Chapter 3
Great ResponsibilitySpiderman has been busy lately. Crime never took a vacation in this city, and neither did I as of late. But having a persistent reporter suddenly at his heels definitely wasn't on his checklist.
I could practically hear his thoughts through the way his masked head tilted. What's with this dude?
Three days of careful, calculated pursuit had led to this moment. I stood on a weathered rooftop in Queens, the evening wind carrying the familiar smells of hot dogs, exhaust, and distant street food vendors. Blue eyes, black hair, tall frame. The cheap glasses and slightly ill-fitting suit did little to hide how solidly built I was, but I slouched anyway, playing the part.
"What was your name again?" Spiderman asked, perched on the edge of an air-conditioning unit like it was the most natural seat in the world.
I smiled, trying to be friendly and disarming. "Clark Kent, from the Metropolitan Newspaper."
"Huh," he quipped, rubbing the back of his neck. "Thought all newspapers were extinct."
"Well, they still buy the print edition. We publish online too, of course. So… how about that interview, Mr. Spiderman?"
He hesitated. I didn't blame him. Heroes and the media in this world had a rocky history. People were always looking for dirt, for scandals, for the next big takedown. Spiderman especially had been burned more times than I could count. Thanks Jameson, you cunt.
The web-slinger studied me for a long second. My super-hearing picked up the faint thrum of his heartbeat that was steady, but cautious. His spider-sense was probably tingling, that vague warning that something was off about me. I kept my expression open, sincere.
"I have to admit," I said, letting a touch of genuine respect bleed into my voice, "among the many frau— I mean, heroes in this world, I think you're the coolest. It would really mean a lot to me to get this interview."
Something in my tone must have landed. His posture relaxed just a fraction. The spider-sense was still buzzing, but his gut, Peter Parker's gut, told him I was lost, searching for something real.
Inspiration, maybe.
A reminder of what heroism could look like.
"Fine," he relented with a theatrical sigh. "But make it quick. New York doesn't exactly give me coffee breaks."
I pulled out an old-fashioned notebook and pen. He noticed immediately.
"You could just use a smartphone, you know."
I chuckled. "I find the classics good sometimes. Helps me stay grounded."
We settled into the rhythm. The city hummed beneath us, car horns, distant sirens, the endless pulse of million lives. I started with the question that mattered most to me.
"Mr. Spiderman, how do you manage to keep your humanity and your sense of humor when you're constantly carrying the weight of an entire city on your shoulders?"
"Whoa, straight to the gut?" Spidey quipped, but there was real weight behind the deflection. He rubbed the back of his neck again, half-smiling beneath the mask. "In this line of work, you have to find something, you know? Everyone out there is already tense enough. You kinda have to… lighten the load."
He glanced out over the skyline, the lights of New York glittering like scattered stars.
"Look, some days it's easy. You stop a mugging, save a kid from a bad situation, help an old lady cross the street. Those are the days you remember exactly why you put the mask on. But other days… you lose people. You fail. You carry that with you forever."
He looked away for a moment, shoulders tightening, then shrugged it off with practiced ease.
"The humanity part? That's the important bit. Under all this spandex, I'm just some guy trying to do the right thing. Rent's still due on the first, my personal life's a constant mess, and I still burn toast most mornings. That keeps you grounded. Reminds you that you're not some untouchable god."
The grin returned, sharp and self-deprecating.
"And the humor? That's survival, man. If I'm fighting a guy who can shoot lightning from his hands or a lizard the size of a city bus, and I'm not cracking jokes, then I'm probably thinking too hard about how badly this could end. People think the jokes are for them. Sometimes they are. But mostly? They're for me. They remind me I'm still me. And as long as I'm still me… the weight doesn't win."
I nodded, scribbling notes while my Kryptonian brain recorded every word, every micro-expression, every shift in his tone under that mask. It hit close to home. I knew that weight.
I'd carried universes on my back and still cracked under it.
