Chapter 2: Origins Part 2.
The bench creaked under the shifting weight of three kids who had nothing in common except the stubborn thread of family and friendship that refused to snap.
Kevin leaned back, hoodie pulled low, arms folded behind his head like the world was already boring him. He watched the street with lazy, half-lidded eyes, the morning sun catching the scar on his eyebrow and turning it silver. Inside, he felt the familiar, quiet hum of contentment: here, on this bench, with these two idiots, he didn't have to be the kid whose dad never came home. He could just be.
Gwen sat ramrod straight, legs crossed at the ankle, paperback balanced on her knee. The book was some thick fantasy novel with a dragon on the cover, but the words kept swimming. Every electronic *beep-boop-pow* from Ben's direction stabbed straight into her concentration. Irritation prickled under her skin like static, hot and itchy. She hated losing focus. She hated noise. She hated that Ben could turn even a quiet bus stop into a personal arcade.
Ben was hunched forward, elbows on his knees, Game Boy clutched like a holy relic. His tongue poked out the corner of his mouth, eyes wide and glassy with single-minded obsession. Sumo Slammer Revolution blared tinny fight music and over-the-top announcer shouts. He had died to the same boss seventy-three times this week, and each death carved a little deeper into his pride. His thumbs hammered the buttons in frantic rhythm—A, B, left, right, A-A-B—every muscle coiled, breath held. Hope and desperation wrestled in his chest; one more try, just one more, and he'd finally taste victory.
"Ooooh!" he gasped as his character landed a combo. "Ahhh, yes—come on—"
Gwen's patience snapped like a dry twig.
"Will you shut that thing off?" Her voice cut across the morning air, sharp and annoyed, each word edged with exasperation. "Some of us are trying to do meaningful things, you know?"
Ben didn't even look up. "Hold on… just let me finish the level—"
His fingers blurred faster, the plastic buttons clicking like machine-gun fire.
Gwen's hand shot out, quick as a snake, and snatched the Game Boy clean from his grip.
"Hey!" Ben yelped, lunging forward, betrayal flooding his face. "Give it back! I was just about to win!"
Gwen held it high above her head, arm fully extended, the screen still flashing. "I'll give it back if you promise to let me focus."
Ben's eyes stayed locked on the glowing pixels like they were the only oxygen in the world. "Alright already, jeez—who spat in your coffee this morning?"
Gwen lowered her arm just enough. Ben reached—then froze as the dreaded *Game Over* fanfare blared, loud and mocking.
He stared, mouth open. Despair crashed over him, cold and heavy, sinking straight to his stomach. "Look what you did…"
Gwen didn't even glance up. She simply handed the console back and reopened her book, thean expression settling on her face like she'd just taken out the trash.
Kevin's smirk widened, slow and satisfied, the morning sun warm on his face. Never a dull moment with these two. Never.
Ben snatched the Game Boy back, thumb already hovering over the power button, but Gwen's single raised eyebrow hit him like a warning shot. He felt the silent threat in that look (one more beep and the console would spend the rest of the week in her backpack), so he let his hand drop, defeated. The morning heat was already crawling under his collar, thick and sticky, the kind that promised a brutal summer. Sunlight baked the bench, turning the wood hot to the touch, and the faint smell of warm asphalt rose from the street.
Ben wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. "So what do you guys have planned for summer vacation?" He leaned back, stretching his legs out until his sneakers scraped the curb. "Grandpa Max and I are going on a road trip. Full-on camping. Tents, campfires, the whole deal. How cool is that?"
Gwen closed her book with a soft papery thud, the dragon on the cover glaring at him. "Hmm. I never thought about it," she admitted, tucking an orange strand behind her ear. "I mean, it's still far away."
Kevin barked a laugh, the sound rough. "Far away? It literally starts at the end of this week."
Ben turned to her, incredulous. "You seriously haven't planned anything? What, you gonna spend the whole vacation with your parents in Gotham? , or you planning to stay with the relative here in metropolis ?" He crossed his arms, smug. "Kinda lame, don't you think?"
Gwen rolled her eyes so hard Ben felt it.
"What about you, Kevin?" Ben asked, turning. "Your dad finally gonna show up?"
Kevin's smirk faded. He shrugged, the motion too casual, the kind that tried to hide the ache underneath. "Nah. Pop's too busy with work. Barely comes home. You'd think he was dead if he didn't send those stupid messages every couple weeks."
The words hung heavy between them, sour as the exhaust drifting from a passing truck.
Ben forced a grin, bright and stubborn. "Well, you could always come with me and Grandpa. It'll be fun."
Kevin's father was an astronaut , one of the government's top pilots ever since Superman showed the world aliens were real. Ever since that day, the space program had gone into overdrive: launch after launch, probes, manned missions, all of them hunting for answers among the stars. They always came home empty-handed, but the missions never stopped. Kevin's mom had been the one constant in his life until leukemia took her two years ago . After the funeral, Kevin's dad ,grief-stricken and drowning in classified briefings, had begged his old friend Max Tennyson for a favor: take care of my boy. Max, being Max, passed the duty to Carl and Sandra. Two lost kids, one spare bedroom, and somehow it worked. Ben and Kevin had been a matched set ever since.
