House of El: Reforged

Smallville High – Monday, 7:58 AM

First Day of Sophomore Year

The doors of Smallville High creaked open with the reluctant sigh of a building that knew it was about to endure nine months of teenage chaos. And walking straight into that chaos like they owned the joint were the Kent kids—equal parts legend, problem, and walking HR violations for school policies on "unnatural abilities."

Hadrian led the charge.

He moved with that deceptively lazy grace, all six-foot-one of him wrapped in soft muscle and casual charm, wearing a worn Metropolis Warriors T-shirt under a red flannel, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His tousled black hair fell just enough into his emerald green eyes to make girls double-take and teachers preemptively reach for the Advil. A brown paper bag swung from one hand, containing both a peanut butter sandwich and a disassembled quantum stabilizer. Naturally.

Behind him was Neville. Broader. Taller. Silent. Pale green eyes constantly scanning like he was trying to find the nearest exit in case of emotional combustion. He wore a navy hoodie with the sleeves ripped off, exposing arms that looked forged in Olympus and a healing bruise shaped suspiciously like a heat vision accident. His backpack was strapped tight to keep from floating. His jaw clenched slightly. The gum-chewing had begun.

Zatanna rounded them out with the flair of someone who knew she didn't have to try—she just was. Combat boots. A pleated plaid skirt. Hoodie with sparkly sigils scribbled into the cuffs. Her eyeliner was aggressive, and her ponytail shimmered under the hallway fluorescents like it had its own light source. Her nails were sharp enough to be considered state-issued weapons, and she twirled her phone like a wand.

"Ugh," she muttered. "The energy in here is tragic. It smells like stale hormones and cafeteria-grade betrayal."

"That's just Brad's locker area," Hadrian said casually, nodding at the quarterback's kingdom of Axe body spray and bad decisions.

Their lockers were side by side, tucked under the old skylight Zatanna swore had leyline interference.

"Mine," she declared, opening hers with a whisper of Latin. "Claimed in the name of glitter and vengeance."

Hadrian immediately began decorating his like a mad scientist with ADHD. Tesla poster. Stickers of anime girls with sword energy. A photo of Florence Pugh taped next to a diagram of Kryptonian spinal regeneration.

"How is this even a theme?" Zatanna asked.

"It's called inspiration, Z. Let the chaos speak to you."

Neville opened his locker with a sigh, eyes already locked on his mirror as he adjusted his curls. Inside were perfectly arranged color-coded binders, a collection of carefully sealed sketchbooks, and a thermos labeled: "If found, do not sniff."

Then it happened.

A shriek. Loud laughter. Sloppy lip-smacking sounds no one should have to hear before 8:00 a.m.

Neville turned. Froze.

Sarah Cushing. Gorgeous. Bright. Wearing the kind of jeans that made eye contact feel illegal. Her gold hoop earrings danced every time she laughed. Her smile was like bottled sunlight.

And Brad had his arms around her.

Of course he did.

He was handsome, with annoyingly perfect hair, varsity jacket slung half off like he'd just stepped out of a teen drama ad campaign. Brad kissed her like he was making a statement.

Neville's jaw flexed. His hand twitched. A locker three rows down sparked.

Zatanna followed his gaze and immediately winced. "Oof. Code Red. Crush detonation confirmed. We have a full hormonal hemorrhage on the field."

Hadrian squinted. "Is that tongue? Jesus. It's not even second period yet."

Neville blinked. "I think my heart just filed a restraining order against my soul."

Hadrian clapped him on the back—lightly. "Hey. It's okay. We've all been there. I once sneezed during a growth spurt and shattered every window in the house because I saw a picture of Ororo Munroe in yoga pants."

Zatanna raised an eyebrow. "Still the weirdest crush flex I've ever heard."

"I'm complex."

Neville groaned. "She was supposed to be different. We bonded over composting at the Fall Festival."

"You bonded over dirt," Zatanna corrected.

"It was meaningful dirt!"

Hadrian unwrapped a muffin from wax paper. "Mom said this was for emergencies. Seems about right."

Neville took the muffin solemnly. "This is my origin story now."

Zatanna flipped open her phone and started typing furiously.

"What are you doing?" Hadrian asked.

"Hexing Brad. Lightly. Maybe a rash in places that make football practice awkward. You're welcome."

