It was the first thing he heard in the morning, and the last thing every night. A thousand voices in a thousand languages crying out across the globe and beyond.
Sálvame Superman...
A quiet whisper from a tiny village just a hundred miles from Mexico City. Here, a young man desperately wants to escape the fate of his impoverished family. He hopes for a big blue savior to pick him up and whisk him away to far-off America.
Iligtas mo ako Superman!
In the ghettos of Manila a young woman cries, desperate for help. She strikes against a flimsy wooden door, her body too feeble from exhaustion to escape. He almost leaves to help, until he hears someone else. Someone overhears and quickly kicks in the door. She's safe.
Naega Syupeomaen jeojang...
Weak and crippled, a man who sounds of middle-age cries out for aid. His pleas are gurgled with what sounds suspiciously like blood. But Clark can only tighten his fists and listen. The sound is faint, but originates several hundred feet underground, in a bunker just outside Pyongyang. There's nothing he can do.
Save me Superman.
In an apartment in Metropolis, a young boy whispers to the sky. Behind a thin plaster wall his parents argue, brandying phrases the boy either doesn't understand or can't bear to. Cheating. Infidelity. Divorce. All the boy wants is someone to take him away from it all. He knows his needs aren't that important, not in the grand scheme of things. He just wants someone to care.
Hifz lana Subrman!
There. Dozens of voices, screaming simultaneously. Some young, some old, but all afraid. The sky cracks in twain as a red and blue blur zooms towards the Mediterranean Sea.
His eyes meet a small fishing vessel, fighting to remain upright. She's about to capsize, a small breach in her hull breaking against the vast might of the ocean. Already overloaded with passengers, there's no way she can take the combined burden of men and water. But saving it proves simple enough to the Man of Steel. The vessel is small but still sturdy enough that it does not collapse into splinters as he hauls it from the sea and brings it to shore.
Mere minutes later, the boat lands on French shores. Arabic tongues rejoice, men and women circle around him, grasping his hand and clutching his cape. They are safe.
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Je suis désolé, Superman...
The officer looks repentant, but firm on this matter. A Kryptonian eyebrow is raised. Clark's French is rusty, but he knows enough to understand the French official who refuses to allow these unauthorized Syrians onto French shores. He also knows enough to respond.
He says his goodbye, and returns to his newfound charges. He tells them, in imperfect but understandable Arabic, that they will need to go somewhere else. A few of them look concerned, but none of them seem too worried. After all, he's Superman. He can do anything.
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Almost a full day of flying later, and he's tried almost everywhere in Europe. But everywhere he gets the same response.
Λυπάμαι, Σούπερμαν...
Es tut mir leid, Superman...
Lo siento, Superman...
Sajnálom, Superman...
Mi dispiace, Superman...
Het spijt me, Superman...
Мне очень жаль, Супермен...
I'm sorry, Superman...
They're sorry. They're all sorry. Sorry they can't please the Man of Tomorrow. Sorry they can't break from proper procedure. Sorry they can't spare food, or medicine, or even blankets. They just wave him off, hoping that he, and his precious cargo, will disappear if they look elsewhere.
He stops for a minute in Edinburgh, waiting for a reply from the local authorities. The people on the boat are beginning to get anxious. They've spent the last few hours crammed together, waiting for their caped savior to finally tell them that it's okay, that they have new homes now. Truthfully, Superman already knows that the authorities aren't going to let them stay. He can overhear them talking, barely a hundred feet away. The cops are just trying to figure out how to tell him. They're slightly nervous around the alien powerful enough send the entire island of Great Britain toppling into the sea. Still, Clark holds on to some silly hope, a desperate wish that someone will change their mind in the five minutes before the police finally work up the nerve.
Umm... excuse me...
Clark looks down. A small boy, no older than eight, holds out an even smaller toy car, then points to a smaller still Syrian girl, still on the boat, still clutching onto her parents for dear life. Superman smiles and does as the child asks, offering the gift to the girl. Along their trip they've gathered dozens of such little gifts. Toys, parcels of food, an entire pallet of bottled water, and even enough blankets for everyone from villages, cities, and homes throughout their European odyssey. It all helped. But little gifts weren't going to save these people. They needed official help. They needed homes.
Five minutes later and they're off once more. This time, they're crossing the Atlantic, heading to Metropolis. Heading to America.
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.
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I can't wait anymore!
During the journey, Clark overhears that her name is Aishah. Her teenage voice was what brought him to these people in the first place. While Arabic is her first language, she speaks English flawlessly, passionately, even with a slight American accent. Apparently, she prefers to speak like this when she's angry.
It's complete bullshit!
Like right now. Clark overhears her mother's attempts to calm her down
Allahu Akbar, Aishah. We just have to have hope and patience.
How is that going to help?
Clark can almost hear her gentle smile through her maternal voice. Even though they come from two different countries, on two different continents, and follow two different faiths, Clark can almost hear Mama Kent's voice in her next words.
We're going to America. A land built on hope and patience. Besides...
Clark can just tell from the tone of her voice that she's grinning. He can't help but grin a little too.
