Earth 3 (DC) 36 years ago
For more than four weeks, Clark had been diligently assisting the attorney, whose name he discovered was Violet . Their collaboration was seamless, often working shoulder to shoulder. However, the time had come to address the issue of Clark's compensation, and it was no simple matter. Clark didn't want to get paid, he only wanted to stop the corruption, but Violet had insisted and now without a bank account, social security number, or even a permanent address, the process of paying him was bound to be complex and raise questions.
In the days that followed, Clark worked out where the repository of official records were located. Under the veil of night, he infiltrated the archive, a fortress of files and documents. With a blend of cunning and caution, he forged a social security number for himself, silently expressing his gratitude for the era's reliance on paper trails over digital footprints.
The following morning, Clark presented the completed paperwork to Violet . Her lips curved into a smile as she glanced over the form. "At last," she began, her tone shifting to one of mild surprise, "your address is in Smallville?" The question hung in the air, an unintended challenge to Clark's fabricated reality.
The address field bore the familiar script of his hometown—Smallville—a reflexive scribble that now threatened to unravel his carefully constructed facade. Panic surged through Clark's veins, his thoughts racing like a tempest. "Why did I write that? How can I justify it? Does my childhood home exist in this world? Are my parents here?" The questions battered his resolve, demanding immediate answers.
Yet, before he could find out, he needed to quell Violet's curiosity. With a practiced smile that masked his turmoil within, he offered a placating explanation. "My current residence is just a stopgap," he assured her. "I need to step out for a bit—I have an errand to attend to." With those words, he pivoted on his heel and departed, leaving a trail of bewilderment in his wake as Violet processed his hasty retreat.
The instant Clark vanished from sight, he soared into the heavens, propelled by an urgency that transcended mere speed. Without thinking he accelerated to his utmost velocity, the force of his passage shattering windows in a cacophony of breaking glass as he breached the sound barrier. The world blurred into streaks of colour as he raced towards the place where Smallville lay nestled in his memories.
In mere moments, he arrived above the familiar landscape, decelerating to subsonic speeds to avoid further disruption. His eyes scanned the terrain, seeking the cornerstone of his past. His heart, a drumbeat of anticipation, skipped a beat as he spotted it—his childhood home. It stood there, serene and untouched by time, a portrait of tranquillity amidst the chaos of his life.
Clark hovered, a silent sentinel, as he absorbed the sight. The home, with its weathered shingles and the porch swing gently swaying in the breeze, was a testament to a simpler time. It was a stark contrast to the maelstrom of emotions that had propelled him across the skies. For a fleeting moment, his heart ceased its frantic rhythm, and he was enveloped in a peace that he hadn't felt in ages.
Clark tempered his expectations as he descended from the sky, a knot of apprehension tightening in his chest. The sight of an unfamiliar vehicle parked outside the Kent farmhouse was jarring—a harbinger of change. With each step towards the house, his resolve wavered, but determination spurred him forward.
He reached the door, his hand hovering momentarily before he mustered the courage to part the fly net. The rhythmic knocking seemed to echo through the stillness, a stark contrast to the thunderous beating of his heart that drowned out all else. Time stretched, each second a lifetime of anticipation, until the sound of the door handle broke the silence.
The door swung open, revealing a woman whose features bore no trace of familiarity. A wave of disappointment crashed over Clark, his hopes dashed in the span of a breath. Yet, he stood tall, the very image of composure, even as his heart mourned the family he had not found.
Clark knew he had to make a swift exit, to find solitude and space to process the overwhelming emotions. Yet, the prospect of departing without a word was at odds with the values instilled in him. His parents had taught him the importance of courtesy, and he couldn't simply disregard that upbringing.
"Good morning, ma'am," Clark greeted the woman with a polite smile, grasping for a plausible reason to be at the doorstep. "I was wondering if you might have any work available on the farm?" The confusion was evident on the lady's face as she replied with a light chuckle, "Oh, I wouldn't know, I don't live here."
She turned and called into the house, her voice carrying a mix of curiosity and amusement. "Martha, there's a gentleman here asking about farm work!"
