Damn it, I’m surrounded by those who kill their fathers!

Peter glanced at the calendar on the wall, recalling there was supposed to be a meteor shower soon. If it was indeed the one he was thinking of, he needed to prepare ahead.

The Next Day

Peter sat in the living room, watching news coverage of Gotham.

"The unrest in Gotham has finally subsided," announced the anchor. "Last night, Gotham police raided a terrorist lab and recovered an antidote to the biochemical virus. The conflict was resolved with minimal casualties."

The broadcast cut to Commissioner Nathaniel Barnes addressing the media about the police's success.

Peter turned off the TV and looked at Azu, who was walking downstairs.

"John?" Peter called out, stopping the boy. "We need to talk."

Azu hesitated, walking nervously to his father. "Yes, Dad?"

He wracked his brain, trying to figure out what might have upset Peter. Was it sneaking a peek at a horror movie? Or accidentally breaking Peter's fishing rod? But that wasn't his fault—Clark had insisted his "spinner bait" would be effective, so Azu had borrowed it for fishing.

"I heard yesterday you referred to a Romani person as a 'gypsy.' Do you know that's a racial slur? It's a deeply offensive term, John. Why would you call them that?"

Peter's tone was stern as he decided to address Azu's problematic understanding of race.

Azu looked genuinely remorseful. "I'm sorry, Dad. I heard people say that Romani people deceive others and do all sorts of bad things like stealing babies… but I promise I won't do it again."

"Remember what I told you," Peter said, his tone softening. "Don't let prejudice cloud your judgment. It will keep you from seeing the world clearly and push people away."

"I understand, Dad." Azu nodded earnestly.

"But," Azu added with curiosity, "I also heard they can tell fortunes, like reading tea leaves or gazing into a glass. Is that true?"

Peter paused. While he suspected most fortune-tellers were frauds, this was the world of comic books, where the unusual was often real.

After a thoughtful cough, he replied ambiguously, "Fate works in mysterious ways, with its own rules. For those who claim to glimpse its secrets, there might be some truth to it. But it's not absolute."

Azu nodded thoughtfully. "There's a woman on Kennedy Street, Ms. Nancy, who says she's a Romani fortune-teller, but people say she's a fraud."

Azu continued sharing what he'd heard. "She sells things like crystal balls, purple tassels, wind chimes, incense, and even has a fat cat lounging on a cushion in her shop window."

"Do you know her personally, John?"

"No, but I've seen her. She doesn't look like a Romani. She looks more like a notary—or maybe the head of a church bake sale. She wears a light gray-blue cardigan, has red hair, and always wears reading glasses."

Peter chuckled, patting Azu's head as he stood. "It's almost lunchtime. I need to start cooking. We can discuss Ms. Nancy's gossip tonight."

Azu's face fell at the mention of Peter cooking. After tasting Martian Manhunter's food, he had little enthusiasm for Peter's culinary attempts. But under his father's stern gaze, he dared not express his disappointment and could only resign himself to his fate.

Smallville – Near the Susquehanna River

Lionel Luthor, surrounded by his entourage, was inspecting a construction site. The Luthor Corporation was planning to build an industrial park here.

The recent wildfires had temporarily halted progress, but construction was resuming today.

"Hey, you can't go in there," the site's security guard told a man dressed in traditional Native attire.

"This land has belonged to my people for over a thousand years. Why can't I enter?" The elderly man, his skin a rich bronze and his wide-brimmed hat casting shadows over his face, spoke firmly.

"I'm just security. I don't deal with land disputes," the guard replied, blocking his path.

As their argument continued, Lionel Luthor approached, drawn by the commotion.

"Sir," the guard greeted his boss respectfully.

Lionel glanced at the elderly man's stern expression. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"You're the one in charge?"

Lionel nodded. "Yes, I'm Lionel Luthor."

"Good," the elder said, meeting Lionel's gaze. "Then let's talk. Do you know this land has been protected by my people for generations?"

"I wasn't aware," Lionel replied calmly. "But we acquired the land legally, and the industrial park we're building will create jobs, benefiting the local community."

The elder scrutinized Lionel's face. "You make it sound like I'm standing in the way of prosperity for the people here, Mr. Luthor. But my eyes are sharp, and I can spot a wolf in sheep's clothing."

Lionel remained composed, unperturbed by the accusation.

"Chief, believe me, I want to resolve this matter peacefully. We can coexist."

The elder shook his head. "Forgive my skepticism, but every time we're asked to 'coexist,' we're either killed or driven to barren wastelands."

"Regardless," Lionel said diplomatically, "I'll have someone contact you later to discuss this. I have other matters to attend to."

He left without waiting for a reply, turning to the project manager.

"Are they natives?" Lionel asked.

"Yes, sir. Local indigenous people. Some say they're descendants of the Romani who intermarried with the Inca, forming a tribe deeply rooted in tradition and nature worship."

"They've protested several times already," the manager added.

Lionel nodded, his expression hardening. "Deal with them. I don't want anything delaying the project. Understood?"

"Understood, sir."

As Lionel gave the order, he glanced back at the elder, who remained in place, staring intently at him.

Shrugging off the unease, Lionel turned and walked away.

...

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