Smallville and all of its related elements are copyright © 2001 - 2007 Tollin-Robbins Productions, WB Television and DC Comics. Superman created by Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster.
Buffy the vampire slayer and all of its related elements belong to Fox, the WB and Joss Whedon.
“I thought you said Metropolis,” Dawn protested, as the smelly, rental car crashed over the ridges of the uneven road. “I’m sure of it. You said, ‘hey Dawn, accompany me and my witchy friend to Metropolis, the shopping center of Kansas!’ to which I replied, ‘after destroying the Sunnydale mall, I suppose you owe me.’”
Buffy reached out with a manicured finger and poked at the lump of tar on the windshield. “How did this get here?”
Willow, who was folded comfortably in the passenger’s seat with her magic orbs and herbs, looked up from her location spell. “The good news is that I didn’t set my lap on fire again.”
“And the bad?” Buffy asked, using a nail file to poke at the tar.
“She’s in Smallville, now.”
“Smallville?” Dawn and Buffy exclaimed in unison.
“Smallville,” Willow said. She moved the map onto the dash in front of her, which, a moment later caught flame.
The journey was long and quiet, since Buffy had forbidden Dawn to speak under threat of leaving her to count corn stalks until they had successfully apprehended the girl.
“I wonder what a Slayer could possibly have to do in Smallville,” Willow sighed. “Not much to fight but cows and drunken farmers.”
Buffy didn’t answer, she was too busy concentrating on seeing past the chunk of tar and the smoke marks on the windshield. A sign, barely visible through the damaged glass, announced their entry into Smallville. Somehow, Buffy didn’t feel relieved. There was something ominous about this town, and her Slayer sense was going off the same way that Willow’s gaydar did in the Slayer mansion back in Europe.
In the distance, she could see a man standing at a t-junction, waiting. A moment later, a tractor fell out of the sky and landed just in front of him.
Dawn shrieked and Buffy spun the wheel, and despite the years of Driver’s Ed that had created the road worthy driver she was today, she could not control the car. They flew into the cornstalks, and then out again, onto the road that the man was standing on.
With the painful scream of metal contorting, they crashed into someone. The front of the car bent around the person, and then they flipped up, their momentum carrying them over the person. Somehow—impossibly—the person remained stable.
They were floating. Buffy was sure of it—they were dead. They were floating upside down in their ugly rental car and there was never an impact. The car groaned and slowly, amazingly, it righted itself. A boy stood next to the driver’s side, and he pulled open the door, his eyes wide with worry.
Buffy’s hand snaked its way through the bent car insides to her head, which had cracked against the windshield upon impact.
“Dawnie,” she whispered, turning as best she could in the wreck. Dawn was motionless, staring in awe at the boy who had opened the door. Willow muttered some sort of unintelligible curse, it sounded like “bageebus,” and stared as well.
Slowly, Buffy turned back to the boy who stood, awkwardly holding their sticky rental car door.
“Are you alright?” he asked. Buffy strained her neck, and saw that the front of their car had been sandwiched lengthwise, as if they had been wrapped around a pole.
Only a few feet away, the man that had been standing at the corner of the street stood, the alcohol flowing freely from his flask and gazing in wonder between the wreckage that was their car and the tractor that had cut them off.
The boy looked terrified, but he managed a smile. “Clark Kent,” he said, holding his hand out of Buffy. “Welcome to Smallville.”