The mention of the name 'Martha' sent a jolt through Clark. Could it be? His heart, which had sunk moments ago, now fluttered with a cautious hope. As he waited for the response, he prepared himself for whatever outcome awaited.
As the door swung open further, Clark's world tilted on its axis. There, framed by the doorway, stood his mother—youthful and vibrant, a vision from a bygone era. His knees buckled, a wave of dizziness threatening to overwhelm him. "Mr, are you alright?" The concern in her voice snapped him back to reality, and he realized she had been speaking to him for some time.
"Y-yes," he stammered, regaining his composure. "Sorry, I was just... lost in thought." Martha's smile was warm and forgiving. "It's alright. My husband isn't here at the moment; he's away until Friday. Could you come back then? I'm not sure about any available work, but Jonathan might have a few days' work for you."
Clark managed a nod, his throat tight with emotion. "T-thank you, I'll return on Friday." Her next question caught him off guard. "May I have your name?" It was a simple inquiry, yet it laid bare the absurdity of his situation. To her, he was a stranger. "Clark," he whispered, the name feeling foreign on his lips. "I'll be back Friday."
With a respectful nod, Clark retreated, his haste betraying him as he stumbled, nearly falling. He chastised himself internally—what a clumsy fool he must seem. Yet, as he regained his balance and walked away, his mind was already racing with the implications of this surreal encounter.
Suspended high above the clouds, Clark found solace in the solitude of the sky. Here, amidst the tranquillity of the stratosphere, his thoughts could soar. The revelation that his parents were alive was nothing short of miraculous, yet it was laced with the bitter realization that they were strangers to him. How could he bridge the chasm of years and explain his presence? Was there already a version of him on this Earth?
The following day, Clark attempted to immerse himself in his work, but his concentration was fractured, his thoughts incessantly drifting to the couple in Smallville. With each tick of the clock, the anticipation built—two days remained until Friday, two days until he faced the his parents.
"Clark, Clark, CLARK!" The urgency in Violet 's voice cut through the fog of his daydreams. Looking up, Clark met her gaze, a blend of confusion and concern etched on her face. "Sorry," he offered a sheepish apology, his thoughts still miles away.
"Are you alright?" she asked, her brow furrowed. Clark nodded, grounding himself back in the present. "Go on, I'm listening," he assured her.
Violet leaned in, her voice low but intense. "This situation is even more complex than we initially thought. We've uncovered a pattern: they're deliberately escalating crime rates to devalue the neighbourhood. Then, they swoop in to purchase buildings and complexes at rock-bottom prices. After making life unbearable for the residents, forcing them to leave, they renovate the properties and sell them for a substantial profit."
Clark absorbed the information, his mind already racing with the implications. "But we're still in the dark about the key players. For the past week, we've hit a dead end," Violet continued, her frustration palpable. "I propose a split approach today—you take 21st on South, and I'll cover 23rd. With luck, we might pick up on something we've missed."
Over their morning coffee, they hashed out the finer points of their plan and engaged in light-hearted banter, a brief respite from the gravity of their work. As they rose to leave, Clark felt Violet 's hand on his. The unexpected touch sent a jolt through him, a warm current that seemed to buzz beneath his skin.
He turned to face her, their eyes locking for a moment. "Be careful," she whispered, pulling him into an embrace. Clark was enveloped in her scent, the softness of her hair brushing against his cheek. He harboured feelings for Violet , more than he cared to admit. "You be careful too," he responded, his voice steady despite the turmoil within.
As they parted, Clark carried with him the weight of their mission and the warmth of their fleeting connection, stepping out into the day with a renewed sense of purpose.
An hour had passed since Clark's encounter with Violet , and he found himself stationed outside a building that was a suspected hub of criminal activity. Despite the gravity of his surroundings, his mind was adrift, replaying the morning's embrace, the warmth of Violet 's touch still lingering like a ghost on his skin.
Suddenly, his reverie was interrupted by a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision—two men, lurking in the shadows. Clark's instincts kicked in, and with a discreet glance, he activated his x-ray vision. The skeletal outlines of the men came into sharp relief against the backdrop of the building's dense structure, and there, tucked away in their clothing, were the unmistakable shapes of firearms.