We have Allah and now Superman on our side! Who could possibly stop us?
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After less than an hour later, Clark's passengers begin to see a glow from across the ocean. The frigid air of the Atlantic can't keep them from peeking out from under their blankets and beholding the sight. In their sleepy haze, some of them mistake it for the rising sun. To Clark, the welcoming lights made Metropolis look for all the world like some mythical city of God. To these people who had spent days without proper roofs over their heads, it looked like a utopia to shame Olympus and dwarf Atlantis. And to Aishah, who wasn't nearly as concerned over blaspheming as others, it looked like the holiest of holy cities.
It was a moment that would ordinarily call for joy and celebration. However, these people were far too tired and exhausted for clapping or cheering. Instead some smiled, some cried, but all looked out with wonder, awe, and, for the first time in a long time, hope.
Halt!
Everywhere Superman and his flock had gone, they had been greeted by some sort of welcoming committee. As the most powerful and most famous man on several planets, it was rare that something he did didn't attract some kind of attention. And a frantic trip across Europe holding a literal boatload of Syrian refugees over his head was certainly no exception. Everywhere they had gone, people had cheered, booed, thrown roses, and thrown rotten tomatoes. But nowhere but America had their reception been so... conspicuous.
An entire US Navy Carrier Strike Group had arrayed itself between them and their safe haven. Over a half dozen ships, ranging from destroyers to submarines to a single supercarrier. While none of the cannons or obvious guns were pointed on him, his Kryptonian eyes were able to locate over a dozen rifle barrels trained on him. Their wielders' carefully controlled breathing and remarkably accurate tracking, despite the constant shifting of the ocean waves, told him they must be Navy SEALS. He quickly read and memorized their DNA. He'd need it for later, so he could track them down and write them apologies.
By the order of the President of the United States of America, you are not to allow these people to set foot on American soil!
Whichever sailor was speaking continued to shout out his carefully rehearsed speech. Superman paid him no mind. He was too busy listening to Aishah and her mother. For a moment, the alien's heart stopped as he heard the older woman faint and the surrounding passengers hurry to support her.
Mama!
No matter the language, the sound of someone crying out to their mother always sounds the same.
His Kryptonian eyes glowed a dangerous red, a gleaming and angry red that could vaporize oceans and incinerate worlds. For the briefest of moments, to every single SEAL it looked as if they had turned their scopes towards the heart of the sun. They grabbed their eyes, their iron discipline preventing them from pulling the trigger, though it was in vain. Though their bullets were undoubtedly Kryptonite, Superman would've shot them down before they'd gotten past the muzzle. Not that it mattered. Superman's heat vision, focused with the precision of a scalpel, had rendered them all blind in an instant. It would be hours, possibly days before their eyesight returned.
From his mouth leapt forth a tongue of furious wind and unforgiving cold. Air slammed into water, creating a tremendous wave, before it was frozen solid by the most bitter of blizzards. Smaller ships, such as two unfortunate Arliegh-Burke class destroyers, were swept aside like toy boats in a bathtub. The Strike Group's supercarrier, the USS George H.W. Bush, however, remained firmly planted, her massive weight keeping her rooted. Instead, great volumes of water splashed onto her deck before they were quickly frozen by the icy wind from the alien's mouth. Before long the mighty Nimitz-class aircraft carrier, symbol of American might and force projection, found nearly a third of her front encased in ice.
By the time the Carrier Strike Group's Commanding Officer had looked up to assess the damage, the Kryptonian and his people were already gone. The sailor sighed as he looked around. No one had died, and no ships had been capsized, which meant that the protector of Truth, Justice, and the American Way had felt merciful. He sighed once more as he looked upon the glacier now stubbornly attached to his carrier's bow like an ugly, malformed limb of crystalline ice. It was easily three times the size of the ship itself.
Well boys... Let's start chipping.
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Is she...
Superman puts a warm hand on Aishah's shoulder. She would be alright, as would the rest of the passengers.
Please allow us to take your things.
If they weren't so tired, hungry, and exhausted, these people would've been wary of the strange machines before them, the so-called Superbots, which were offering to take their luggage like mechanical busboys. However, they were tired, hungry, and exhausted, more so than they had ever been in their entire lives, so they did nothing in protest of their new caretakers. Only Aishah had enough energy to gasp in awe at her surroundings.
The Fortress of Solitude...
For now, they could stay here. The Superbots would guard them, tend to their needs, and care for their sick and elderly. Already, an excited Superdog was sniffing and nuzzling his new housemates. Thankfully, the Kryptonian technology within the fortress allowed for new rooms to easily be created, and other items, like food and medicine, could be synthesized by the Superbots according to these people's needs. But as the loyal automatons brought the refugees to their new accommodations, Superman knew this could only be temporary. This was a secret hideout hidden in Antarctica. It wasn't even a home for Superman, otherwise he wouldn't still be paying rent for an apartment in Metropolis. It certainly couldn't be a home for them.
Superman!