"You've famously said that with great power comes great responsibility," I continued. "Is it ever isolating to be the only person who knows what you're truly capable of, especially when public opinion can flip on a dime?"
Spiderman let out a small laugh that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You even know that line? How?"
"I have my sources."
"I see." He leaned back, staring at the sky. "The thing about power is it puts distance between you and everybody else. Not because you want it to, but because it has to. You start making choices nobody else can make. Choices nobody else even knows you're making."
He paused, voice growing quieter.
"Public opinion? That used to eat me alive. One day you're the friendly neighborhood Spiderman. Next day you're a menace. Sometimes it flips before lunch. But that's not the real isolation. The real isolation is knowing what happens if you're not there. Knowing the exact second where, if you're too slow, too tired, too distracted… someone pays for it. That sticks with you."
His voice dropped even lower.
"There are things I've survived, things I've seen… that I can't really explain to anyone. Not without sounding insane, or scaring them, or putting them in danger. That's the trade-off. Responsibility means carrying things alone sometimes."
Then the smirk returned. "Which is why I'm lucky I've got people who drag me back down to Earth. Family. My girlfriend. My friends. Because if you spend too long thinking you're the only one who can carry the world… that's when you start breaking."
I hummed softly, troubled. His words stirred memories I'd tried to bury… Laurie's face, the worlds I'd lost, the people I'd failed or hurt in my desperation to get home. I pushed it down for now.
"There are times when heroism asks for more than just physical strength," I said carefully. "How do you find the will to keep going when the emotional burden feels too heavy to bear?"
Spidey went quiet. The humor stripped away completely for a moment. He looked at his hands, flexing them as if remembering every bruise, every broken bone that had long since healed.
"You don't always find it right away," he admitted. "People think being Spiderman is about getting back up after somebody knocks you down. And yeah, that's part of it. But the harder part is getting back up after life knocks you down."
He exhaled slowly.
"After you lose somebody. After you blame yourself for it. After you look at everything you've sacrificed and wonder if it's even made a difference. There've been days where I wanted to quit. Days where putting the mask on felt heavier than anything I've ever lifted. Because the emotional stuff? That cuts deeper than any punch from Rhino or Electro."
His eyes lifted, steadier now, glowing with quiet determination behind the white lenses.
"What keeps me going is remembering that pain doesn't mean stop. It means something mattered. The people I've lost, the people I love… They're part of why I keep moving. And sometimes the will isn't about saving the whole world. Sometimes it's smaller than that. Helping one person. Stopping one bad thing. Getting through one more day."
He shrugged, the grin creeping back, tired but genuine. "That's enough. It has to be. Besides, New York's got a habit of needing me at the worst possible times. Hard to stay in bed when there's a guy in a weird suit throwing taxis around."
I nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle in my chest. This kid, this man, was everything I'd admired from the pages of comics back in my old life.
Flawed. Relentless. Very human.
"Sometimes the people you protect are the quickest to criticize your methods," I pressed on. "How do you navigate being a neighborhood protector while facing constant scrutiny from the press?"
Spiderman gave a crooked grin, like he'd answered this one a thousand times.
"You mean how do I deal with half the city thinking I'm their friendly neighborhood hero and the other half thinking I'm public enemy number one?" He chuckled. "You get used to it. Sort of."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"The press is tricky. Some want the truth. Some just want a headline. And headlines don't care about context. I stop a robbery, break three walls doing it… guess what makes the front page? Not the families who got home safe."
A small, rueful shrug.
"But criticism comes with the job. People have a right to ask questions, especially when a guy in a mask is swinging through their streets making split-second calls. What matters is knowing why I do what I do. If I start chasing approval, I'll make the wrong choices. Fast."
He tapped the spider emblem on his chest.
"Being part of the neighborhood means listening when people are scared or angry, even when they're wrong about you. The press? I've had a complicated relationship with newspapers. That's why I was hesitant with you."