The realization hit him with the weight of lead—these were no ordinary loiterers; they were armed and potentially dangerous. Clark's senses heightened, his every muscle tensed for action. He knew he had to tread carefully; any misstep could escalate the situation.
Clark turned and started to walk away, his superhearing finely tuned to the low murmurs of the two men tailing him. He wove through the streets with deliberate care, ensuring they remained on his trail. Then, with a swift pivot, he ducked into a deserted alley and took flight, soaring into the air just as the two men rounded the corner. Their immediate frustration at losing him was palpable; they scurried through the alley, rattling doorknobs and peering into shadows. The alley, however, was a dead end, and their confusion hung in the air like a thick fog. After a fruitless search, they turned back, retracing their steps with evident frustration.
Clark, meanwhile, hovered above, a silent sentinel in the sky. He was careful to maintain a height that rendered him invisible to the naked eye. The men made several stops, each time exchanging hefty wads of cash for small, nondescript packages—transactions Clark deduced were drug deals. With each exchange, his resolve to uncover their network strengthened.
Finally, after a series of meandering detours, the men approached a nondescript building. Its facade gave away nothing of the illicit activities Clark suspected lurked within. He watched as they slipped inside, the door closing with a finality that spoke of secrets and shadows. Clark knew this was just the beginning; the real investigation was about to unfold.
Clark's descent onto the rooftop was silent, a shadow against the dusk. The door before him, a barrier to his quest, was no match for his strength; the handle snapped off effortlessly in his grasp. Opting for stealth, he levitated down the stairwell, avoiding the telltale creaks of aged wood that might betray his presence.
His senses, finely tuned instruments of vigilance, guided him through the building's arteries. Down he went, flight after flight, until he reached the epicenter of the clandestine activity. His ears, sharper than any surveillance device, picked up the unmistakable cadence of a criminal transaction. The plot was clear—an orchestrated attack to instil terror among the innocent. Clark's resolve hardened; violence would not come to pass on his watch.
An abandoned glass, discarded and forgotten, became an instrument in Clark's hands. With a calculated throw, it shattered against a door, the sound a siren to the unsuspecting. As two armed figures emerged, weapons drawn, Clark unleashed his velocity, a blur to the human eye.
He darted past the gunmen, infiltrating the den, the only evidence of his presses the breeze in his wake. The tableau before him was damning—a cache of arms and illicit substances laid bare. With precision, he whisked the contraband to the rooftop in a series of swift excursions. The men, now disarmed and bewildered, were left to grapple with their sudden disarmament.
Amidst the ensuing chaos, Clark's smile was a private victory. The materials, now piled high beside him, were destined for a new location—the steps of the local police station.
Friday had finally come. Clark stood outside the family home, frozen for a good five minutes, constantly changing his mind about whether to knock or leave. Before he could make that decision, the door opened. Martha stood before him, her eyes a mix of surprise and warmth. "Clark, won't you come in?" she said, her voice soft. "Johanna is just feeding the cows; he'll be back soon." Clark took a deep breath and followed her inside. The familiar scent of the old wooden floors enveloped him. He glanced around, noticing the absence of children's laughter. The walls were adorned with photo frames, capturing moments frozen in time. His mother looked younger than he had ever seen her. The past and present collided, and Clark wondered what other secrets this house held. As Martha disappeared into the kitchen, Clark sank into the worn armchair, the weight of memories settling around him like dust. The ticking clock on the mantelpiece seemed to echo the rhythm of his heartbeat. He was home, yet a stranger in place. The coffee arrived, its warmth seeping through the porcelain cup, and Clark took a sip, savouring the bitter-sweetness. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant lowing of cows.
As Clark and Martha engaged in casual conversation, the familiarity of her mannerisms—her distinctive laugh, the cadence of her speech—resonated with him. It was undeniably his mother, yet the stark reality that she did not recognize him was a silent dagger to his heart.
In a moment of unguarded emotion, the words tumbled out of him, "I'm your son." Martha, mid-motion to sip her coffee, froze. The cup trembled in her hand, her eyes mirroring the turmoil of confusion. "What?" she managed to utter, her voice a whisper of disbelief.
