The little pod hummed its discontent. Messily prepared, it flew jaggedly after its parent-craft had been shot down upon leaving the System. A small sobbing mass in its cramped space bore further testament of how things could be so much better prepared. Granted the circumstances was not ideal for it to be its perfectionist self.
Coaxing the little Kryptonian into stasis—not an easy task with such a distraught boy as stubborn as this—it prepared itself for hyperdrive. This time, it would have to be perfect—as perfect as it could possibly be in the small amount of time provided. Sometimes it's irritating to be an intelligent non-sentient being. Negative emotions really messed with its perfectly-calibrated telemetry.
.the past.
Krypton's whole existence was a curse from the start—orbiting around a dying sun, contending with deeply-rooted prophesies that kept them at the fringes of the Confederation. Theirs was a life of extinction, a death pall that hung above their heads as surely as it was over their ancestors. No planet within the Confederation heeded their request for an asylum away from this manically shifting sun. Cursed, the Confederation decreed about Krypton and its inhabitants. Their resources were further depleted as they waged war after war against the universe, it seemed. They would repel a fleet of rare-earth hunters only to see them replaced by paranoid Confederation extremists. It was astonishing how many advanced races still believed that a planetful of people could curse the whole galaxy simply by existing. Maybe they're too evil, some whispered. Trapped in a perpetual cycle of war and death. It seemed to be their life, their role in the universe's grand design, hurrying along towards their extinction.
This time, their attackers had cleverly used the eclipse of their dying sun to cloak their path, landing their first seven advance shuttles before Krypton's already failing breach-detection system picked up on the fact. Then it was too late.
oOo0~0oOo
The elderly adviser weaved frantically through the masses. He saw panic, resolution, anger and resignation. Kryptonian guards, or what's left of them, filed grimly to their battle stations. Civilians piled into transport vessels. He picked out the silhouette of his sovereign, manning the communications console, with his royal consort by his side, overseeing planet-wide evacuation and what could possibly be their last fight. "They would not let us leave!" Someone yelled behind him.
Then, the planet shuddered violently. "There's no time to prepare the mothership!" someone yelled again. The elderly adviser couldn't get his legs to carry him quick enough. Everything had gone so wrong—their calculations and predictions, timing and their fate. He didn't have to be told that their sun was deteriorating more rapidly than previously thought, as was the planet's center of gravity. "You must leave! Please, Sire! There is a vessel waiting for you."
It was a brief moment of explosion somewhere on the near horizon that lit up the place, allowing those old eyes to properly look at his liege. Emperor for but a day, more scientist than warrior, who took over the throne perhaps one sunrise or two ago following his brother's sudden death. What's left of the High Council had quickly voted Jor-El as ruler of all, then decided that there wasn't time to give his dead predecessor a proper burial. The old adviser shuddered as he remembered a sightless corpse lying in state underneath the rubble of the Old Palace. It had taken the scouts two hours to bring the news to the front line where Jor-el was overseeing the salvage of an overturned warship, half of its crew already dead—further halved by the end of the day. Another hour had been expended to alternately help the rescue team and coax their new emperor to relative safety.
"I cannot leave, not now." Jor-el looked determined but sounded lost. The adviser did not envy Jor-El his lot in life.
There was a small shadow that stood close to his leg and Jor-El looked down with a pained expression. "But Kal-El can." There was resolve, tempered sadness as palpable and heavy like a cloak, but he was surprised to see only a minute amount of regret.
"Father?" Kal-El's voice was small as he looked away from the spectacle of fire raining down from deep red sky. "Mother?" Kal-El's small hand outstretched toward his mother and wide eyes watched the same expression form on her face. A dark shadow emerged from the wings, cutting a swathe amongst scurrying soldiers in his urgency. Kal-El noticed the man and tilted his head to the side, brows knitted with concern when everyone began to speak one over the other. The rest of the conversation was lost as his father swept him up and hugged him, as his mother rained salty-sweet tears into his hair that dripped onto his eyelashes and nestled on the curve of his mouth. He couldn't feel anything as strong arms transferred him to another. "Uncle?"
"Say goodbye, Kal-El," his uncle, the General, coaxed as he began to move away, backing out into the shadows once more. The adviser was told to follow, to be proxy to the child's mother and father. He was too old to be of use anywhere, so he went.
oOo0~0oOo
"See you soon, Father... Mother..." Kal-El mumbled against his uncle's throat, in a child's speech that sounded like hope and Kal-El felt his world turned once more. It was more violent than anything he could remember, and he felt very ill. He wrapped his limbs around his uncle, steadfastly refusing to look for his parents' eyes, usually his oasis of calm. He knew he was to go somewhere, and that he might not see his parents again. He thought of his nursery, and all those multi-colored bottles in his father's lab. He remembered the blue and yellow bud in his mother's hothouse, he would never see it bloom now, he thought sadly. Sighing, he tightened his grip around his uncle's neck, the armor's metal collar sent cold static against his forearm. He tried to be brave, as they had taught him for as long as he could remember. He sang a lullaby under his breath.
Fingers danced across his back, and he turned to meet his nanny's gaze.
"I trust you with his safety," his uncle said to the nanny and left without a look back. Kal-el dared not breathe as he was hugged and then carried deep into the bowels of a transport vessel. He saw his friends, huddled together with their mothers and nannies. "Where are we going?" he asked and received only silence.
Every year, less and less children were born as parents balked at the idea of bringing their children into this sort of brutal existence. And yet, even greatly diminished, they still couldn't gather every children. They tried as best they could, even old people and soldiers half-dead from the front lines were redirected every day to help evacuate these children. But, some were just too unreachable, some perished en route to designated launch sites. Others simply disappeared.
In the end, there wasn't a large contingent to be taken off-world. A paltry amount of vessels, much less than they had hoped. Some of those would not even make it past the upper atmosphere, shot down by enemy warships. They'd come hurtling down in a ball of fire at their distraught parents below. Several more vessels would sustain great damage that they would not survive the whole voyage.
Still, on the few that survived were the hopes and prayers of a dying race; though most were too young to understand the paradox of their burden and their freedom. Soon, they slept, lulled by the hum of their ship, a sea of endless darkness around them. Perhaps, they'd wake up to see the sun.