He coughed, muttering, "Mostly one newspaper…"
"Bugle?" I asked knowingly.
"J. Jonah Jameson's not all bad," he said with a laugh. "At the end of the day, scrutiny keeps you honest. If nobody ever questioned you, that'd probably be worse. But you can't let the noise drown out the reason you started. The job's not to be loved. It's to help."
For a moment, comfortable silence fell between us. I felt a strange kinship with him, this young man carrying burdens he never asked for, much like I had. Then my super-hearing caught it first, the low rumble of an explosion several blocks away. Spiderman's head snapped in the same direction almost simultaneously. His spider-sense must have screamed.
"Can't even take a break!" Spidey groaned, already checking his web-shooters. "Gotta go! Duty calls."
I raised my camera quickly and snapped a few shots of a classic, heroic pose against the city skyline. "Go get 'em, Spidey."
He gave me a quick two-fingered salute and launched himself off the roof, webbing through the air with effortless grace. I watched him go, a red-and-blue blur vanishing into the concrete canyons.
I stood there alone on the rooftop for a long while, notebook in hand, the city sprawling out beneath me. Interviewing him had been more than just gathering material for a story. It was a mirror. His struggles echoed mine, the isolation, the weight, the stubborn refusal to quit.
I had come to this universe thinking I might hide in the shadows or punch my way out. But listening to Peter Parker reminded me why heroes like him endured.
I flipped to a fresh page and wrote the opening line for the article.
"In a city that never stops breaking, one man keeps choosing to put it back together, one web, one joke, one impossible choice at a time."
The explosion echoed again in the distance. Sirens wailed. Somewhere out there, Spidey was already in the thick of it. And me? Clark Kent, reporter by day… something far more complicated by night.
I adjusted my glasses, slipped the notebook into my coat, and stepped off the roof, phasing gently through the air before anyone could notice.
This world was messy.
But if Peter Parker could keep swinging with a smile and a broken heart, maybe I could find my place here too.
Not as the boy who let his dreams go.
But as a man who chooses to find a new dream of his own.
Chapter 4
There's a Starman, Waiting in the SkyThere's a rumor going around the underground networks. If you call for help, really call, from the depths of fear and desperation, the Starman will come. It sounds absurd. Not even the best of the Avengers could pull off something that reliable. They've got their own battles, their own agendas. But the rumor persists, passed quietly between us more deformed mutants in basements, abandoned subway tunnels, and forgotten warehouses across the country.
Superheroes saving humans isn't new. It's practically tradition at this point. But someone going out of their way to rescue the kind of mutants like us? That's different. One good look at most of us and people see monsters. Scales, extra limbs, glowing eyes, or worse.
A common misunderstanding that leads to beatings, brandings, or worse.
We're the outcasts even among the outcasts.
Rumors like this are usually bullshit. Wishful thinking born from too many nights spent hiding. But when the entire mutant community starts whispering the same story, there must be something to it.
I found one of the witnesses in a damp shelter beneath an old factory on the outskirts of upstate New York. He went by Gecko, greenish, scaled skin that kinda shone under the flickering emergency lights, a long tongue that flicked nervously toward his chest, and claws that clicked against the concrete floor as he spoke. His eyes darted around constantly, even here in what passed for safety.
"Seen 'im," Gecko said, voice low and reverent. "Me and the boys were getting attacked by those racists out near the woods. We'd just left our last hiding spot after some redneck found us. The whole damn town turned insane, waving their Second Amendment rights like it gave them permission to hunt us for sport."
He stared at his claws, flexing them slowly.
"Some of us can take a bullet or two. Healing factors, thick hides, that kind of thing. But most can't. We were running through the trees, branches whipping at our faces, hearts fuckin' pounding. One of the girls tripped while carrying a kid whose mutation had kicked in way too early. Poor thing was glowing, scared out of his mind. Funniest and worst part? The kid's own parent was in that mob, screaming and ready to blast their own flesh and blood. Think he's one of them racist who believe God wants us all mutants dead. Ain't their fault the kid turned different, but seeing it… that was ugly. You can't give these psychos any reason. We've lived like that for years. Out of fear. Always running. Always hiding."
