Authors Note:
Sorry for the lateness of this chapter I have not been very well.
However the next chapter should still come out on Friday so I should be up to date once again by then.
Thank you to the new followers they are much appreciated and I hope you enjoy this chapter.
"Years?" The trio whispered in unison, struggling to grasp the revelation. It seemed impossible; it felt like only a day had passed.
Bulma, her curiosity piqued by the enigma, pressed for clarity. "How long, precisely?"
Clark's response was a mere whisper, "Thirty-six years." A heavy silence fell. Bulma and Bruce were momentarily lost in a sea of implications, their minds racing. Goku, however, stood and approached Clark, offering a comforting embrace. "Are you alright?" he asked, empathizing with the familiar pang of separation from loved ones.
"Actually, yes. Life was quite pleasant up until last month. But then, everything turned on its head, and I've been lending a hand where I can."
Bruce, incredulous, interjected, "Wait a minute, that would put you in your late fifties, yet you don't appear a day over thirty."
Clark chuckled softly. "Well, I'm not exactly sure of my age myself. We departed in the heat of summer and I arrived amidst the chill of winter. Tell you what, let's take a moment to rest, and I'll share the whole story."
Approximately 36 years prior...
Overwhelmed by a surge of emotion, Clark knew he had to act. Yielding to his instincts, he darted forward at an incredible speed, diving into the portal. But immediately, something was amiss. Agony and vertigo seized him; he reemerged from the portal as quickly as he had entered, but disorientation clouded his senses. Confusion reigned, and then, with a crash, he burst through a wall and crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
When Clark regained consciousness, darkness enveloped him. The duration of his blackout was a mystery, and solitude was his only companion. Rising to his feet, he felt the dust cascade off his body, and he swayed unsteadily. Depleted of energy, he made his way through the newly formed doorway-shaped breach in the wall and stepped outside. Gazing upward, he saw the moon and a smattering of stars. In the absence of the sun, the air around him was frigid, biting like a winter's chill. It seeped into his bones, numbing his skin and leaving frosty trails with each breath.
He lurched into the streets, where a sense of unfamiliarity struck him. The buildings appeared new yet oddly out of place. Venturing further, his eyes fell upon an antique vehicle. It was a Ford F-Series, unmistakably a first-generation model, identical to the old family truck his father once drove.
He gazed at the truck in awe. Immaculate, devoid of rust, and in perfect condition, it was clear that someone had cherished this vehicle and meticulously cared for it. The sight stirred a sense of nostalgia deep within Clark. Here was a relic from a bygone era, a time when memories were etched into metal and leather, when the world moved at a different pace. The Ford F-Series stood as a testament to endurance, a survivor of decades, its lines and curves whispering stories of long-forgotten road trips, laughter, and perhaps a few tears.
Clark's fingers traced the smooth contours of the hood, marvelling at the craftsmanship. How many sunrises had this truck witnessed? How many miles had it faithfully carried its passengers, the wind whistling through open windows, radio tunes fading in and out? It was as if time had paused for this vehicle, preserving it in a bubble of perfection. The chrome accents gleamed, and the tires, though not brand new, held their shape—a testament to quality engineering.
He wondered about the person who had owned it. Was it a farmer, hauling produce to market? A family embarking on cross-country adventures? Or perhaps a solitary soul seeking solace on winding backroads? Whoever they were, they had left their mark on this machine, an indelible imprint that transcended the years. Clark's heart swelled with a mix of reverence and curiosity. How had this truck survived the ravages of time? What stories did it carry in its metal heart?
As he continued through the unfamiliar landscape, the Ford F-Series remained etched in his mind. It was more than a vehicle; it was a bridge to the past, a tangible link to a world he had left behind. And in that moment, Clark thought of his father—the man who had owned an identical truck on their family farm. His dad's weathered hands gripping the steering wheel, the smell of freshly tilled soil lingering in the cab, and the shared laughter as they bounced along dirt roads. The memories flooded back, and Clark felt his knees buckle.
"You're under arrest," announced one of the officers, breaking through Clark's reverie. So engrossed was he in his thoughts that the arrival of the police car had gone unnoticed. "Hands above your head, NOW!" the policeman commanded. Clark complied, confusion etched on his face. "What have I done?" he inquired.
"You're well aware you've left the scene of an accident," the officer retorted as he secured the handcuffs. One hand on the cuffs and the other on Clark's shoulder, the officer steered him towards the police car. As they neared the vehicle, Clark's eyes widened in disbelief. The police car, a model from the 1950s, appeared brand new. "What on earth is going on?" he wondered silently.
The drive to the police station was a quiet one. Clark sat in silence, taking in the car's pristine condition, mirroring that of the truck. How could this be? As the town passed by the window, Clark's bewilderment grew with each unfamiliar sight. He struggled to piece together the events that had led him here, his exhaustion only muddying his thoughts further.