Clark realized there was no retracting his declaration. With a steadying breath, he reaffirmed, "I'm your son." The cup clattered onto the table, coffee spilling over the edge like a miniature waterfall. "You're mistaken, we don't have any children, it's impossible," Martha responded, her voice laced with a quiet sadness.
But Clark was resolute, cutting across her denial. "Yes, I know you can't have children; the doctors couldn't help. But I am your son, not by birth, but by adoption." The words hung heavy in the air.
Martha remained still, a statue in a tableau of disbelief. "H-how do you know that? No one knows that," she breathed out, her gaze piercing into Clark's, desperate for an answer. The tension in the room was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to press against the walls.
Clark's admission had been abrupt, too much to digest. "I know because that's what my parents—your counterparts—told me when I was mature enough to understand," he explained, his voice a steady beacon in the storm of emotions. "I'm from another world," he added, watching as Martha's eyes widened, a cocktail of shock and fear clouding her features.
Realizing his approach was too jarring, Clark softened his tone. "Let's start over," he suggested, his voice a soothing balm. As he recounted memories of Martha and Jonathan, the atmosphere began to shift. With each shared recollection, Martha's demeanour softened, especially when Clark recounted her comforting words during a childhood altercation with a boy named Paul at school.
The more Clark spoke, the more the incredulity in Martha's eyes gave way to a dawning recognition, not of Clark himself, but of the love and values she held dear. The fear ebbed away, replaced by a cautious curiosity, as if the pieces of a cosmic puzzle were slowly falling into place.
Martha's voice broke the silence "My mother told me those exact words," she said, a flush of life returning to her cheeks. It was then that Jonathan entered, and Clark braced himself for the confrontation. His father's youthful appearance struck him—a stark reminder of the years lost. A tear threatened to escape Clark's eye, but he held it back.
Jonathan's initial anger was palpable, his instinct to protect his home driving him to threaten Clark with the authorities, Clark knew well his father's stubbornness. Yet, as the hour passed, his demeanour softened, the edges of his fury dulling as he listened to Clark's improbable tale. By evening, both Martha and Jonathan were tentatively accepting of the extraordinary claim. Clark, sensing their need for space, left them with a contact number—the only one he had, belonging to Violet 's office.
The next day, Clark recounted his experience to Violet , omitting the otherworldly details. She assumed the Kents were his biological parents, and Clark chose not to correct her misunderstanding. Violet was preoccupied with a court appearance, aiming to file legal documents related to the building Clark had uncovered. As he escorted her to her car, they shared a tender embrace and a parting peck on the cheek—a simple gesture laden with unspoken emotion and the promise of support in the challenges ahead.
As Violet 's smile faded into the rearview mirror and the engine hummed to life, Clark's superhuman senses detected the ominous click of a mechanism out of place. Time seemed to dilate around him, each second stretching into infinity as he peered beneath the car seat with his x-ray vision. There it was—a bomb, its casing beginning to fracture, a silent countdown to devastation.
Panic clawed at Clark's mind, his adrenaline surging, propelling his abilities beyond their previous limits. Time seemed to actually stop as he watched, almost detached, as fissures in the bomb's shell widened, releasing volatile gases that ignited upon contact with the air.
A dilemma presented itself—speed was his ally, yet it was also a deadly force. To move Violet at such velocity would be to subject her to forces her body could not withstand. The acceleration alone could be lethal.
In that critical sliver of time, Clark's mind raced with superhuman clarity. He knew he couldn't risk moving Violet at such speeds, but he could alter the car's position. With a force that could reshape metal, he tore the door from its hinges, exposing Violet to the open air. Next, he dismantled the driver's side—wheel arch, pedals, and suspension—rendering the vehicle inoperable.
The explosion's growth was relentless, a burgeoning beast of fire and force. In a final, decisive act, Clark severed the seatbelt that bound Violet to her potential tomb. He shoved the car as hard as he could, more mettle buckling as he did so. With the car careening sideways, Violet was momentarily suspended in mid-air, a surreal pause in the chaos. Clark's super speed waned, complicating his rescue. The vehicle, now a projectile, threatened further harm, it was traveling at such speed Clark had to intercepted it first, he halting its deadly trajectory. He scanned the area—no bystanders were in danger he could allow the bomb to explode where he left it, allowing him to focus solely on Violet , but he speed had dropped to well below his norm.