I nodded, feeling the familiar knot of anger and exhaustion in my gut. I'd lived that story too many times.
"I'm guessing that's when this 'Starman' showed up?"
Gecko's tongue flicked out in excitement. His eyes lit up with something I hadn't seen in a long time on a mutant… pure awe, like a kid who just learned heroes weren't only in comic books and TV shows.
"Like Halley's Comet, man. Couldn't even see him coming. One second we're about to get torn apart, the next there was only a blur. This red cape just appears in front of the shotgun blast, shielding our friend. Dude was moving so fast he was almost invisible, but you could feel the power rolling off him. Big 'S' on his chest, armor underneath, eyes glowing like twin suns."
Gecko leaned forward, gesturing wildly with his claws.
"His eyes… They were like microwaves. He hit the crowd with some kind of heat vision that dropped them to their knees, screaming in pain but not killing them. Then, with a much more heated look, he melted their guns into slag and froze the ground in a perfect line between us and them. Told them in this calm, deep voice and said, 'Leave them be and go home.' These grown men, armed and full of hate, looked terrified. You can't bully someone who moves like that. They tucked their tails and ran like dogs."
I whistled softly. "Then he flew off?"
"Nope." Gecko shook his head, tongue curling. "He stayed. Turned that same vision on us, said it was okay since it was all cellular regeneration and shit. Used it like bloodless surgery. Targeted bullets, infections, messed-up tissue. Reshaped corneas for one of the blind kids, cauterized internal bleeding, fixed broken bones without a single cut. We've seen Thor before. Big guy shows up, smashes the bad thing with his hammer, says something heroic, and leaves. This Starman? He stayed until our contact on the surface said the coast was clear. Made sure the little ones got water and blankets too."
"Seen his face?" I asked.
"Never clearly. He stayed a blur most of the time, like he didn't want to be identified. But that 'S'… red cape… the way the air moved when he flew. You don't forget that. We asked why. Why help us when even some heroes treat mutants like side problems?"
Gecko's smile widened, something almost peaceful crossing his scaled features.
"He could. And that's what his hero would do."
"Oh."
"Yeah. Absurd, right? We're lucky this guy had an idol worth copying. All that power, speed, strength, invulnerability, and he uses it for good instead of the usual evil shit. Could've ruled the world. Could've been another Apocalypse. Instead, he's out here saving freaks like us."
I sat back against the cold wall, processing it. The X-Men fought for mutant rights, sure, but they had their own battles, their own politics. The Avengers? They showed up for world-ending threats and then went back to their towers. Most of us down here, the ugly ones, the ones whose mutations couldn't be hidden were left to scrape by in the shadows. The X-Men lives in their comfy mansions and islands while we live in the muck.
Registration act-loving fascists.
Racists who's too afraid of us.
Wild Sentinels prowling.
Fear was our constant companion.
"You're glad about it," I said quietly.
"Kinda." Gecko's tongue flicked again, but his eyes were steady. "The X-Men and Avengers usually don't have time for the bottom rung usually. We live underground because we look wrong. Because one wrong move and we're lab rats or worse. But this Starman… he didn't flinch at our scales, our extra eyes, our deformities. Didn't ask for thanks or allegiance. I don't care if he's doing it for some idol, or atonement, or guilt over something in his past. The fact that someone that strong chooses to help… it makes me want to hope again man."
The shelter was quiet except for the distant drip of water and the soft breathing of sleeping mutants in the corners. I thought about all the times I'd hidden my own abilities, the nights spent wondering if the world would ever see us as people instead of threats. Rumors had come and gone before.
But this one felt different.
Maybe this Starman was just passing through.
Maybe he'd disappear like so many others.