The interior of the police car was a capsule of the past, perfectly preserved. The seats, upholstered in a rich, red fabric, were firm yet comfortable, without a single tear or sign of wear. The dashboard, a glossy expanse of black and chrome, housed dials and switches that gleamed under the streetlights. Even the air inside the car carried the distinct scent of newness, a blend of fresh leather and polished metal, a fragrance that seemed to have defied the decades.
Then there was the officers, clad in their vintage uniforms, looked like actors on a period film set.
Outside, the town was a living museum. The townspeople, were adorned in styles of the '50s—men in fedoras and suspenders, women in flared skirts and scarves. Neon signs buzzed above diners, and the music drifting from open windows was a melody of yesteryears. It was as if Clark had stepped into a slice of history, a world untouched by the passage of time.
Clark moved mechanically, his mind still grappling with the surreal events as he was ushered into the cell. Inside, two other men were already present, their dishevelled appearances and the pungent aroma of alcohol indicating a night of excess. They had clearly been in a scuffle; bruises and torn clothing bore silent testimony to their brawl. The larger of the two, with a build like a heavyweight boxer, gave Clark a once-over, sizing him up with a bleary-eyed stare.
Unperturbed, Clark found a spot in the far corner and settled down, his back against the cold, unforgiving wall. As he sat there, the reality of his predicament began to sink in. How had he ended up in this mess? His thoughts raced, piecing together the chain of events that led to his arrest. One thing was certain in his mind—he had experienced the confines of a prison before, and he was resolute. He wouldn't let history repeat itself; he wouldn't be caged again. Determination set in his jaw, Clark began to plan his next move, even as the cell's heavy door clanged shut, echoing his resolve.
Exhaustion claimed Clark swiftly, dragging him into a deep slumber almost as soon as he lay on the cold, hard bench of the cell. He was adrift in a void where time and reality blurred until a slender beam of sunlight, a golden thread through the high window, caressed his skin. It was a lifeline, a subtle infusion of energy that began to seep into his very cells, rekindling his strength with its warm embrace. He lay there, motionless, basking in the meagre yet potent rays, feeling the slow resurgence of power within.
A clatter stirred him from his solar meditation. Blinking his eyes open, he saw a different officer standing at the door, keys jangling in hand. "Alright, you two, don't let me catch you again. Now scram," the officer grumbled, swinging the cell door wide open. The other occupants shuffled out, leaving Clark alone with the growing light. The door clanged shut, the lock clicked, and the officer's footsteps receded down the hall.
Clark remained motionless alone with his thoughts, allowing the sunlight to continue its restorative work. With each passing moment, the light grew stronger, and with it, Clark's vitality. He knew he needed to plan his next move, but for now, he was content to lie there, feeling the gradual return of his superhuman abilities as the sun climbed higher in the sky.
Clark lay on the hard bench, his mind racing with possibilities. Escape was within reach; soon, he would have enough strength to bend the bars and burst forth at superspeed. But was that the right choice? Such an action could trigger a manhunt, complicating his situation further. No, he needed to gather more information about this world first, to understand the rules of this strange new reality.
That was the key—information. He closed his eyes and concentrated, extending the reach of his superhearing. The cacophony of the outside world—the hum of cars, the murmur of the town—faded into the background as he honed in on the voices within the station. He sifted through the layers of sound, isolating snippets of conversation from the officers. Their casual banter, the clack of typewriters, the ring of telephones—all painted a picture of a small-town police force, likely no more than 20 officers in total.
The police station exuded a sense of quiet efficiency, a stark contrast to the frenetic energy of a city precinct. This realization instilled a sense of tranquillity in Clark. Perhaps, within this small town's confines, he could uncover the answers he desperately needed.
His attention was suddenly captured by a snippet of conversation that floated to him. "What about the man brought in last night? The one suspected of hit-and-run, caught leaving an accident scene?" one officer queried.
"We've just received the fire department's report. They've secured the scene, and no vehicle was found," another officer responded, flipping through the pages of the report. "In fact, there's nothing that could have caused that kind of damage—no evidence of explosives, no clue what actually happened." With a mix of frustration and bewilderment, he slammed the file shut. "I give up. For all I know, it could have been a meteor. We'll have to interrogate him, see if he slips up."
"That's if he's even involved," a third voice chimed in. "He looked sick when he was arrested, and he seemed utterly confused. Didn't even resist."
Clark's superhearing allowed him to track their approach, their footsteps echoing in the corridor. He sensed they were nearing his cell, their conversation growing louder. With a subtle shift, he opened his eyes, sat up straight, and braced himself for the impending interaction. The officers' voices were now clear, their presence imminent. Clark prepared to face them, his mind alert and ready to navigate the delicate situation.
Present Day...
A thunderous BOOM reverberated through the room, startling everyone within. Bulma couldn't suppress a shriek as the walls trembled and dust motes danced in the air. A tense silence followed, the echo of the blast hanging heavy like a curtain. After a heartbeat, Clark's voice cut through the stillness, steady and reassuring. "It's okay," he said. "That's probably one of the gas mains exploding. With all the fires around, it's a common occurrence. As soon as it's daylight, we'll be ready to leave."
