It had been his dad's idea to make sure that the costume didn't get in the way of any of his powers by testing it out – "putting it through his paces," was how Jonathan had put it. While it had seemed to Clark that some of the powers wouldn't much be affected by it (after all, how would changing your shirt affect how well you can hear?), his father had insisted that they go through everything. Heat, X-ray, thermoscopic and telescopic visions went first – no problems. Super-hearing – no difference, as expected. His strength still worked fine; the costume didn't restrict his movements at all, which had been Clark's worry. He'd been worried that the costume wouldn't be protected by his invulnerability, but it turned out – one broken axe later – that his fears were unfounded. Leaving only two powers left.

This was why Clark – Superman, he told himself – found himself next to the family truck, crouching in the driveway like a sprinter on the blocks waiting for the gun.

"Just run down to Ginger Lane outside of town and come back," his mother said. "Don't go too fast right away – if the cape flies off, I want to know how fast you were going when it did."

Well, it's not like I have a speedometer, Clark managed to keep to himself. Something his mother had never quite understood was that he'd never really known how fast he was going while running – he only knew he was going fast. There weren't many things on the planet that could keep up with him when he was hauling ass – and the few that were fast enough weren't found in Kansas. The only time he had any real idea was when he'd timed himself running along some known distance – something he used to do about every other month back in high school. For a kid who hadn't ever been able to race others his own age for fear of giving away his secret, racing against a clock had been at least some way to gauge himself.

There was always that stretch of Highway 45, he reminisced. The week before he'd started high school, he'd run the twenty-four mile loop that started and ended at his house in just under 23 minutes by the stopwatch he'd left at the barn. By the beginning of sophomore year, he'd done it in 2 minutes, 38 seconds. October of junior year, 61 seconds – he'd run it three times in disbelief that he couldn't crack the one minute barrier, but never got better than that. Finally, in the autumn of his senior year, he demolished the course in 42 seconds. Since then, he hadn't had the chance to do it.

Well, what better way to test out the new suit than with an old run?

He smiled.

With a rush of air and the crack of a sonic boom, the man who had always been known as Clark Kent exploded down the Kansas highway like a runaway missile. His red boots barely touched the ground, skimming across the tarmac with just enough force to maintain traction against it. Each foot only hit the ground every fifty feet or so – an event which occurred well more than thirty times every second. His red cape whipped behind him, flapping furiously in the gale. Clark rounded the turnoff at almost eight times the speed of sound, his inside hand brushing against the ground to help him turn. It cut a path twenty feet long in the shoulder of the road. Powering onto the last straightaway, Clark took the barest fraction of a moment to survey the road ahead. Not a car or truck to be seen; no houses or buildings within miles of the road. Nothing to worry about hitting or disturbing.

With a surge of energy, Clark pushed himself ahead even faster now, screaming down the highway as fast as he ever had run in his life. The world to his sides melted into a vista of green and brown – all that there was now was the road ahead of him. And for a brief second, there was nothing in the universe that Clark would have taken in exchange for that moment.

For the first time since he could remember, he remembered how much he loved being himself.

He slowed down to the speed of sound as he rounded the turn up the drive to the Kent farm to keep from startling the cows (his father had raised hell the time he had caught Clark trying to herd them back to the barn with his sonic booms) and kept slowing as he went up the driveway. By the time he got to the house, he had managed to bring himself to a polite jog, which he stopped right in front of his parents. He smiled quaintly to them as he did so.

"I think it works fine, Mom," he said with exceptional understatement.

The suit did more than work fine, Clark admitted to himself as he soared gently through the clouds. It worked amazingly. It didn't itch, didn't ride up in any of the wrong places, and didn't get in his way. It looked good – not just in the this-guy-pumps-iron sense, but there was just something about the way it looked on him that always made him look twice at it whenever he caught his own reflection. Clark Kent had never been a prideful person – even as a man, few things could make him turn away and blush faster than a complement – but there was something about the suit that commanded attention. No, more than commanded attention. Demanded it.

It's almost as if, Clark thought, I was born to wear this suit.

A shiver went down his spine that had nothing to do with the -30 degree temperature of the air at 25,000 feet. The idea of wearing the thing for the rest of his life was, for some reason, not one that he relished. Ever since that day many years before when he had fallen to earth amongst fire from the heavens, Clark had been fighting against what the universe seemed to have planned for him. Whether it was dying on Krypton or conquering the world, he had never been one to go along with it without a fight. So far, he had managed to dodge every bullet "destiny" had fired his way. Was this really any different?

But every time before, Ma and Pa showed me the right thing to do. Whatever it was that felt right was what they believed I should do. If this is what they think is right – if this is what I'm supposed to do with my life – isn't that different from whatever Jor-El wanted?