Neville blinked at her. "You're the best cousin ever."

Zatanna tossed her ponytail. "I know."

Hadrian slung an arm around both of them. "C'mon, losers. We're fifteen, freakishly jacked, magically trained, and emotionally unstable. We're basically gods. Time to go suffer through sophomore homeroom like the rest of humanity."

They walked together, the hallway parting like Moses at teen prom. Behind them, Brad scratched at his foot and looked vaguely alarmed.

Ahead of them? Chaos, algebra, and at least three magical incidents waiting to happen.

But for now, the Kents moved as a unit—stronger together, armed with muffins, magic, and a metric ton of angst.

—

Smallville High – Monday, 8:03 AM

Still the First Day of Sophomore Year

The doors hadn't even stopped squeaking shut behind them when it happened.

Brad—six-foot-sexy, sun-kissed quarterback, slinger of touchdowns and questionable sonnets—was already leaning cockily against his locker like it owed him rent. His golden hair was gelled into that "accidental perfection" style that took forty-five minutes and an entire bottle of product. He saw his cronies near the vending machine. Chad, Jason, maybe a Dustin in there. All walking letterman clichés. Brad's smirk curled like a villain about to monologue.

"Watch this," he muttered, pulling a football out of his locker like it was Excalibur.

He launched it. Tight spiral. Full quarterback flair.

The ball sailed across the hallway, a beautiful arc of violence heading straight toward the back of a short, bespectacled freshman—brown skin, nervous shuffle, oversized NASA hoodie. His backpack read "RAJ" in blocky Sharpie letters, complete with a doodled rocket.

He didn't see it coming.

But Neville did.

Neville's hand shot out like a reflex, snatching the ball from mid-air without even flinching. He turned slowly, pale green eyes locked on Brad like the hallway had just gone grayscale except for him.

Raj spun around, blinking behind thick glasses. "Whoa! I—uh—thank you. I think I almost died."

Neville handed him the ball. "All good. Next time, maybe don't walk in a jock's splash zone."

Raj blinked again. "Is that, like, a sports metaphor?"

Zatanna cackled. "It is now."

She reached over and ruffled Raj's hair like he was a very confused puppy. "You're adorable. I'm adopting you."

"I... what?"

Hadrian caught the football when Neville lazily tossed it over. His sleeves were still rolled up, and the emerald glint in his eyes suggested that he was either about to throw a ball or smite a god.

He glanced down the hallway, spotted Brad smirking again, and tilted his head.

"So," Hadrian said, "do I toss it back like a civilized demigod, or teach that one—" he pointed to Chad, maybe-Jason "—what physics feels like when it's pissed off?"

"Visual lesson," Neville said flatly.

Hadrian grinned.

He cocked his arm, adjusted his stance, and let it rip.

The ball rocketed through the air like it had a vendetta.

Chad—or Jason—barely had time to squeak before the football hit him square in the chest and sent him sprawling like a folding chair in a hurricane. He hit the ground with a satisfying whump and lay there making the wheezing noise of someone who'd just discovered their lungs had an off switch.

Silence descended.

A freshman gasped. "Did that guy just launch that ball with his mind?"

"I think it was his arms," another whispered. "Did you see those arms?"

Zatanna held up a hand. "Let us bow our heads in memory of Chad's dignity, tragically struck down in the prime of its mediocrity."

Neville gave Raj a gentle nudge. "You okay?"

Raj nodded rapidly. "Yeah! Yeah, totally. This is... the weirdest day of my life. In a good way. I think."

Zatanna looped her arm around his shoulders. "Stick with us, Rocket Boy. You'll survive."

Up the hall, a heavyset figure stepped out of the gym doorway. Coach Daniels, all barrel chest and buzzcut menace, squinted over his clipboard. The man looked like he ate protein shakes and middle schoolers for breakfast.

He watched the twins.

"That one," he grunted, pointing his pen at Neville. "And that one."

His assistant coach squinted. "The pretty one?"

"Both pretty. Both dangerous."

Daniels narrowed his eyes. "I want them on my team. Yesterday."

Back by the lockers, Hadrian casually dusted his hands and looked over at Brad, who was still trying to act like he hadn't just watched his social throne teeter.

"Well," Hadrian said cheerfully, "that was educational."

