For Here There Is No Sun
"You will give the people of Earth an ideal to strive towards. They will race behind you. They will stumble. They will fall. But in time, they will join you in the sun Kal. In time, you will help them accomplish wonders."
They had been his father's words. Or at least, the ghost of his father. Or more specifically, a computer simulation of the kryptonian Jor-El. A man who he had never truly known. And never would, as he stood in the Fortress of Solitude. The Last Son of Krypton. Known to a fair few members of the planet Earth as Clark Kent, especially those who read his articles in The Daily Planet. And known to billions more by one name.
Superman.
He couldn't say he knew all of them in turn. But he had seen their faces, how they looked to him in hope. He had seen them seek truths they thought he could provide – what did it mean for humanity to know that it was not the only form of intelligent life in the universe? What did it mean that this alien that now walked among them looked, spoke, and behaved identically? Why, they asked, could he not be there for all of them? Why did he draw a line on when, and how, he involved himself in the affairs of humanity? And why, as some asked, had he not taken over? If he was their saviour, why not lead them, instead of letting mankind stumble along through the dark?
Frowning, Kal sat down, the only source of illumination being floating devices of kryptonian origin that he didn't even understand. Made by a race who had colonized the stars when mankind had been celebrating the discovery of fire. How could he possibly rule a world when he barely even understood the technology of the fortress he'd appropriated? Why would people even want that?
Human beings are followers, his adoptive father had once told him. After he'd told him that he was an alien from another world. As if he had to explain the social dynamics of a species Clark had called his own until recently. They'll follow the strongest, the wisest, or simply someone who can make them believe that they can offer something better.
He hadn't wanted his son to lead anyone. And as Clark entered high school, as he was exposed to more and more history, he had understood why. Thousands had died in Metropolis because of an alien invasion. Human beings throughout history had shown themselves to be as genocidal as Zod. Even worse. To the extent that they were willing to kill millions of their own kind.
So what am I then? Clark wondered. Monster? Man? Something more?
A god. That was what some called him. Or "false god," as others labelled what those of the first group deemed the Saviour of the World. Or the herald of its end, as others said. Because he'd seen a change in the wind over the last few months. More doubt. More fear. The people that yelled "go home," as if he could even find Krypton. As if Krypton even still existed. People who had called him monster – had labelled him responsible for what Zod and his cadre had done. People who yelled "we don't need saving" every time he showed himself to them.
The world engine would have suggested otherwise.
And yet, Clark wondered. Wondered if he could have done more. Saved more. He could not afford to consider himself beyond account, even if there wasn't a single person on Earth who could detain him. He couldn't consider himself better than anyone on this planet – the fastest, and the strongest, but not the wisest. Not now. Not ever.
"So what then?" he asked, his voice echoing throughout the fortress. He looked at one of the devices. "What then? How do I get these people to follow me if I don't know what the right direction is?"
The device offered no answer. Jor-El was long dead. The ship was destroyed, and he'd been lucky to simply find a functioning machine, and to craft his own fortress with his own hands. His father's ghost had followed him to whatever world existed beyond this one, if such a thing even existed. His parents had taught him about God. Whether He had a place for those not made in His image was another matter entirely. Phenotypical examples notwithstanding.
"Is this the stumbling? Or the fall? Do you have an answer for that, father?"
No answer. Only the echoes of the last voice of Krypton. Fated to echo in however many years of life he had left. Perhaps mankind would reach a similar end as krypton. Perhaps they would avoid the mistakes Jor-El had spoken of. Yet Clark knew that he would not live to see it.
And so he rose, staring out into the darkness. It was winter in Antarctica. It would be winter for another month. Another month of constant darkness, with no sun to be seen. No-one could find him here. He'd made a point to not down anymore satellites, long since having realized that while the governments of the world wanted to track his movements, they just couldn't keep up with him. And while tomorrow news would break that "Superman" saved the lives of all those on a plane that had nearly crashed in the Indian Ocean, that didn't mean anything in terms of tracking his movements.
And so he stared. Over a land without a sun. Mankind had never colonized Antarctica. Mankind preferred to dwell in the light – warmer regions, with food and water. What light could he possibly lead them to? What light of his could he provide? And how much, he wondered? He had saved 218 people today, after he'd lifted a ship out of the ice. What of the hundreds who died every second?
You can save her Kal. You can save all of them.
Liar.
No. Not a lie. But he couldn't. And even if he could, part of him asked if he even should.
And so in the dark he remained.
Hoping for a light of his own.