Bulma, still rattled, found her voice. "Can you continue the story?" she asked, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and anticipation. "It helps me focus on something else than the situation we're in."
Clark nodded, the faintest smile gracing his lips as he recognized the need for distraction amidst chaos. "Of course," he replied, clearing his throat. "Where was I? Ah, yes..."
Approximately 36 years earlier...
Clark found himself seated in the interrogation room, which felt intentionally dreary and unwelcoming. The stark fluorescent light flickered above, casting long shadows across the table and giving the officers opposite him an almost sinister appearance. He was convinced that the oppressive atmosphere was a calculated part of the intimidation tactic.
The two officers fired off a barrage of questions, their expressions stern and probing. Clark remained steadfast to his narrative, recounting the events as he remembered them. He had been strolling along, lost in thought, when a deafening explosion knocked him off his feet. Disoriented and confused, he had continued on his way, the darkness veiling any clue as to what had transpired.
The officers' scepticism was palpable, their eyes narrowing with each answer Clark provided. Yet, despite their doubts, they seemed to reach the limits of their inquiry. After what felt like an eternity but was only half an hour, the detective finally relented. "Alright, you're free to go," he declared, his tone conveying a mix of frustration and resignation.
Stepping out of the police station, Clark was greeted by the hustle and bustle of the town's daily life. People bustled by, wrapped in heavy coats, their breath visible in the crisp winter air. He noticed the delicate frost patterns on the windows and the soft blanket of snow covering the ground. It was a picturesque scene, one that belied the turmoil of his recent experiences. "It must be winter," he thought, a chill running down his spine that had little to do with the temperature. The world around him was familiar yet foreign, a puzzle he was determined to solve.
Realizing he needed assistance, Clark pondered the likelihood that his friends had traversed the portal during the night. But where could they possibly be? With a sense of urgency, he tapped into his super speed and canvassed the town meticulously, scouring every street and alley for any sign of them, but his search was fruitless. "Where could they be?" he muttered to himself, feeling a twinge of desperation.
He was at a loss, his mind racing for solutions. To understand this world, he needed information, and a library would be the key. He recalled spotting one during his frantic search for his friends. Under normal circumstances, entry would require identification or a library card, but such mundane obstacles were trivial for someone with his abilities. In a blink, he was inside, the library's hushed corridors welcoming him.
The library was serene, a haven for knowledge, and Clark took full advantage of the quietude. He moved between the shelves, his eyes flickering over pages at a speed that rendered him invisible to any casual observer. Book after book, he absorbed centuries of history, his super speed proving to be an invaluable asset.
Yet, as he delved deeper into the records, a pattern emerged that piqued his curiosity. Every major event he knew of was documented: the World Wars, the rise and fall of empires, the milestones of human achievement. However, there was a conspicuous absence of literature beyond the 1950s. It was as if history had been redacted, a deliberate concealment of the subsequent decades. What secrets lay hidden in the missing years?
Determined to uncover the truth, Clark knew he needed access to a more extensive repository of knowledge. Gotham City, with its vast libraries and archives, sprang to mind. If answers were to be found, Gotham would be the place to start. With a new destination in mind, he prepared to embark on the next leg of his journey, the mystery of this world beckoning him onward.
Present Day...
Bruce leaned forward, his brow furrowed with concern. "So, did you manage to uncover why history seemed hidden?" he inquired, the weight of their predicament evident in his voice. "Such information could be invaluable to us."
Clark shifted uncomfortably, his gaze meeting Bruce's. "Well, sort of," he began hesitantly. "It turns out the history wasn't redacted—it simply hadn't occurred yet."
Bulma's eyes widened as realization dawned upon her. "Of course!" she exclaimed, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. "The pristine, yet outdated cars and towns, the jarring sensation as we passed through the portal, the fact that you've been here for 36 years while for us it's only been a day. Oh no!" Her face drained of colour, and she began to pace the room, her mind racing.
Bruce rose and gently grasped her shoulders, steadying her. "What is it? What's wrong?" he asked, his voice a calm anchor in the storm of her thoughts.
"It's dire, very dire," Bulma replied, her voice tinged with panic. "This world is out of sync with our own. It was the past for Clark when he arrived—the '50s. Now it's the late '80s. Time here is accelerating at an alarming rate. That's why the portal's code seemed flawless. It opened for the duration we intended, but due to the rapid passage of time on this side, it closed almost instantaneously on ours. Does that mean the portal was open for years over here?" She paused, her mind grappling with the implications. "I'm not sure, but that temporal dissonance is likely why we felt so ill, our bodies shocked by the shift to a different relative time."
Continuing her train of thought, Bulma faced them all, her expression grave. "If 36 years here equates to just 24 hours for us, that means Dr. Gero has had centuries to set his plans in motion." The gravity of the situation hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. "We might be too late to stop him now."