Neville nodded. "Brad looks like he's developing a stress-based eye twitch."

Brad did, in fact, keep blinking like he wasn't sure if he was furious or aroused.

Zatanna pulled Raj along as the group started walking. "Come on, newbies. Let's go survive Homeroom 2B. Algebra. Hormones. Possibly a demon-summoning accident if Mr. Faulkner starts reciting Shakespeare again."

Raj whispered, "Is this how high school works?"

Hadrian grinned over his shoulder. "In Smallville? Pretty much."

The hallway parted as they passed—one floating half-step above the chaos, gossip already building behind them like a rising storm.

Coach Daniels watched them go, his clipboard trembling slightly.

"God help the other team," he muttered.

And so, with muffins in bellies, bruised egos behind them, and algebra ahead, the Kent kids officially began sophomore year.

Armed with magic, muscle, and a new friend with a rocket backpack named Raj.

—

Smallville High – Monday, 8:06 AM

The Long March to Homeroom 2B

The hallway had returned to its regular programming: locker slams, sneaker squeaks, the occasional shout from the wrestling team, and someone blasting 'Welcome to the Jungle' from a Bluetooth speaker that absolutely should've been confiscated by now.

But around them—the three regulars and one brand-new, deeply confused addition—there was a pocket of weird calm. Like the universe had paused, curious to see what would happen next.

Raj Kulkarni walked half a step behind Hadrian Kent, as if afraid that direct contact might trigger another episode of gravity-breaking absurdity. His sneakers squeaked with the anxiety of someone who had not emotionally recovered from having a football flung at his face by a jock built like a refrigerator.

He was still clutching the offending football like it might explode if he let go.

"So," Zatanna said over her shoulder, in a tone that could only be described as cat-with-matches, "you've officially been inducted into the local chapter of the Misfit Olympics. You feeling proud? Or, like, emotionally compromised?"

Raj blinked, then gave a nervous laugh that was 60% panic and 40% Californian politeness.

"Uh… yes?" he said. "Both?"

"Excellent," said Hadrian with a crooked grin that should've been illegal in three counties. "You're gonna fit right in."

Hadrian Kent walked like someone who didn't know the meaning of awkward. Six feet of casual swagger wrapped in a vintage Met U jacket and the kind of jawline that made yearbook photographers cry. His emerald green eyes sparkled with either amusement or mild chaos, and his voice had the kind of lazy drawl that made everything he said sound like a dare.

Next to him, Neville looked like the human embodiment of 'I've seen some stuff.' Black hair slightly tousled, pale green eyes unreadable, his shoulders were broad enough to make seniors think twice before picking a fight. He hadn't said much since the football incident. Not because he didn't have anything to say—just that he preferred to ration his words like precious espresso.

"I'm Neville," he said finally, voice low, dry, and one caffeine short of tolerating this. "That's Hadrian. That's Zatanna. She bites."

"I do not," Zatanna shot back. "I nibble strategically."

Raj made a noise that might've been a laugh, or a systems reboot.

He glanced between them, flustered but fascinated. "Hi. Uh. Raj. Kulkarni. I just moved here from Fremont, California. My dad got transferred. He's in biotech now. LuthorCorp's agritech division."

Zatanna made a face like she'd just smelled something corporate and evil. "Ugh. That's like making a blood pact with Satan. But for, like… soybeans."

"It was either Kansas or Albuquerque," Raj offered, hugging his backpack closer. "Apparently Lex Luthor pays better than the entire state of New Mexico."

"Sadly accurate," Hadrian muttered. "So what's your story, Rocket Boy? NASA merch, STEM vibes, natural jock-repellant aura… You building a wormhole in your garage or what?"

Raj hesitated. Then, like ripping off a Band-Aid, said, "I won the regional junior robotics championships three years in a row. I like stars. And fusion. And I build stuff. Stuff that—usually—doesn't explode."

Neville raised an eyebrow, suddenly more interested. "You code?"

"Python. C++. Arduino," Raj said proudly. Then he paused. "I mean—not, like, verbally. I don't talk in Python—wait, do people say 'I Arduino'? Is that a verb now?"

Zatanna reached out and patted his head like he was an unusually polite squirrel. "It is now, little technomage."