Despite his best efforts, Violet had collided with the ground, her body rolling with the momentum of the fall. Clark's heart raced as he witnessed her plight, his adrenaline surging anew. Then, as if time itself yielded to his will, his speed surged to its previous newfound level, and the world slowed to a near-standstill. In an instant, he was by her side, his palm upturned to cradle her as she continued rolling into his embrace.
Violet was in his arms, bloodied and battered, her injuries evident even to the naked eye. A swift x-ray confirmed his fears—two broken bones amidst the lacerations. Yet, she was alive, a testament to Clark's quick action. With Violet secure, he dashed to the nearest hospital, a blur of urgency and care. Her survival was his only priority, and he would not falter in delivering her to safety.
Present Day…
"And what happened next" spurted out Bulma. "Clark? Hello? Earth to Clark". Clark was looking directly forward, his eyes locked on the sight before him. Bulma followed his gaze, and there, hovering in front of the group of refugees, were five aliens. Their presence was as silent as it was imposing, their forms a stark contrast to the weary travellers who had made camp just a few hours prior.
The journey had been long, but now, with Gotham's skyline barely a day's travel away, it felt like they were nearing the end. The city, like many others, had been left untouched for some unknown reason.
As the last light of day gave way to the encroaching darkness, the refugees gathered closer, their faces a mix of fear and hope. The aliens, seemed almost otherworldly.
Clark, ever the sentinel, took a cautious step forward. The refugees looked to him, their eyes reflecting the firelight. Bulma, with her keen scientific mind, readied her equipment, knowing that whatever happened next could help them in the future.
The spokesperson for the aliens spoke with a tone of intrigue, "That's some mighty interesting tech you have there. I think we will take it." In a blur of motion, the speaking alien vanished, only to reappear instantaneously in front of Bulma. The suddenness of the movement left a ripple in the air, a testament to the alien's advanced capabilities.
"We have been watching you for some time," the alien continued, its voice a mixture of curiosity and command. "How did you make that food and supplies appear out of nowhere? I know of only one other person who has similar tech, and we haven't been able to reproduce it." The alien's eyes narrowed slightly, a glint of recognition—or perhaps warning—flashing within. "He warned us that some people may appear, to threaten us, and they may have unusual technology."
With a deliberate motion, the alien placed its hand on Bulma's arm. The touch was light but firm, conveying an unspoken ultimatum. "Now you're coming with us."
Bulma, taken aback by the sudden confrontation, felt a surge of adrenaline. Her mind raced, weighing her options. Clark, who had been observing the exchange, stepped forward. His stance was calm but assertive, the embodiment of quiet strength.
"GET YOUR HANDS OFF OF HER!" The words erupted from Clark in a deep, resonant growl that surprised even himself. The alien's gaze shifted to Clark. A moment of silence hung in the night air, a brief standstill that felt like an eternity. The refugees watched, their breaths caught in their throats, as two worlds teetered on the edge of conflict.
"Get lost, you're just an ant; you're just in the way," the alien retorted dismissively, swatting his arm at Clark, expecting to send him to his demise. But Clark was no ordinary man. He put out his hand and held the alien's arm firmly, not letting go. "I said let her go," he demanded.
With a swift motion, Clark pulled the alien towards him and delivered a powerful uppercut. The sound was a thunderous clap, echoing through the camp as his hand met the alien's chin. The force sent the alien flying backward, crashing into a nearby tree with such impact that it split in half.
The refugees gasped, their eyes wide with shock and awe. The alien, now lying dazed among the shattered remains of the tree, was a clear sign that Clark was not one to be underestimated. His actions spoke louder than any words could, a declaration of his resolve to protect and defend.
Bulma, now released from the alien's grasp, stepped back, her eyes fixed on Clark with a mixture of gratitude and newfound respect. The tension in the air began to dissipate, replaced by a sense of cautious optimism.
The other four aliens watched in disbelief, their expressions shifting from shock to amusement. One of them stepped forward, a mischievous glint in its eyes. "And we thought we wouldn't be able to have any fun on this planet."