Krypto was currently trying to drown Aishah in Kryptonian dog slobber. Some of the children gathered around her and the alien canine. Krypto was strong enough to drag the moon out of its orbit, and here were all these kids trying to pet every square inch of his white fur. They smiled and laughed for the first time in what felt like lifetimes. Aishah looked Superman in the eye, her eyes shining in gratitude beyond mere happiness.
Shukraan.
He nodded and spoke to her. They were going to be all right.
Al'afw.
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The sun rose on Metropolis as the sailors of Carrier Strike Group Two kept attacking the massive mountain of ice with power tools, hand tools, and pure determination. They had considered using some of their own firepower to break apart the ice, but the higher-ups had denied it. Apparently the idea of using live ammunition with heavy caliber cannons near a major American city made some people nervous. Some of the personnel found this rather ironic. There were never any qualms with such "tactical options" whenever they were operating in the Middle East, Africa, or anywhere where the American public never had to see it. But as soon as that wasn't the case, suddenly it was too much for the children.
News choppers and boats full of reporters circled around the ship like sharks around a wounded whale. US Navy Public Affairs officers attended to the civilians, answering questions and giving evasive answers as they were trained to.
Why did Superman do this?
Is he a threat to national security?
Is Superman a Muslim?
The seemingly endless Q&A sessions were brought to a sudden halt as a sound like the firing of artillery rang out across the ocean. Chunks of ice the size of boulders rolled off of the glacier as the effects of the warm afternoon sun and the persistence of American servicemen payed off. At first there was cheering and accomplished smiles as sailors thought they might actually get the ship free by the end of the day. It proved short-lived.
The glacier became unbalanced, and it slowly began to roll over, taking the aircraft carrier with it. As if lifted by the hand of God, the ship was hauled upward, leaning dangerously on her port side. The order was given to abandon ship, a task made easier by the fact that the carrier was operating on a skeleton crew. Cameramen and journalists looked in fear and awe as the multibillion dollar warship was being treated like a children's toy by an immense mound of inanimate ice.
The CO of the George H.W. Bush remained on the bridge, giving orders and making sure that his people were all safe and off his ship before he attended to himself. He remained at his post, ignoring the random objects which fell to the floor. Pencils, pens, notebooks, binoculars, compasses, and old-fashioned paper maps fell as the whole carrier tilted like the world's largest seesaw.
Suddenly the ship stopped moving, as if the iceberg had reconsidered its choice to throw the carrier around like a Hot Wheels car in the hands of a toddler. The CO looked to up to see a blue-and-red clad alien standing on his flight deck. His eyes met with that of the Kryptonian and instantly understood what he was asking him to do. The ship slowly righted itself as Superman pressed down with his feet, while the CO continued to order his people to evacuate.
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He floated just in front of the iceberg, out of which the USS George H.W. Bush stuck out like an American sword in an anvil of ice. Thanks to Superman, no one had been hurt, though no one was sure whether or not to thank him for saving them from a situation he was responsible for in the first place. Regardless, the mountain of ice floated there, a gargantuan reminder of who was talking and why he was not to be taken lightly. The press gathered around him, a school of hungry reporters eager for whatever scraps he may drop. Superman looked them all in the eye, before looking to one in particular. Ever subtle, she nodded.
Ladies and gentlemen, I know you have many questions. But today is not the day I can answer them. Rather, today is the day I ask them.
I've spent the last few 24 hours playing shepherd to a people without homes, without a country, and without hope. I've seen them despair, I've seen them cry, and I've seen them surrender. These people came to our shores with nothing but their hopes and dreams and we greeted them with steel and fire. I have been told that this was an unfortunate, but necessary step. That allowing a single refugee to step onto our soils puts American lives at risk. That, so long as there is any threat whatsoever to our people, we cannot help anyone. That the danger is simply too great.
America, what happened to you?
I have seen this nation accused of many things. Recklessness. Naiveté. Bullying. Laziness. And every step of the way I have defended this nation however I could. But now we are accused of something I never thought we would. I thought, no matter what happened, no matter how bad things got, this was the one thing we would never be accused of.
Cowardice. We won't help these people because it's dangerous. Is that who we are now? Cowards?
I've always stood for Truth, Justice, and the American Way. Recently I've been criticized for omitting that last part. Truth be told, it was simply a matter of repetition for me. You see, I always thought that Truth and Justice are the American Way. But now the American Way seems to be to ignore Truth if it becomes inconvenient, to do Justice only when it is convenient, and to help only when it is easy.
You speak of greatness. But greatness, in my experience across the world and beyond, requires two things: courage and compassion. I see none of the former in turning our backs on those who need us most, and I see even less of the latter.
How did this happen? How did the tired, the hungry, and the poor become the hated, the reviled, and the feared? How did the huddled masses yearning to breathe free... become our enemies?
I cannot answer these questions. That is something only you, America, can. You see, I've often been told that if I don't like this nation, if I'm so dissatisfied with the way things are now, I should just go live somewhere else. So that's what I'm doing. Effective immediately, Metropolis will no longer serve as my base of operations. So I leave you, America, until we meet again. Until you can give me an answer.
Before any questions could be asked, before any response could be made, Superman rose into the sky. Up, up, and... gone.