Hadrian grinned and bumped his shoulder into Raj's, careful not to knock him over. "You're gonna love Wally. Our friend. Once hacked S.T.A.R. Labs using a potato, a paperclip, and an Etch-A-Sketch."

Raj blinked. "…Like, metaphorically?"

"Nope," Neville said. "Literal potato. The Etch-A-Sketch part's still classified."

"You should probably invent a force field," Hadrian added thoughtfully. "Especially if you're taking gym with us."

Raj frowned. "Why would I need a force field in gym?"

The three of them looked at each other, the way war veterans looked at an untouched battlefield. Then they all said, in perfect deadpan unison:

"You'll see."

They rounded the corner into the east wing. The floor was dappled with light from the cracked skylights above, sunlight hitting weird angles and turning into hexagonal pools of shimmer.

Zatanna's boots clicked through them like they were stage lights. "So," she said, turning to Raj. "On a scale of one to 'why is the janitor covered in slime again,' how weird do you like your mornings?"

Raj hesitated. "...Medium weird?"

"Perfect," Hadrian said. "That's our baseline."

"Smallville High is—how do I put this?" Zatanna glanced around, then leaned in conspiratorially. "Basically Hogwarts, if Hogwarts had less magic and more existential dread."

"And substitute teachers who spontaneously combust," Neville added.

Raj looked horrified. "Wait. What?"

"Just once," Hadrian said, waving a hand. "And she was technically possessed."

"By Shakespeare!" Zatanna added brightly. "It was kinda beautiful, in a 'Hamlet is stabbing me' sort of way."

"I—are you guys messing with me?" Raj asked, clutching his football tighter.

Hadrian looked over his shoulder, eyes twinkling. "That's the fun part, Rocket. You'll never know."

They reached Room 2B just as the bell screeched like a dying banshee. The hallway scattered around them, lockers slamming shut like prison doors.

Zatanna didn't bother with a handle—she tapped the door with a single black-painted nail and murmured, "Aperi." The door clicked open, groaning like it hated mornings as much as Neville did.

Raj hovered on the threshold like a man approaching the mouth of a volcano. He looked at Hadrian, who just smirked and leaned in.

"Relax," he said. "Worst thing that happens is somebody summons an interdimensional entity in English class."

"That was one time!" Zatanna protested. "And it was a very complimentary demon. Said I had great hair."

Neville, holding the door with one hand and his bag with the other, just shrugged. "Come on, Rocket. You survived your first jock encounter. You'll survive Homeroom."

Raj took a breath like someone about to skydive, squared his shoulders, and walked through the door.

And just like that, the Freak Squad officially gained a new member.

Possibly the only one still under the impression this was going to be a normal school year.

—

Smallville High – Room 2B

Monday, 8:09 AM

Where algebra dies and chaos takes notes in glitter gel pen.

The classroom smelled like overcooked radiators, adolescent anxiety, and Mr. Henley's third cup of vending machine coffee. The whiteboard still held last Friday's desperate plea for someone to stop drawing tentacles on the Cartesian graphs, and the lights above buzzed faintly, as though trying to tap out a Morse code for send help.

Hadrian Kent was already halfway into a slouch that made the desk groan in protest. One arm hung off the back of his chair like a coiled lasso, while the other flipped a pencil between his fingers with casual defiance. His emerald eyes scanned the room with the lazy, lethal confidence of someone who could bench-press a tractor and charm the SATs into grading themselves.

Beside him, Neville Kent was the opposite in every possible way. Upright. Focused. Silent. His black curls, still damp from the sink, clung to his forehead like a warning sign. His eyes—pale green and unreadable—never left the Moleskine notebook open in front of him. The sketch looked like a combat drone had mated with a steam engine and was now reconsidering its life choices.

Zatanna Zatara sat cross-legged in her seat, twirling her glitter pen like it was a wand. Which it probably was, if you squinted hard enough. She'd taken over two desks and one unfortunate potted plant to lay out her notebook, a bag of magical crystals, and a half-finished doodle of a demon in yoga pants.

And then—

Bang.

The door exploded open like it owed someone money.

"Zeeeeeeee!" came the shrill war cry, followed by five feet of pure serotonin in the shape of Maya Sullivan barreling into the classroom like she'd just been launched from a cannon made of sticker bombs and Tumblr discourse.