Kevin snorted, the memory dragging him back. "No offense, Ben, but your grandfather's cooking sucks. Remember the last time we visited him?"
Ben's stomach lurched. He could still taste the nightmare: marinated mealworms squirming in a bowl, their tiny legs glistening under the RV's yellow light, the briny, earthy stench that clung to the back of his throat for days. His gag reflex twitched just thinking about it.
Even Gwen, queen of polite, shuddered. "He should be legally banned from any kitchen. Ever."
A distant siren wailed somewhere downtown, thin and mournful. Gwen glanced up at the digital clock on the bank billboard across the street (glowing red numbers against harsh white).
7:45.
She frowned, the first real crack in her calm. "Huh. That's weird. The bus should've been here five minutes ago."
Ben tilted his head back, brown hair ruffling in the hot breeze that smelled of sun-baked tar and distant barbecue smoke. The digital numbers glared 7:46 now, unblinking. "Well, now that you mention it," he said, voice rising with a nervous edge, "we have been waiting awhile."
Kevin shoved his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets, the fabric rasping against itself. "Think something's wrong? This bus is never late."
Before anyone could answer, the air filled with sirens: first one, thin and lonely, then a chorus that grew into a howling pack. Red and white lights strobed at the end of the street. Fire trucks roared past first, chrome ladders rattling, diesel fumes thick and choking, followed by a swarm of police cruisers, tires squealing, radios crackling like angry hornets. The ground vibrated under their sneakers.
Ben's eyes went wide, pupils blown with sudden excitement. "There must be a fire somewhere!" The words burst out of him, half-worry, half-thrill. "Do you think Superman's gonna show up?"
Gwen lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug, but her pulse betrayed her calm; she could feel it thudding in her throat. "He probably will."
Then the sky cracked.
A single, bone-deep -BOOM- rolled over the neighborhood like thunder inside a tin can. A blue streak ripped across the pale morning, trailing a white contrail that smelled faintly of ozone and scorched air. The blur shot east, cape flapping once, twice, before vanishing beyond the rooftops. The shockwave rattled windows and fluttered Gwen's ponytail like a flag in a storm.
Ben's mouth fell open. Sunlight caught the awe in his eyes, turning them glassy and huge. He looked like a kid who'd just seen the face of God streak overhead.
Kevin squinted at the empty sky, arms still crossed. "I don't get your obsession with that guy," he muttered, voice low, almost swallowed by the fading sirens.
Ben spun toward him, incredulous. "Um, let's see, he's only the greatest hero ever? The guy can fly! Isn't that cool?"
Kevin shrugged, the motion slow and unimpressed. "I've seen cooler."
Ben's eyebrows shot up. "Really? Name one thing cooler than Superman."
"Batman."
The single word dropped between them like a gauntlet.
Ben stared, mouth half-open, the heat forgotten. "Are you serious right now?"
Kevin turned fully, meeting Ben's stare head-on, the faintest smirk tugging at his scar. "Just because you can't see him doesn't mean he doesn't exist. Two years ago, would you have believed aliens were real if Superman hadn't shown up?"
"There's actual proof Superman exists," Ben fired back, gesturing wildly at the sky where the blue streak had vanished. "He literally just flew over us! But no one's ever seen Batman. Zero photos, zero videos. People say he's a giant bat-creature that eats criminals. That's not cooler, that's creepy."
Kevin's smirk widened into something almost proud. "My point exactly. Mystery beats show-off every time."
They leaned in, foreheads inches apart, voices climbing, grins sharp and competitive, the argument crackling like the sirens still echoing in the distance. The morning smelled of hot concrete, distant smoke, and the electric thrill of a fight neither of them actually wanted to win.
Gwen exhaled through her nose, long and suffering. The heat pressed against her skin; sweat prickled at the small of her back. She glanced down the empty street again—no yellow bus, just shimmering asphalt and the faint, metallic taste of something burning far away.
She sighed, the sound lost under Ben and Kevin's rising voices, and wished with every ounce of her being that the bus would hurry up and save her from these two idiots before the whole city caught fire.
Downtown metropolis, Sirens screamed to a halt, doors slamming like gunshots. Three more fire trucks and a pair of cruisers skidded into the chaos, tires hissing on melted asphalt. Heat rolled off the burning three-story apartment building in shimmering waves, thick with the stench of scorched wood, melted plastic, and something sweeter (hair, fabric, life). Black smoke boiled into the morning sky, blotting out the sun and turning the air gray and gritty. Ash drifted like dirty snow, sticking to sweat-slick skin and coating tongues with the taste of ruin.