Then why did it feel so bad?

Once I show up anywhere with this flashy suit, everyone will expect me to save them. No matter where they are, they'll wonder, "Where's Superman? Why won't he save us?" Anything I can do will be more than would happen otherwise, though. If I could just convince them well enough…

How was that going to happen? Clark Kent, not even old enough to buy beer or wine, try and convince the whole wide world that he wasn't their personal savior? Even Jesus Christ waited until he was thirty-three before he began his public service.

I'm not ready for this.

The thought stopped him cold over the peaks of the Rockies.

That's what the feeling is. It's not that I don't want to do this – I do, I do so badly – but it's not quite time. I'm not ready.

Clark stared off towards the horizon for a long minute. On every side of him sat a thousand miles of America, stretched out even as far as his eyes could see. The wind blew across his face as he hovered in the air, whipping at his ears. He listened closer, and sounds from the Earth below began to become clear: the engines of trucks downshifting as they climbed up and down the mountain passes, grumbling their discomfort. The sound of breeze flowing through the aspen trees, rustling their leaves. A freight train laboring as it struggled its way through the mountains. The screech of a bobcat; the howl of a coyote. But most apparent of all were the voices of the people; even there, above the sharp peaks, they were there. Climbers, rangers, ranchers, drivers. From four miles up, Clark could hear every conversation for almost ten miles around. People with lives all their own – people who might one day need help. People who needed hope.

I will do the best I can for them. But right now, the best thing I can do is be Clark Kent.

"I'm not ready for this yet."

Jonathan and Martha looked at their son, perplexed. "What do you mean, Clark?"

Clark sighed, a sigh his mother knew well. It was his way of expressing his disappointment in himself – and was usually her cue to come to his rescue for a change. "I feel like such a fink, but…I don't think I'm ready for this much responsibility just yet. There's still plenty I want to do before I take on the responsibility of saving the world in front of the cameras." He chuckled at himself. "I mean, I'm only twenty years old. Most kids my age are still getting wasted at frat parties and stressing out over college exams – I really don't think I'm ready to be a superpowered celebrity just yet." Clark's eyes lifted from the floor to meet those of his parents. "I'm sorry, guys. You must think I'm just a fink, or something – and to tell you the truth, I'm not sure I blame you."

To Clark's surprise, his parents smiled at him. His mother took his hand in hers. "That is, perhaps, one of the wisest things I've ever heard you say – and I've heard you say quite a few."

Jonathan patted his son on the shoulder. "Son, one of the toughest things about having power – of any sort – is making sure you're ready to use it. If you don't feel ready for this, there's probably a damn good reason – and it means that when you do feel ready, you'll be even better at it. Because you'll be prepared.

"I never got the chance to do quite what I wanted to with my life, Clark. I had to stay here on the farm to help out my father. Now, looking back, there aren't many things I'd do differently – but I'd never want to put you in a place where it feels like I'm forcing you into something you don't want to do. Your life will always be your own, Clark – it was the day you dropped into our lives, and it'll still be long after we're gone."

For a second, it felt to Clark like someone had injected liquid kryptonite into his veins. His father's mention of his own mortality in such a direct manner has shocked him straight to his core. I've never heard Pa talk like that before.

For better or worse, neither of his parents noticed his sudden freeze; instead, they came in and closed around him for a full-family hug. As they held him close, Clark felt his trepidation melt away; no matter how old he was, the feel of his parents' arms around him always made him feel better.

I'm just being paranoid – just like always. "Stupid Clark Kent, always too worried about everybody else and never enough about himself."

Clark smiled as he remembered the words one of his oldest friends had once said to him – a smile which quickly turned into a deepening realization of how far apart he'd grown from the boy who had once been his best friend in the whole world.

Martha Kent looked up at her son – she knew something was on his mind. "Clark, honey? What's wrong?"

Her son smiled back at her. "It's nothing. Just…I just thought of something that made me think about Pete."

Martha glanced over at her husband, who gave her a familiar look – his I'll handle this one look. "Son," he said, "have you ever considered being the one to make the first move?"

Clark shook his head, a look of sadness sliding over his face. "Pete left because he didn't feel comfortable around me. I don't want to make him feel uncomfortable again. I figure he'll let me know if he's ever ready to be my friend again."

Jonathan laid his hand on his son's shoulder, forcing Clark to make eye contact with his father. "Pete didn't leave because he wasn't your friend anymore – he left because he cared about your well being."

Martha took up the reins of the conversation. "He gave up on everything he had ever known in order to protect your secret. I'd say that's the actions of a true friend if anything is."

"Go see him. I bet it'll make you both feel better."

Clark looked at his parents before glancing over at the kitchen clock. They were right; they usually are. "I'll be back by dinner."

His mother smiled at him. "No rush."