Zatanna barely had time to brace before Maya slammed into her full-force, wrapping her arms around her like a glitter-coated python.

"Maya," Zatanna gasped, staggering back half a foot. "I told you—warn me before you deploy full-contact affection."

"But I missed you!" Maya squealed, pulling back just far enough to beam at her like the sun had feelings and a coffee addiction. "You didn't answer a single one of my texts this weekend. I thought you were either dead or kidnapped by that cult that runs the fair-trade smoothie van."

"I was communing with spirits," Zatanna said solemnly. "Also, my phone fell into a cauldron. Again."

"Not a metaphor," Hadrian offered, not even looking up from where he'd just transfigured his eraser into a tiny phoenix. "It tried to send an emoji mid-incantation. Let's just say the results were... volatile."

Maya whirled toward him, eyes narrowing. "Hadrian Kent. Did you grow again? I swear, if you get any taller, I'm going to cut the heels off your boots and start an exposé on alien hormones in the water supply."

Hadrian smiled lazily, all dimples and danger. "Is that your way of saying you missed me, Sully?"

She jabbed a finger into his chest. "I missed bullying you. There's a difference."

Neville looked up, deadpan. "And yet your love language is emotional extortion."

Maya turned on him like a predator with a clipboard. "Neville! Broody! You didn't respond to my last three emails. I need your existential pizza review column for The Torch."

"I already wrote it," Neville muttered, not looking up. "It just says: 'It tastes like despair and feels like compromise.'"

Maya practically swooned. "You poetic weirdo. You complete me."

Hadrian smirked. "Careful. You keep complimenting him, he might smile. The world's not ready."

But Maya was already scanning the rest of the room, eyes flicking over each desk until she zeroed in on the unfamiliar presence like a hawk spotting a mouse in a trench coat.

She gasped.

"New face," she whispered, as if discovering Atlantis. "Adorkable hoodie. Nervous posture. Smells like graphite, anxiety, and printer ink. Mine."

Raj Kulkarni blinked, glasses slipping down his nose.

"Um," he said, holding onto his backpack like it could repel chaos through sheer willpower. "Hi?"

Zatanna leaned across the aisle. "Maya, this is Raj. He's new. His toaster sings, he dodges footballs like a Jedi, and he codes in three languages."

"Oh, I love him," Maya said immediately, dropping into the seat next to Raj without asking and flipping open a glitter-pink notebook with a dramatic flourish. "Raj, I'm Maya. I run The Torch—which is Smallville High's greatest journalistic institution and also its biggest liability. I need a new layout editor-slash-digital engineer-slash-conspiratorial bestie. You're it."

Raj stared at her, overwhelmed and under-caffeinated.

"I just got here," he said weakly.

"Perfect," Maya said. "You haven't been corrupted yet. Tell me your star sign, favorite programming language, and whether you think Principal Reynolds is secretly part of a government mind-control experiment."

"Um... Cancer? Python? And... maybe emotionally repressed?"

Maya clapped her hands like a teacher summoning demons.

"You're hired!"

Hadrian leaned across the aisle. "It's best if you just say yes. Resisting only delays the inevitable."

Zatanna added, "She once followed a guy into marching band practice because he had good penmanship. Now he's our weather columnist."

"I also heard he can control the wind," Hadrian whispered. "Unrelated. Probably."

Raj glanced between them all—Neville brooding, Hadrian lounging, Zatanna twirling her pen like it was plotting something, and Maya scribbling in glitter ink like she was building a case against the universe.

He exhaled.

"Okay," he said. "I guess I'm in."

Maya squealed, practically vibrating. "Yes! Welcome to the Torch. You just got swept into Smallville's finest investigative circus. And unofficially—" she glanced around, then leaned in, "—the Freak Squad. Full perks. Chaos. Pizza. One free existential crisis per semester."

"And friendship," Zatanna added again, voice soft beneath the swirl of noise.

Maya nodded, earnest now. "Yeah. That, too."

Raj smiled—small, nervous, but real.

"I think I needed this."

Hadrian reached across and offered a high five. "You'll fit right in, Rocket Boy."

Outside, the morning sun hit the windows like a spotlight. Inside, Room 2B didn't quiet down. It never would. But the desk next to Hadrian Kent was no longer empty.

And sophomore year had truly begun.

