Clark hit the lawn of Wayne Manor like a falling star that had forgotten how to burn, too fast and heavy. The impact drove the breath from him and split the neat grassline open, earth buckling under his weight as he skidded forward in a rough, ugly trench. Dark soil sprayed up against his suit and clung to his hands, the smell of fresh-turned dirt sharp in his nose.
He’d been trying to make it to the Fortress, push through on stubbornness and willpower alone, but the kryptonite in his system had turned his own body against him. Every beat of his heart felt sluggish, poisoned. Every attempt at lift became dead weight. The sky that usually welcomed him had started to press him down instead, and gravity had finally claimed him.
His palm dug into the torn grass, fingers sinking into damp earth as he hauled his shoulder under him inch by inch. For a moment he almost got his knee underneath, almost found that familiar leverage instead of a struggle. Then his arm gave a sharp, humiliating tremor and the world tipped sideways. The effort scraped a raw sound out of him, half cough, half gasp, and he collapsed back down hard enough to jar his teeth. Pain lanced through him in a bright, sick burst, not from the impact this time, but from inside, as if the kryptonite had hooked itself into his muscles and was yanking whenever he tried to move. His vision pinwheeled, the edges of it dimming, brightening, dimming again, like someone kept flicking the lights behind his eyes.
Whoever had been smuggling the stuff hadn’t just weaponized it as a blade; they’d ground it down into a fine, glittering dust that hung in the air like pollen, invisible until it hit the light. Clark could still taste it. Metallic and bitter, like a mouthful of pennies and ash. It had gotten into his lungs, and now every breath felt tight, shallow, refusing to fill, his chest working like it was trying to inhale through wet cloth. The cough came again, harsher this time, and it dragged up a burning ache from deep in his ribcage. He spat reflexively into the grass, and what hit the ground was darker than it should’ve been. His throat seized with nausea. He pressed his forehead down, breathing through his nose like it might help, like he could will clean air into his body if he was quiet enough.
Another attempt. Stubbornness was what he had left.
Clark braced both hands, elbows locking and unlocking in little failed jerks. He forced his torso up a few inches and immediately regretted it. He heart stuttered, sluggish and heavy, and a cold sweat broke across his skin under the suit. The world narrowed to the simple, brutal facts: his limbs didn’t want to obey, his lungs burned, and the shard still buried in him pulsed with a low, venomous throb that radiated through his neck and shoulder. He could feel it like a second heartbeat sending weakness outward in waves. His fingers clawed at the ground, tearing up grass, leaving crescents in the soil as if he could anchor himself against the pull. But strength drained faster than he could gather it. His arms finally buckled. His cheek hit the dirt, and he lay there gasping, chest hitching, breath scraping in and out with that awful, drowning sound. Superman reduced to a man who couldn’t get enough air.
[Bruce was working in the Cave. He had a horrible migraine, but he had to work on this case. Professor Pyg was out, for god’s sake, and there's no telling what would happen if Bruce was too late. If he decided to take a break. He wouldn't allow it. None of the kids were over, and Damian was at school. No one would interrupt him right now, he did not particularly mind it when his children willingly came to him, but now was not the time.]
[Bruce cross-referenced all of Pyg's old hide-outs with recent sightings and known activity. Damn. He knew what he was doing. The only sound interrupting the quiet humming of the Batcave equipment was Bruce's fingers, his eyes locked on the screen as he continued his search, muscles rigid. Not once did his focus waver from his work—not until the alarm flashed across his screen.]
[Something, or someone for that matter was on the manor grounds unauthorized, without passing the manor gates. Unauthorized. Professor Pyg case momentarily taking a backseat in his mind, Bruce immediately pulled up security footage for the more pressing issue. He'd get back to Pyg later.]
[The footage showed displaced dust, nothing of help, but no silhouette sitting or standing up yet, not very helpful. If Batman was spotted moments after something was displaced on Wayne Manor, it would be suspicious, Bruce creased his brows, a frown turning the corners of his mouth slightly downward. This was a predicament. He still couldn't tell what it was that crashed, despite the dust having cleared.]
[A deep trench was formed in the perfect grass, meaning whatever fell was heavy, and fell hard. Bruce's mouth thinned, Alfred would not be pleased, he spent a long time on perfecting all the botany outside, and Bruce would likely be the one blamed for this. Bruce steepled his fingers, stiffening as he watched a hand grabbing onto the grass, the figure appearing to try and pull themselves up, before the hand slipped. Whoever it was, they were hurt bad. And if billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne couldn't be caught fighting something alive after that fall, and Batman couldn't be caught on the manor grounds so quickly after this event occurred, Bruce had to play it smart.]
[His hands found the Batcomputer keys once more. A slowed replay showed a heavy blur crashing down. Still too fast. Bruce slowed the footage down further to see the blur looking distinctly blue and..red?]
[Clark. Bruce's eyes widened and he cursed violently as he ran to the elevator to take him to the main floor, leaving the computer replaying the slowed footage, his chair spinning in his wake. The only reason Clark could be in such a condition would be if something hurt the invulnerable man. Cancelled his powers. Very few substances could render Superman to this state. Bruce remembered the trembling hand that couldn't even grant Clark some leverage to pull himself to his knees and his stomach turned.]
[The elevator doors opened with a ding, Bruce wasted no time in sprinting outside and crossing the manor grounds, which he found to be irritatingly expansive for such a fragile situation. He finally reached the turned up soil where his friend lay. Bruce dropped to his knees beside Clark, one hand on his shoulder, the other finding his neck to search for a thready pulse. The normally untouchable Superman looked horrible, and Bruce cursed under his breath, before speaking.]
"Superman, can you hear me? I'm going to take this out."
[As he spoke, Bruce's hand that was previously checking Clark's pulse moved to the kryptonite blade. Damned rock. This wasn't the first time Bruce found himself removing it from his friend's body. He'd have to do this carefully in order not to break or dislodge the knife and further endanger Clark's health.]
[Bruce kept one hand bracing Clark's shoulder as he slowly took the blade out, ignoring the sickening sound it exited with. Yellow sunlight. That's what Clark needed. First, Bruce had to get him out of the trench, but the Kryptonian still looked as though he was suffering. Something else was wrong.]
"Talk to me Clark, where's the rest?"
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