Richie stepped out of the forest a few hours before dawn. The moon hung pale and low in the horizon overhead. He stared out over the silent tents and trailers, looking for some sign of life. Normally, circus performers were early risers, with many chores to be done before the day’s performance could begin, so there were usually a few people up around this time. But now the circus was quiet; every window seemed to be darkened. Everyone must be still asleep, he thought idly. “Too bad,” he muttered to himself and started wading through the field of grass towards the trailers.

The tall grass was crushed underneath his bare feet and fell like they had been threshed whenever his arms brushed by them. Richie didn’t understand exactly what had happened to him in the cave, but somehow his entire body had become razor sharp. Just by running his hands along a tree he could carve deep gashes in the trunk. After walking a few miles, he had looked down to discover that his toes had cut the front of his sneakers to ribbons. Thankfully, his jeans were managing to hold, but he had already cut several gashes in them by letting his hands brush against his sides. He’d gotten rid of his shirt back at the stream, but the cold night air didn’t bother him. He hardly felt the cold; he could hardly feel anything anymore. His skin might have been sharp, but his sense of touch had been dulled. Still, not a bad trade-off, he considered.

Along Richie’s chest were the final changes that his accident had given him. Three, rough circular shapes dotted his upper chest and gut. They were a few inches across in diameter and were a bright green. They looked like scar tissue, but seemed harder, even compared to the rest of him. If nothing else, they made Richie think of the small, green spike he had pulled from the cave floor he had fallen on. He figured they’d had something to do with his transformation, but whatever they were was beyond him and hardly mattered. He had bigger fish to fry.

Richie slowed as he came to the first row of trailers and kept to the shadows. He edged past them silently and continued on, picking his way through the trailers expertly. How long had it been since he’d been chased out of here, he asked himself. He cleared the next row and started to hurry, in spite of himself. Not too long ago, he thought. Richie caught sight of the trailer he wanted and hurried towards it, forsaking the shadows and simply running towards it. How long had he put up with everything that life had thrown his way, he asked himself again. Richie flung himself into the darkness by the trailer’s side and waited, listening intently. He heard nothing and smiled, licking his lips in excitement. Too long, he answered himself again.

The door was locked, but that was hardly a problem now. He put his fingers around the lock and pressed them in while turning his hand. His fingers cut a neat hole through the metal and the lock fell with a clank inside. Richie paused, listening again. From inside, he could hear a rough snoring echoing softly. Turning the handle slowly, Richie inched the door open. He slipped inside without a sound and closed it behind him. Then he paused and stared at his father, sprawled asleep at their tiny table.

Richie was somewhat surprised to discover that the first thing he felt when he saw his father wasn’t anger, but wonder. He looked so small and pathetic lying there, surrounded by beer cans and a plate of untouched food. His father had always seemed so large, foreboding to him, seeing him now, he hardly seemed the same person. His hair was filthy and matted with dirt, his clothes were filthy, this from the man who could never stand a spot of dirt in his home. Richie smiled and snagged an unopened beer can from the pile and sat down across from his father. Holding it as gently as possible in his hands, he tried to hook his fingers around the tab, but they couldn’t catch anymore. Finally, he simply stabbed one finger into the top and took a long drink. He drained it in two gulps and reached for another, realizing how thirsty he was all of a sudden. He half-drained this one, and after a moment’s pause, quietly grabbed the plate of food by his father. He ate quickly, watching his father sleep, half-expecting him to wake up, but he didn’t. He slept soundly as Richie devoured the rest of his meal.

When the food was gone, Richie took a last drink and set the can aside. He reached for his father, but stopped suddenly. His hand hung a few inches from his father as Richie watched him sleep for another moment. It was the first time he had ever seen his father look so calm, he realized. He gently prodded his father’s shoulder, taking care not to cut him in the process. “Dad. Dad,” he called softly to him. His father grunted and opened his eyes, lifting his head off his arms. He blinked slowly, looking around the trailer. Then his gaze fell across Richie and he looked at him in astonishment.

“Richie?” he asked quietly, almost in disbelief.

Richie nodded. “Yeah, Dad,” he said quietly. “I’m home.” Then he backhanded his father across the face, sending him tumbling out his chair and across the room. He screamed as Richie’s fingers cut him to the bone, and then he clamped his hands to his face to hold back the bleeding. He wasn’t very successful. Richie looked down at the blood on his hand and then up at his father. “I’d ask how it feels, but I already know,” he said quietly and stood up. His father tried to crawl away, keeping one hand against his face, but he kept collapsing against the floor and wall. He left bright red smears against everything he touched. Richie followed him and was struck with wonder again. This was his father? “You almost don’t seem worth it anymore,” he muttered. He slashed his hands across his father’s back, making him scream in agony. Roger collapsed to the floor, his legs kicking spasmodically behind him as he tried to pull himself away with his hands. He was calling loudly, screaming, begging for help, but that just made it worse.

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“Please,” he gurgled, looking back up at his son. “Please.”

“How many times did I say that?” Richie barked at him. “How many times?” he said, slashing his father again. “How many?” He kept slashing as his father lay there screaming. He kept going long after it was necessary.

Richie stopped finally and backed up, something burning in the back of his throat. He stared down at the mess at his feet and then shuffled away, his mind almost blank. He grabbed another beer and drained it dry, staring absently at the kitchen wall. Slowly, noises from the outside started to sift through to him. He could hear people outside, crowding around the trailer. They must have heard the screams. Of course they’d heard the screams, he berated himself. The old fool hadn’t gone quietly, he had begged and screamed. And they had heard, and had come to help. “What to do?” he muttered. “No one ever came to help me,” he noted after a moment’s thought. He put the can down and turned towards the door. “Why not?”