—

Meanwhile — Metropolis

Centennial Stadium

To the 76,000 fans packed into the stadium below, the first sign was a sharp, unnatural silence — like the air itself was holding its breath.

Then came the sound.

A scream.

Not human — metal.

Engines howled overhead, too low, too fast. A shadow loomed across the jumbotron.

A commercial jet, nose down, both engines coughing smoke and flame, dropped toward the arena like a guillotine.

The crowd exploded in panic. Screams tore through the stands as people surged for the exits. Parents grabbed children. Hot dogs hit the turf.

Phones flew up in shaking hands.

And then—

A sonic boom split the sky like thunder made of hope.

Superman arrived.

Not falling. Not flying.

Descending like judgment day and salvation rolled into one.

Red cape snapping behind him. Blue suit gleaming in the morning sun.

The House of El crest — proud and unyielding — across his chest, as if hope itself had punched through the atmosphere.

He caught the plane like he'd done it a thousand times — hands under the nose, feet braced against nothing but wind and will.

The steel frame groaned. The engines sputtered.

But it held.

Clark Kent gritted his teeth, muscles in his shoulders flexing with every ounce of restraint. He adjusted his grip, pushing upward just enough to steady the bird and keep it from diving into 200 yards of AstroTurf and horror.

For a long moment, it was him versus gravity.

And Superman won.

With a low rumble, he angled the plane gently downward and guided it between the goalposts, scraping past the scoreboard by inches. Turf exploded beneath them as wheels kissed down, skidding but controlled.

When the plane finally screeched to a stop at the 20-yard line, the emergency exits popped open like party favors. Slides deployed. People tumbled out.

Safe.

Superman didn't wave. Didn't smile for the cameras.

He didn't even glance at the roaring crowd.

His hand went to the comm in his ear, just under the curl of his hair.

"Go ahead," he said, voice low and calm, the way the sea is calm right before the storm.

A burst of static — then came Barry Allen's voice, high and fast and unmistakably Flash.

"Okay, so first of all, very cool plane catch. Graceful. Heroic. Probably trending already. Just—chef's kiss, ten outta ten."

Clark sighed. "Barry…"

"Right, right. Business voice. Sorry. So, uh, we've got a situation. Big one. Orbit-level. Possibly Kryptonian."

Clark's jaw tightened. "Define 'possibly.'"

"As in: something just entered Earth's atmosphere, not cloaked, not burning up — just cruising in real smooth, like it wants to be seen. And it's got a symbol."

He felt it before Barry said it.

The weight in his chest. The pull in his gut.

"Clark… it's the House of El. Your crest. It's all over the hull."

Clark's eyes lifted to the sky automatically. His posture changed, like the gravity of what was coming had just shifted him.

"Trajectory?"

"Eastern side of Metropolis. Forested sector just outside the city line. You've got…" Barry hesitated, typing in the background. "Seventeen minutes and thirty-three seconds, give or take wind resistance and whatever mystery tech it's running on."

Clark stared into the horizon.

Barry kept talking, his voice going from banter to edge-of-panic.

"I mean, you don't think it's another pod, right? Like another one? Because honestly, dude, we are already juggling multiverse variants, clones, evil doppelgangers, and at least two small alien wars this month and I am dangerously close to caffeine poisoning—"

"I don't know what it is," Clark said, voice lower now. "But it's Kryptonian. And I'm the only one who's supposed to be left."

"Okay, but technically—your kids, right? I mean, there's like…what if there's some—"

"This isn't them."

Clark's cape fluttered in the breeze. His eyes burned red for just a second — a flicker of unease, or maybe something closer to dread.

Because Kryptonian tech didn't just float through space for fun.

It had purpose.

And this one had his family's crest like a calling card.

"You need backup?" Barry asked, quieter now. "I can call Bruce, or—"

"No," Clark said, launching upward in a blur of red and gold. "I'll handle it."

"Clark—"

"If it's Kryptonian, it's mine."

—

Upper Atmosphere — 18 Miles Above Metropolis

The clouds above the city buckled like parchment in a fire.

Clark had heard the sonic thunder of incoming objects before — asteroids, missiles, even one very confused Thanagarian ship that mistook the Eiffel Tower for a hostile mech. But this one was different. Controlled. Steady.

Predatory.