But the idea of calling for help didn't feel completely hopeless even for freaks like us?
I stood up, clapping Gecko on the shoulder. "Thanks for telling me. Stay safe out there."
"Right on."
After that, I madly kept chasing the rumors.
I couldn't let it go.
Something about the stories stuck with me like a hook in the gut. I moved between mutant communes, hidden safehouses, and underground networks, asking questions carefully. Most people were skeptical at first, with eyes narrowed, voices hushed, but the details were always the same.
A blur. A red cape. An 'S' on his chest. Eyes that could burn or heal.
No demands.
Not running his mouth on some moral high ground.
Just helping.
Then, one rainy night in a crumbling warehouse commune near the Canadian border, the rumor became flesh right in front of us.
We heard the roar of metal groaning. A helicopter, civilian model, beat-up and smoking, dropped out of the low clouds like a dying bird. Mutants scattered, shouting warnings. I froze near the entrance, heart hammering until I realized this wasn't an attack.
Someone was trying to reach us.
That's when he appeared.
Starman himself.
He he held the entire helicopter steady as if telling the laws of physics to fuck off, lowering it gently onto the muddy clearing outside our warehouse. All I could see clearly was the bold 'S' on his chest, the flowing red cape whipping in the wind and rain, and the twin glowing orbs on his blurred face, whose eyes scanned every face in the crowd with impossible speed.
He was a living blur, features hidden behind sheer velocity, but his presence filled the entire clearing.
He held everyone's gaze.
As if he was the sun at the moment.
The side door of the helicopter slid open. A group of battered mutants tumbled out, coughing and crying. Starman moved among them instantly, a blur of controlled power. He checked vitals with those burning eyes of his. Then I came to realize, not only that he could emit heat vision, he had x-rays too.
One by one, wounds closed, broken bones knit, internal bleeding vanished. He worked in silence, efficient and rather gentle, never lingering long enough for anyone to get a clear look at his blurred face.
When the last injured mutant was stabilized, he hovered for a moment, red cape snapping in the wind. His glowing eyes swept over all of us once more, protective, almost sorrowful, then he shot upward and vanished into the storm clouds. I was sure that he'd break the sound barrier from that speed, but he didn't.
The warehouse erupted into chaos. Cheers, sobs, prayers. I pushed through the crowd toward one of the new arrivals, a mutant with a distinctly fish-like face, scales shimmering wetly, gills fluttering along his neck, wide bulbous eyes still wide with shock.
"You okay?" I asked.
He nodded slowly, then let out a shaky laugh. "We're alive. Because of him."
"Tell me what happened."
The fish-faced mutant sat down heavily on a crate, water dripping from his scales. The others gathered close, hanging on every word.
"We were trying to cross the border, ten of us, mostly kids and elders. Got spotted by one of those private anti-mutant militias. They shot the pilot, took control of the chopper, and started dragging us back for 'processing.' We were crying for help, man. Screaming. Praying. Thought it was over."
He swallowed hard, gills flaring.
"Then he came. Swooped in like a damn meteor. Caught the entire helicopter mid-air while it was still spinning. The militiamen opened fire, and didn't even scratch him. He lasered their weapons right out of their hands and melted metal without touching skin. Knocked them out cold with some kind of focused heat vision. They dropped like flies, unconscious but breathing. He didn't kill a single one."
"Seriously?" I asked. "Not even the ones who were about to execute you?"
"Not one," the fish-mutant confirmed. "He doesn't kill. Good thing since if he had… then those assholes would have been angry enough to try and find us. You know the rest. After he set us down here, he checked every person. Fixed what he could. Then he just… looked at us. Like he was making sure we'd be alright. And he left."
A quiet fell over the group. We settled them down and made sure that none of those racists were after. We did see some of them, but they were half-frozen judging by the smell of melted guns.
It was Starman.
Weeks passed after that, and the stories exploded.
