite. He didn't even have the money to refill the gas in the motorcycle. He could ditch the motorcycle, but he was still going to need a place to stay, and he'd still need to eat. It shouldn't be too hard to break into an ATM machine and do that.

But who was he kidding? He wasn't Clark Kent, idiot farm boy with no future. He was Kal El, the most powerful man alive. He wasn't going to scrape by on scraps. He shouldn't have to. Not when he could be living it up. He'd get his own apartment suite at a nice apartment building in the center of the city, and he'd live there alone, with no one to bother him of tell him what to do.

. . . It would get awfully lonely. Kal's eyes scanned the crowds. Strangers, every one of them. He almost missed Lana, and Chloe, and Martha and Jonathan, and Sam and Dean, and even Lex . . .

Kal gripped tighter to the red ring, almost piercing it into his skin, letting the waves of indifference and euphoria flow through him, drowning out the pain. He didn't need any of the people from his old life. Didn't even want them. He could find new friends, ones who understood him and supported him. He'd hit up the clubs, party all night, maybe even meet a girl. A different girl every night, if he wanted.

Of course, he'd have to bribe his way into the clubs, since he was technically underage. It'd take a lot of money. Bank robbery would do it. What security camera could catch him at the speeds he ran? Even if it did, what jail cell could hold him? What bullet could pierce his skin?

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Nothing could stop him. Nothing could bring him down.

He gripped the red ring even tighter.

----------------------------------------

Lex woke up freezing cold, his face stinging from being pressed into the rocky sand.

His heart and mind began racing as soon as he registered where he was. He had almost hoped the whole thing would turn out to have been a bad dream. But here he was, and the plane was gone, and there was no sign of Helen. No sign of anyone, and nothing had washed up on the shore with him. He had his tux—minus the jacket—and the seat cushion from the jet. That was all.

Lex pulled himself to his feet and surveyed his surroundings. He couldn't quite see around to the other side of the land mass he'd washed up on, but he could see to the outer edges. It was definitely an island, and a fairly small one at that, but based on the height of the trees and other vegetation that seemed to fill it, he doubted the tides would fully submerge it. At least he wouldn't drown—that was a start.

The rain had stopped, but the fog was still thick. Lex supposed he should be thankful for that much. The sunburns were going to be ferocious when the sun finally came out; he'd need to figure out a good place to hide out to avoid heat stroke. If he was going to survive this, he was going to have to make a plan.

Thirst would be the first thing to kill him, though he suspected it wouldn't be his first problem. It had been raining when he'd landed, which most likely meant it rained often enough, and there would be puddles and maybe even little pools of fresh water around on the island. Fire and shelter would be important—exposure would kill him next—but if it hadn't been cold enough for him to freeze to death the night before, he doubted it would be, at least for awhile; it was May.

Food, then, would be the next consideration. Starvation was slow, but it would still kill him long before a search team could find him. He had no way of fishing, no way of knowing which indigenous plants were good to eat and which would poison him. Eventually he'd grow hungry enough to let down his guard, and then he might end up poisoning himself.

Of course, this was all assuming there were no wild animals to contend with. It seemed like a small enough island; he doubted it was home to any large predators, but there could be snakes, scorpions, venomous spiders, malaria-ridden mosquitos . . .

No. He was spiraling. The first thing that would kill him wasn't thirst or hunger, cold or heat stroke, poison or disease. It was his mind. If he lost his grip on his own mind, he'd have no chance of surviving any of the other trials of the island.

He was going to survive this. His upbringing had been all about survival. More of it had been about the survival of business through corporate hurdles and competitors, but the mindset would apply. For perhaps the only time in his life, Lex was thankful for the way he'd been raised.

Lex's clothes were still damp, but they weren't plastered to his skin the way they had been. The salt had stiffened them, and the fabric itched his skin enough to distract him. The air was just warm enough that he ended up taking most of them off; maybe he could find some fresh water to wash them in. He doubted there was anyone living on this island, but if there happened to be, the relief of knowing he wasn't alone and might be able to communicate with the main land would far, far outweigh the embarrassment of being caught wandering around the island in his underwear.

He walked away from the water, toward the trees. Rough sand turned to damp grass, damp grass to prickly underbrush and fallen leaves and pine needles. Lex wished he hadn't kicked off his shoes, but if he was here long enough, his feet would callous.

Lex pushed his way through a patch of thickets; and some birds stirred and flew overhead. That was good news. Birds needed fresh water to survive, and most of them were also edible to humans, if he could find a way to kill and cook them. If not, he might be able to steal their eggs, or leech off their food source. Most birds ate seeds, berries, fruits. And, most commonly, insects . . .

Lex hoped to God it wouldn't come to that. There had to be a better way.