He shot through the upper troposphere like a comet with purpose, eyes narrowing behind the glow of mid-flight heat vision.

"Barry," he said, comms hissing in his ear. "I have visual."

"And?" Flash's voice crackled. "What's it look like? Friendly? Cloaked alien assassin? Please don't say Brainiac again—"

"It's Kryptonian," Clark interrupted, jaw tightening. "Definitely Kryptonian tech. Old gen. Single-seater."

"Wait, like your Kryptonian? Or 'evil clone from an alternate timeline who wants to turn the Moon into a battle station' Kryptonian?"

Clark didn't answer.

Because the pod was visible now — cutting through the stratosphere like a falling dagger. Silver-blue hull gleaming, sharp-edged, burnless. It wasn't crashing. It was arriving.

No panic. No flares. No escape sequence.

Just...intent.

Clark accelerated, body going taut with speed and power as the clouds blurred past him in streaks of white and gold. The wind screamed in protest. The air split.

And then, in one impossibly fluid motion, he was there — intercepting the pod mid-descent, arms wrapping around it like an embrace born of battle.

"Gotcha," he muttered.

The impact knocked the breath from his lungs. The ship was heavy. Denser than any standard Kryptonian scout class he remembered. And fast — still pushing downward with enough G-force to crater a mountain.

Clark grimaced, boots skimming resistance as if he were skating on the upper edge of a hurricane.

"Okay," he growled, adjusting his grip as the pod bucked against him like a wild animal. "You want a fight? Try me."

He heaved, cape flaring like a banner behind him. Every muscle in his body braced against Earth's pull and the pod's stubborn trajectory. The wind howled. Metal groaned. Thunder cracked in protest.

Slowly — inch by brutal inch — the downward arc began to shift.

He twisted, redirected, muscles blazing with effort, veins of sunlight laced across his frame. He angled the pod's descent north, away from city lights and camera drones and curious eyes.

Metropolis faded into a curve below. Arctic winds howled ahead.

Clark pushed harder.

"I've done this before," he muttered under his breath, lips curling into a grim smile. "Planetary re-entries, meteor redirects, one time with a space cow. You're not special."

"Wait, did you just say 'space cow'?" Flash buzzed in again. "Clark—are you having fun right now?"

Clark grunted. "Define fun."

"You're bantering in the upper atmosphere while catching a mystery object from your exploded homeworld. That's, like... Tuesday-level weird, even for you."

The pod gave one last seismic lurch beneath his hands, as though resenting submission — and then it stopped fighting.

Clark exhaled through his nose.

"Got you."

"And now?"

"Now," he said, gaze turning north as cold winds curled around him like ghosts, "we see what you are."

And with that, Superman — son of Krypton, protector of Earth — flew into the freezing silence, pod in hand like a herald of buried truths.

Northward.

Homeward.

To the Fortress.

—

Fortress of Solitude

Latitude: So North Even Polar Bears Have Frostbite

The arctic wind howled like a haunted cathedral.

Beyond the swaying auroras and jagged ridgelines of sculpted ice, the crystalline towers of the Fortress shimmered — alien spires catching dawnlight like blades. A place out of time, carved from memory and hope. Silent for weeks. Waiting.

Then the silence broke.

With a deep, concussive thrum, the Fortress's outer gates split open, parting like the jaws of some mythic beast. A rush of air followed — sharp, dry, metallic.

Superman flew through, cloak trailing behind him like war-banner silk. He touched down gently in the center of the landing chamber, boots kissing the ancient frost with the softest crunch. In his arms, the Kryptonian pod — still warm from reentry, sleek and humming with dormant power — hung like a sleeping heart.

He laid it down in the center ring of the crystalline deck. The silver-blue hull gleamed faintly beneath the glow of the overhead spires. Beneath the ice, lights flickered to life.

Clark took a breath. Not because it was cold — he didn't feel cold anymore — but because this moment felt cold. The kind that sat behind your ribs and waited for the world to shift.

He exhaled slowly.

"Kelex," he said, voice steady.

The echo rang across the chamber.

From behind one of the taller crystal pillars floated a thin, humanoid drone with spindle arms and a flaring optic array. Its photoreceptors blinked as it approached, the servo joints making an unmistakable brrp-chk sound that always reminded Clark of a bored librarian rearranging a bookshelf.