Sightings came in from everywhere. Chicago. New Orleans. The ruins outside Los Angeles. Even from across the ocean. The Blur, they started calling him. Or Starman. A red-and-blue streak across the sky, always showing up when things got desperate.
A burning building in a mutant ghetto?
Starman phased inside and carried people out one by one.
A Wild Sentinel attacked in the Midwest and he tore through its armor like paper and disabled it like it was nothing.
A refugee boat sinking off the coast and Starman lifted the seventy thousand ton vessel and brought it safely to shore.
It didn't matter who you were. Race, religion, skin color, mutation, or none at all. If you were in real trouble and had no one else, he seemed to hear it. Waiting in the sky like a wishing star that actually answered.
I sat in another shelter a month later, listening to a fresh batch of survivors share their encounters. The hope in their voices was fragile but growing. For so long, we'd been told we were alone.
The X-Men fought the big fights.
The Avengers saved the world.
But the rest of us?
We were the background noise.
Usually the collateral.
Usually forgotten.
But not anymore.
A young girl with crystalline skin leaned against the wall, eyes shining. "He saved my brother. Just appeared, blocked the bullets, and flew him to safety. Didn't ask for anything."
An older man with tentacles for arms nodded. "Same. Said he could help. That it's what his hero would do."
I thought back to my conversation with Gecko.
This Starman wasn't just another cape playing savior for glory.
There was something deeper driving him. Guilt? Atonement? A simple, stubborn code?
Whatever it was, he kept showing up.
I stepped outside into the cold night air later, staring up at the clouded sky. Somewhere above, a blur might be watching. Waiting.
The world was still broken.
Fear and hatred ran deep.
But for the first time since my mutation manifested and ruined my old life, I felt something dangerous flicker in my chest.
Hope.
Not the naïve kind.
The cautious, hard-earned kind.
If a single being with that much power chose to use it this way, by saving the forgotten, protecting the hated, offering second chances without judgment, maybe the rest of us could start believing in something better too.
That for us, no, for everyone, there's a Starman waiting in the sky.
Chapter 5
Above, Below
I could hear everything.
I could see anything.
Yet for the longest time, I had never really done any hero work.
I was recruited by the original Superman during Infinite Crisis to fight multiverse-level threats. That was my lane. I knew how to fight. How to break things.
A single punch from me could shatter stars.
One breath could freeze an entire planet.
I am a Silver Age power personified.
Raw, unstoppable, larger than life.
But saving people?
That was never my specialty.
All I did was fight and take lives.
When the dust settled, the body count was usually mine.
So when Tony Stark blew off the interview with a smug quip and the rest of the so-called heroes scattered to their own troubles, I decided it was time to do something myself. There are supposedly eighty thousand heroes on this Earth. Some dead, most barely hanging on, and the rest too busy with their own drama. Pardon me if I want to look out for the little guys.
That's what Superman would do.
I could fly fast enough to shatter the time barrier and punch through dimensions. The Flash family had to team up just to keep pace with me on the ground you know?
Speed wasn't the problem.
The hard part was the fragility of it all.
Trying to save a life is a lot harder than ending one.
I learned that the hard way once I started doing this sincerely. Superman had decades of practice. I was clumsy, overpowered, and constantly terrified I'd accidentally kill someone I was trying to help. Everything and everyone was so breakable. I had to keep reminding myself.
They're fragile. Slow down. Be gentle.
I saw horrors everywhere. Crime wasn't just the villain-of-the-week nonsense you see on the news. It was the small-time monsters too, from murderers, rapists, abusers who preyed on the weak while the big heroes were busy fighting aliens or each other. My first instinct was always the same, give them the poke of death. One tap and they'd never hurt anyone again.
It would be so easy.
But Superman wouldn't do that.
So I wouldn't either.
Still, there were nights when I almost lost control. When the screams got too loud and the blood smelled too fresh. In those moments, I settled for disabling them like Batman does to criminals, breaking limbs just enough to stop the threat, then flying them straight to the nearest police station before vanishing into the sky.
