Bluereed Pastures was an idyllic, if inaccurately named, stretch of land in Kansas, famous with the locals and tourists-of-old for alleged UFO sightings and elaborate crop circles that were common in places where bourbon and line-dancing were the most popular forms of entertainment. Contrary to the name, amongst the expansive plains and the scant hints of hills, there was not a blue reed in sight. Instead, Bluereed Pastures was draped across the land, a patchwork quilt of mellow browns and vibrant yellows, stitched together by a Frankenstein network of delicate sugar maples and darkest ashes. Like the first of a lazy morning's stretch, the gentle slopes reached from the horizon to greet a sky so clear and blue it was almost white, their golden crowns ablaze from the kiss of the cresting sun.

All was still. Many years had passed since the last busload of tourists trekked the tired path to the top of Clearwater Ridge, to spend a night out amongst the stars, cradling soup flasks, and gazing up at the sky. There were no straight lines, here; no grey building, no grumbling cars, just the whisper of wind as it wove through untamed grasses, and the soft chirruping song of the wild. It was the land that civilisation forgot.

A crack, loud as thunder, rent the cloudless sky. With a tremendous flurry of wings and rustling leaves, the proud ashes disgorged their resident flocks, and quivered from a shockwave that swept across the fields. A rush of air, a flash of light, then silence. And moments later, flames, licking from the tall grass, dissected the landscape in a perfect ribbon of red.

In the nearby town of Smallville, where, like wizards and water nymphs, high-speed internet and three-storey buildings were considered the stuff of mythical legend, the sleepy farming community was going about its afternoon affairs, blissfully ignorant of the chaos on its doorstep. Main Street was alive with the pleasant hum of activity: there was the usual congregation outside Potter's Flower Shop, and some easy listening drifting from Otto's Barber Styling; the fundraiser at the Tavern was a resounding success, where a large banner, that read Proud Sponsors of the Smallville Crows, was draped high above the bustling bake-off stalls, and the tables practically buckling from their assorted arts and crafts. But it wasn't all sweetness and light. No. There was an incident outside Fordman's, where old Henry Huckabee had trouble starting his truck; he disagreed with George Junior's assessment that it was just a jammed ignition switch, his marrows were beginning to soften, and he had just about reached the limit of his patience. Fortunately, Deputy Irene Tate was on hand to provide a second opinion. It turned out that the ignition was indeed a bit stiff; the engine was running, in no time, and they all went into George's garage for coffee and donuts.

"Lance! Lance! How's Ethel?"

From across the street, Betty Finch adjusted her basket of groceries, and waved, summoning the attention of a denim-clad rogue of a man, with soiled boots, and sandy tussled hair. From the business end of his truck, Lance Carter unloaded a sack of potatoes, and, through the creases of strain, he smiled.

"Much better, thank you. Doc Brown said she will be back on her feet in a few days."

"That's great news!"

"I know, right? Hey, how's Ned? That trick shoulder still giving him trouble?"

Betty conquered an errant strand of ginger hair, and managed a care-free shrug, "Trick shoulder, trick back, trick knee. What can I say? The man doesn't believe in retirement."

Lance considered this, and said, "Tell him I'll be round tonight to lend a hand."

"You're a good man, Lance. I'll be sure to bake my best-"

"Hey, have you seen Superman?"

The stranger appeared from nowhere, dressed in... well, he was dressed. Sparks, like the spitting of a snapped power cable, leapt from the sidewalk and signpost nearby. Betty's basket went into the air. Other than conveying abject horror, her shriek provided the stranger with little of any use. The handsome potato guy was next:

"Have you seen Superman? I really need to speak to him! Oh-"

As quickly as he appeared, he vanished, returning to Mrs. Finch with a static crack of energy. The eggs, milk, flour, and zucchini were saved, each unspiralled back into the basket, and returned to Betty Finch's robust forearm. Masked as he was, the stranger gave her a look.

"Ma'am, zucchini pie is not a thing." He pointed across the street, "That man deserves better."

The flash, again, and Lance retrucked his potatoes. The masked man waved.

"Hello? Superman? He's like-" He leapt into the air, rigid, going for an invisible ball like a soccer player who'd never played soccer before, "-this tall. Cute hair. Blue tights. Big red cape? No?"

With a crack, he was gone. Down the street, school girls screamed, and further still, came the pronounced honk of a truck horn. Outside the Tavern, Belinda Jenkins almost choked on her blueberry tart when the costumed stranger materialised before her eyes.

"Excuse me, is there a Fortress of Solitude around here?"