"Master Kal-El," Kelex said brightly, with the sarcastic poise of someone who had clearly taken Advanced British Dryness as a firmware upgrade. "Welcome back. I see you've brought a guest. Or is this another souvenir from your ongoing collection of sky debris?"

Clark didn't look away from the pod. "Run a full diagnostic. I want schematics, status, origin point, biological scans, language logs, everything."

"No tea first? No 'hello, Kelex, I've missed your charming personality'?" the AI muttered, already activating its scanning array. "Fine. Analysis commencing. Don't say I never do anything for you."

A ripple of light passed over the pod, tracing the seams in the hull with ghostlight precision. The air buzzed faintly with electromagnetic tension. The pod pulsed once — a low hum, barely audible — and a faint glow lit the crease running down its center.

Clark folded his arms across his chest, jaw set. Watching. Waiting.

Because something about this felt familiar. The lines of the design. The alloy composition. The old code embedded in the ship's surface like veins of memory.

Too familiar.

Kelex circled the pod once, sensors flickering, then froze in mid-air.

Its tone, when it spoke again, had none of its usual sarcasm.

"Diagnostic complete."

Clark didn't blink. "Report."

A long pause.

"This vessel is Kryptonian," Kelex said, voice almost reverent now. "Model designation: Class-SC. Single-occupant. Assigned to the Argo City Emergency Evacuation Program."

Clark frowned. "I don't know that program."

"You wouldn't," Kelex replied. "It was initiated during the final twenty-seven hours of Krypton's life span. Argo City survived the initial core destabilization due to independent shielding protocols. This pod was one of the last launched."

Clark took a step closer, boots echoing slightly on the crystal floor. "Who launched it?"

Kelex hesitated. "Creators: Zor-El and Alura In-Ze."

Clark's heart gave a quiet stutter.

He hadn't heard those names since...since he was a boy staring at a projection of his family tree.

Zor-El. His uncle. Jor-El's younger brother. A brilliant scientist, quieter than his famous sibling. Alura, his wife — radiant, fierce, uncompromising in her ideals.

He remembered them. Vaguely. Like a dream half-lost in sunlight.

"And the occupant?" he asked quietly.

Kelex's sensors swiveled toward the pod.

"Manifest confirms one passenger. Subject name: Kara Zor-El. Biological designation: female. Age at launch: fifteen Earth standard years."

Clark stared at the pod. The hum grew louder. A gentle rhythm. Almost...a heartbeat.

"She's my cousin?" he asked, voice just above a whisper.

"Affirmative," Kelex said. "Genetically, she is a first-degree blood relative. Daughter of Zor-El. Niece of Jor-El. You are not the last of your House to survive the destruction of Krypton."

Clark's breath misted in the air.

Not the last.

His voice cracked slightly as he spoke. "And her condition?"

"Stasis field intact," Kelex confirmed. "Life signs faint but stable. Temporal delay suggests she experienced cryo drift — possibly trapped in the Phantom Zone vortex. Her pod only recently found re-entry pathing."

There was a long moment.

Clark stepped forward, slowly. Like the ground might shatter if he moved too fast.

He laid a hand gently on the edge of the pod. His hand looked too big — too worn — next to it. This pod had been built to carry someone younger. Smaller.

Fifteen years old.

"Open it," he said.

Kelex hesitated for half a second. Then: "As you wish."

A surge of energy coursed through the crystalline spires. The center seam of the pod glowed, then parted with a low hisssss. Steam rolled out, kissed with frost. Light spilled across the chamber like starlight refracted through snow.

Inside, cradled in suspension gel, was a figure.

A girl. Blonde. Skin like porcelain. Wrapped in layers of stasis membrane.

Then — a twitch.

Her fingers curled.

Clark froze.

His heart felt like it had been dropped into his stomach.

She was moving.

"Kara," he whispered, stepping closer. "You made it."

She blinked. Slow. Dreamlike. Then her eyes opened — sky-blue and wide with confusion and light.

He knelt, just enough to bring his face to her level.

"I'm Kal," he said gently, the weight of years pressing against his ribs. "Kal-El. Your cousin."

The first tear rolled down his cheek before he even noticed.

And in the silent crystal hall, after years of loneliness — Krypton spoke again.

---

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