Stopping crime became mandatory. But I found myself doing more. Helping wherever I could. Disasters didn't care about cape politics. Tragedies came in every shape, such as earthquakes, fires, floods, accidents. Every life I saved felt like a small piece of atonement for all the killing I'd done in my old life.
Superman does this because it's decent. Because it's just. Because it's the right thing. I do it because that's what heroes are supposed to do, what the old heroes I grew up loving actually did.
Back then, the lines were clearer. Good guys kicked the bad guys' asses and went home. The world has gotten complicated since, and what readers want has become even messier.
Some people just like misery porn. Hell, if I ever get my hands on half the writers who've tormented Spiderman over the years, I'd retcon them out of existence. That guy's too good to deserve the endless parade of suffering Marvel Editorial keeps dumping on him.
I pushed those thoughts aside and kept moving.
I flew everywhere these days. Rescuing mutants from lynch mobs. Pulling families out of burning buildings. Delivering medical supplies to remote villages the Avengers would never even notice because there ain't no villain of the day there.
Eventually, my patrols took me to Southeast Asia during the monsoon season. A massive tropical storm had swollen into a full-blown typhoon, tearing through coastal communities. Houses were flooded. Landslides were ripping away entire hillsides. People were screaming for help that wasn't coming.
But no one was there to help them.
It was odd.
In a world crawling with superheroes, not a single one had shown up. There were a few local heroes and mutants trying to help, but they were overwhelmed. They could barely withstand the wind and rain themselves.
I didn't know the mechanics of a typhoon until I stopped to study it mid-flight. My super-brain absorbed every piece of meteorological data in seconds. Low-pressure center. Warm ocean waters feeding thermal energy. Counter-rotating winds. Once I understood it, I got to work.
I flew high above the storm and exhaled a massive gust of super-breath, scattering the clouds and disrupting the heart of the low-pressure system. Then I switched to freeze breath, instantly dropping the temperature of the surrounding air and ocean surface, starving the storm of the heat it needed to survive. Finally, I flew in the opposite direction of the storm's rotation at just over supersonic speed, creating a powerful counter-vortex that tore the typhoon apart from the inside.
The clouds broke. Rain turned to drizzle. The deadly winds died down to a manageable breeze.
I didn't stop there.
I scanned the entire affected region with x-ray vision, piercing through debris, mud, and flooded structures. Dozens of people were trapped with some drowning, others buried under landslides. I moved like a blur, scooping survivors out of the water and mud with careful hands. A mother clutching her child. An elderly man half-submerged in his collapsed home. A group of fishermen clinging to a capsized boat. I carried them all to high ground, setting them down gently on stable ridges and cleared areas.
One little girl stared up at me with wide eyes as I placed her family down safely. For a moment, the blur I usually maintained around my face softened. I gave her the smallest smile before launching back into the sky.
The world was full of trouble. It always has been. But Superman knew something I was only starting to understand.
The smiles on the faces of the saved, the quiet thanks, the rekindled spark of hope in their eyes… those were among the most precious things you could ever find.
I hovered high above the now-calming region, cape flapping in the dying wind, and watched as people began helping each other. No cameras. No crowds chanting my name. Just lives continuing when they easily could have ended.
I still didn't know how to be a proper hero. Not like the real Superman. I was and still am the boy who let his dreams go, still carrying too much anger and too many ghosts.
But every life saved made the weight feel a little lighter somehow. Every time I chose restraint over rage, I felt like I was becoming something better than what I used to be.
But you can't exactly just say that now, can't you?
I turned westward, accelerating into the upper atmosphere.
I kept flying.
I didn't stop.
Zipping across the Pacific at the speed of light, then south over the endless green of the Amazon and into the jagged spine of the Andes. The sun was dipping low, painting the mountains in shades of gold and shadow. I slowed down when I spotted a lone truck tilted dangerously on a narrow mountain pass, half its wheels hanging over a sheer drop. A single driver stood beside it, scratching his head and muttering curses in Spanish.