Annoyed by Belinda's untimely coughing fit, the stranger vanished again. He resurfaced on the steps of the bank, where Jimmy, the security guard, had just lit up. No time was wasted.

"Hi, I'm new in town," he said, returning the lost cigarette to Jimmy's mouth, "Can you give me directions to the nearest Fortress of Solitude, please? ...Please?"

Sirens in the distance. Bart wheeled around and spotted a column of black smoke snaking into the sky. When he swallowed, it was like the silica-based quartz sand fabric of his costume was trying to choke him out. Was he too late? He looked at his watch. He wasn't wearing a watch. That wasn't how this worked. People had to know. They had to-

"Get out!" Inside the Talon, the caffeinated patrons stared, mystified. The silence was broken by the sound of a shattering mug. Bart clapped his hands, and yelled again, "Out! Get out! What are you doing? This is no time for pumpkin-spiced latte! They're coming! Go! Go! Go!"

The scene from the gas station was alarming. Across the road, the Talon vomited its customers into the street, where they dispersed in screaming droves. With each unearthly flash of light, other respectable establishments followed suit, creating a chain reaction of panic and disorder down the length of Main Street. Onlookers stood frozen, their pumps poised, exchanging nervous glances across the hoods of their trucks, like gasoline duellers at dawn. Bart approached them, too, wary of generating sparks on the forecourt, he waved his arms frantically instead.

"You have to leave now! It's not safe! Take your family and your friends, and get out of Smallville while you can!" Though most of the truck-enthusiasts appeared to take the hint, there was one gentleman who remained dumbstruck, or perhaps awestruck, by the sight of Bart in his costume. This was worse than herding cats. Bart's throat was like sandpaper, and he could hear his heart pounding inside his ears with all the ceaseless ferocity of a jackhammer. He drummed his hand on the roof of the truck, snapping the poor guy out of it, at last.

"Fill her up, sir! And drive away! Drive far away! Time is running-"

"Sir, I want you to put your hands above your head, and turn around. Slowly!"

The voice rang out like the opening salvo of a firing squad. Owlish behind his mask, Bart complied, turning slowly on the spot to face a ferocious terrier of a woman in a brown jacket and broad-rimmed hat. She had a gun on him, it lacked the shimmer of the traditional six-shooter that they were all supposed to favour in this part of the world. In fact, it didn't look much like any kind of gun he'd ever seen before.

"Ah. Sheriff. Just the person I was looking for. Here's the thing: Smallville's life is in danger, and everyone must be evacuated, right away. Wait. That's not- who's that?"

On the periphery of his vision, he spotted another armed officer, circling behind him. When he attempted to look, the sheriff snapped, "Eyes forward. On your knees."

"Look, I don't think you're seeing the big picture, here. I'm trying to save-"

"On your knees!"

More sirens approached, this time up Main Street itself. With hellfire in her eyes, the sheriff took a step forward, and prodded her weapon with intent. Bart didn't need to be told thrice. A convoy of fire trucks sped past, lights flashing, wailing their chorus of danger. They were headed, of course, in the direction of the billowing smoke, far in the distance, where there was nothing but fields and trees and grass. It was from the same direction that Bart had arrived. Something heavy crashed into the pit of his stomach, then, pinning him to the spot, drawing his gaze to his feet.

"This is all my fault," he said, lowering himself to his knees, at last.

"Your goddamn right it is. Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my town?"

Just one look. That was all it took to tell him that any attempt to explain himself to Sheriff Firebrand, here, would be an exercise in futility. The truth would fall on her ears like raindrops on hot coals, only to sizzle, and evaporate into the air. He was wasting time. What he needed was the attention of someone important, someone who would listen to what he had to say, who would listen to him, and, most importantly, believe. That gave him an idea:

"Alright, I confess," he said, with a sigh, "I'm not here to save you all from terrible, and potentially fiery, deaths. This is all just part of an elaborate plan to assassinate the President of the United States. It's true. Her life is in danger and I feel terrible about it. Really, I do. So you should tell someone. As soon as possible."

The sheriff gave her companion a look; the hook was baited, and it was time for some seasoning:

"You should also tell them that I'm a Russian spy, and I have come here to undermine your democracy, your freedom of speech, and everything you hold dear."

Bart weathered the tedious silence for all of 3 seconds, before his jaw clenched in frustration.

"I'm also going to take away all your guns."

From behind, there came a sound, like a polite cough, but not. Something hit him square between the shoulders, and, at once, all feeling was banished from his extremities. Bart wavered on his knees, and the last thing he saw before the lights went out, was the ground rising up to meet him.