“So you’ve had these powers since birth?” Bruce asked again and Clark nodded glumly. He stared out the window of Bruce’s car, watching the fields of Smallville pass by. Bruce Wayne might have been as rich as Lex Luthor, but his taste in cars was certainly lacking. Bruce drove a nondescript sedan, packed with duffle bags in the backseat. Bruce had opened one up before they had left the old factory and had quietly taken out a pile of medical supplies. Then with the same silence and quick movements that he’d shown at the fair, he had bandaged up his bruised cheek and cut shoulder. It was all Clark could do to watch Bruce stitch up his own wound. Then it had all gone back in the bag and he had climbed into the driver’s seat. Bruce had opened the passenger door from the inside and had looked at Clark. “Get in,” was all he had said.

“I told you this already,” Clark said, frustrated. “How about telling me what you were doing there? Besides getting yourself almost killed.”

“What exactly can you do?” Bruce asked him.

Clark took a deep breath and fought to keep his temper. “Why were you there?” he asked. Two could play that game.

Bruce drove silently for a moment, staring out the front. “I found out where and when the car thieves were going to meet the buyers, and I went to stop them,” he said slowly, as if he were explaining it to a child.

“Why didn’t you just call the police?”

“Smallville’s finest?” Bruce said with a half-smile. “They weren’t exactly that fast on the scene last night, so why now? Besides, these guys were out of their league, they’d just have gotten people killed.”

“Weren’t they a little out of your league too?” Clark asked pointedly. Bruce frowned and was silent. “I mean, these guys tried to kill us both tonight, and they would’ve gotten you if I hadn’t been there. Maybe you don’t realize, but these guys are killers. Do you understand what that means?” Clark asked.

Bruce slammed on the brakes sending the car into a screeching stop. Clark pitched forwards in his seat, but Bruce grabbed his shirt tightly in his fist, yanking him back. His face was like a piece of stone as he stared at him. “Let’s get one thing straight, Clark,” he said quietly in that low, gravely voice. “I didn’t ask for your help. I don’t need your help. If you get in my way, I’ll show you exactly what I can do. Are we clear?” Clark nodded and pushed himself away. Bruce stared at him for a moment and started driving again. For a long while, they didn’t speak.

Finally, as they pulled up the road towards the circus, Bruce spoke. “Don’t be upset, I’ll be gone soon,” he promised Clark.

“I’m not upset,” Clark said stonily. Bruce smiled that maddening half-smile of his and shook his head slightly. “Are you going to give me a ride back home at least?” Clark asked.

“No.”

“Fine, I’ll get home on my own,” he muttered. He glanced out the front windshield and suddenly his eyes widened. “Watch out,” he yelled and yanked the steering wheel to one side. Bruce swore as the car pitched to the right and narrowly dodged a man who had lurched onto the road. Clark let go of the wheel and stared back at the man as Bruce fought to get the car back under control. The car fishtailed back and forth, but finally slowed and stopped. They both sprang out of the car and started back for the man.

“How did you see him?” Bruce asked as they ran.

“I’ve got better vision than you do,” Clark said quickly. Bruce muttered something under his breath that Clark pretended not to hear. They found the man pretty much were they had passed him, staggering down the side of the road. He was shivering in the night air, only dressed in an undershirt and boxers. “Are you okay?” Clark asked quickly. The man slowly collapsed to his knees, shaking and crying horribly. He was rubbing his hands together incessantly, almost wringing them. As he looked closer, Clark saw why he was crying. The man’s palms were badly cut up and oozing blood. Bruce leaned down next to him and took hold of the man’s shoulders.

“We’ll get you back to the car and get help,” he promised in a low voice. The man let himself by guided to the car, sobbing softly. “His name’s Lazlo,” Bruce said quietly to Clark, “he works at the circus. Lazlo, what happened?”

Lazlo moaned and shook his head. Bruce had him sit down inside the car as he grabbed the medical bag from the backseat. He wrapped a quick bandage around his hands as he asked again, “What happened. Lazlo, look at me. You have to tell what happened.”

“It was Richie,” Lazlo finally sobbed. He stared at his hands in his laps and then looked up at Clark and Bruce. Clark had never seen someone look that terrified in his life. “Richie came back and killed Roger. We heard him screaming and tried to help, but he started… “ his voice broke off and he sobbed again. “He wasn’t fighting us, God, he was killing us,” he breathed. “We couldn’t fight back at all. He just slaughtered everyone… Oh God…” he broke down again.

Clark stared at him then looked up at Bruce. “Who’s Richie, the kid who got lost?”

Bruce nodded and looked down the road towards the circus. “Lazlo, what happened to Richie?” he asked intently then. “Is he still there? What happened to him?”

Lazlo shook his head back and forth, crying. “I don’t know. He was just killing people. I tried to stop him, but look what happened,” he said, holding up his hands. “I only grabbed his shoulder,” he whispered. Bruce slowly pushed him back and he lay down inside the car, still crying. Then Bruce whipped out his cell phone and started to dial.

“I’ll get the police and an ambulance here,” he yelled. “You better-“

“I’m on it,” Clark yelled and took off running. He sped away from Bruce in a blur of motion. Bruce stared at where he had been for a second and then cursed and almost pitched his phone away. He looked off down the road then back into the car at Lazlo and tried to decide what he was going to do.