I descended quietly, landing a respectful distance away so I wouldn't startle him.
The trucker was a weathered man in his late fifties, wearing a dust-covered jacket, worn boots, and the kind of tired eyes that had seen too many bad roads. He glanced up as my red cape settled around me, the 'S' on my chest catching the last light of day. To my surprise, he didn't freak out or pull a gun. He just raised an eyebrow.
"Eh… you one of those heroes, eh?" he asked casually, like he was asking for the time. "Mind giving an old man a hand? Truck's stuck bad. Cargo's late already."
I nodded and then spoke in Spanish. "I can help."
"Oh, you can speak? Sounds local too, that's good."
I have to. I read somewhere that people tend to be more comfortable, and much friendlier if you know how to speak their language… and that Superman could do that. I could be smart when I use my super-brain, you know? Who do you think makes the maintenance for this armor?
I moved to the rear of the truck, gripped the frame carefully, and lifted. The vehicle rose smoothly at first, until I heard the sickening crunch of metal. I'd bent the chassis. Just a little, but enough.
The trucker's face twisted in annoyance.
"Ay, Dios mío! Careful, hombre! That's my livelihood you're twisting like cheap wire!"
I winced. "Sorry."
Old habits. I was still too strong, too used to breaking things rather than fixing them. I set the truck down gently on solid ground and took a breath. Then I got to work repairing the damage. Using precise applications of heat vision to soften the metal and super-strength to carefully flatten and reshape what I'd bent, I restored the frame as best I could.
It wasn't perfect, but it would hold.
While I worked, the trucker leaned against the repaired side, watching me with open curiosity.
"So… what's with the blurry face, amigo?" he asked, gesturing vaguely at me. "Some kind of trick? Or are you just shy?"
I let out a small chuckle, keeping my features intentionally blurred with subtle vibrations. "Something like that. Keeps things simpler. Don't need people knowing who I am."
He grunted, accepting the answer. Then his eyes drifted to my cape. "And the cape? Most flyers I've seen, big strong types like you, don't bother with fancy cloth. Looks dramatic, sure. But it can get caught on things, no?"
I straightened up, wiping imaginary dust from my hands. "The cape's there to make people feel protected. Like there's something solid standing between them and whatever's trying to hurt them. Gives them something to focus on. Hope, maybe."
The trucker barked a short laugh, shaking his head. "Usually heroes that can fly and have super strength don't bother with any of that. They just show up, smash the problem, and leave. This is a first for me."
I met his gaze or as close as I could with the blur.
"I'm… usually not that kind either," I admitted quietly. "Still figuring it out."
He studied me for a long moment, the mountain wind whistling between us.
The air smelled of pine, dust, and distant rain. Finally, he nodded slowly.
"Then the world needs more heroes like you, I think. Not the ones who only show up when the cameras are rolling or the big monsters appear. Someone who stops to help an old trucker on a bad road. That's rare these days."
I didn't know how to answer that. The words caught in my throat. He clapped me on the shoulder, bold move, considering most people would break their hand trying that, and climbed back into the cab.
"Take care, Starman," he called out with a grin as the engine roared to life. "And thanks for the help!"
The truck rumbled away down the mountain pass, kicking up a small cloud of dust behind it.
"Sorry," I muttered toward the sky, toward whatever remained of the other world I'd left behind. "I'm sorry… to the real Starman for kinda co-opting the name. You deserved better than that."
I looked down at the 'S' on my chest, fingers tracing the bold symbol.
"I'm Superman," I whispered to no one. "Or at least… I'm trying to be. But I don't deserve that title yet. Not really."
The wind carried my words away. Below me, the mountain road stretched into the distance, empty now except for the fading sound of the truck's engine.
I launched back into the sky, cape billowing behind me.