A crowd had already gathered, phones raised, lenses glinting. The crackle of flames was constant, a hungry roar that swallowed every other sound. Fourteen hoses old ones and new, hammered the building with white torrents, steam exploding outward in scalding clouds that smelled of wet concrete and scorched metal.
Firefighter Jose Ramirez ripped off his helmet, face streaked black with soot, eyes bloodshot and furious. Sweat carved pale rivers down his cheeks. He killed his hose with a vicious twist and charged toward the newcomers, boots pounding the pavement.
"What took you so damn long?" he roared, voice raw from smoke and rage. "We called for backup twenty minutes ago! We're almost out of water!"
The lead fireman from the new truck , a head taller than Jose , and Alot calmer, name tape reading CAPTAIN REED, yanked his gloves tighter. "We had to pull crews from two other stations. Anyone still inside?"
Jose's jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped. "We think so. Second floor, back apartment. I tried going in twice; heat drove me back both times. We need this fire down now."
He didn't say the rest out loud, but it burned behind his eyes: he'd been ten when fire took his parents. He still woke up tasting smoke, hearing his mother's scream cut short. No one else was dying on his watch. Not today.
Reed opened his mouth to ask how many were trapped.
He never finished.
KROOM.
A concussion punched the air, deep and metallic, like a giant hammer striking an oil drum. Windows on the surrounding buildings rattled in their frames. Every firefighter felt it in their teeth.
Jose's blood turned to ice. He knew that sound. Gas line.
Reed's eyes widened behind his mask. "What the hell was—"
"The fire hit a gas main!" Jose shouted, already spinning. "This whole building's coming down! Clear the block!"
He shoved past Reed, sprinting toward the nearest police officer, boots skidding on loose gravel. "Get these people back! The structure's gonna—"
CRACK.
A sound like a sniper round split the sky.
Every head snapped upward.
A blue-and-red comet streaked down, cape snapping like a battle flag, and slammed into the pavement ten yards away. The impact cracked the asphalt in a spiderweb of fractures, dust billowing outward in a choking cloud. The shockwave rippled through the crowd, knocking phones from hands and stealing breath from lungs.
Superman rose from the crouch, boots grinding on broken concrete, eyes scanning the scene, face set like forged steel beneath the soot-flecked sky.
The street fell silent except for the roar of the fire and the wet slap of hoses. Every face turned upward, mouths open, eyes wide, as Superman straightened from the crater he'd carved in the pavement. Phones trembled in sweaty hands.
On one girl's livestream, the chat exploded:
- "HENRY CAVILL WHO?? "
- "bro is literally sculpted by gods"
- "those shoulders could end me and i'd say thank you"
- "the way the suit just HUGS—"
- "cape physics shouldn't be that sexy"
- "wait… is that a new suit???"
And they were right to notice.
The suit was darker, richer blue, edged in blood-red piping that climbed the high collar and circled the cuffs like fresh wounds. The classic trunks were gone, replaced by a thick red belt and taller boots. The House of El crest dominated his chest, larger, more aggressive, while the dark-red cape bore the same glyph except coloured black. The old suit had been shredded to ribbons by Mongul two months ago; this one looked forged for war.
Superman strode toward the inferno, boots crunching glass, cape snapping behind him like a battle standard. The smell of burning insulation and melted wiring clung to the air, thick enough to chew.
Click-click-click.
Every officer on the perimeter raised their sidearm in one trembling wave. Fingers white on triggers.
"FREEZE!" one shouted, voice cracking, gun shaking so hard the barrel traced figure-eights in the air.
Superman's shoulders sagged—just a fraction, but enough. Disappointment flickered across his face, sharp as broken glass. He had bled for this city. He had carried children out of collapsing skyscrapers. And still, the guns.
He didn't stop walking.
A rookie's finger tightened. Another cop lunged, grabbing the barrel and forcing it down. "Don't. You'll just piss him off."
Jose watched it all, helmet dangling from one hand, soot caking the lines around his eyes. He didn't care if the guy was from Krypton or hell. If he could stop the fire, Jose would kiss his boots himself.
Superman reached the entrance (blackened doorframe glowing dull orange) and stepped inside without breaking stride.
Inside, the heat was a living thing, clawing at his face, trying to cook him alive, uperman barely felt any of it. He heard the hiss of ruptured pipes, the groan of failing beams, and beneath it all, the frantic, shuffling of someone moving , still alive on the second floor.
He inhaled deeper than any human lung could manage and the temperature around him plummeted. Frost bloomed across the walls in spiderweb patterns. He exhaled.
A hurricane of arctic wind tore through the hallway, putting out the flames easily , Steam shrieked. Wood cracked like gunshots as moisture flash-froze and expanded. The fire retreated, hissing in defeat.
Superman floated upward, boots never touching the weakened stairs, cape trailing frost. Second floor. Back apartment. The shuffling was louder now, fast and irregular.
He drifted through the doorway.
A figure crouched in the far corner, hunched beneath a charred blanket, bigger than any man had a right to be. Smoke curled around it like incense.
"It's okay," Superman said softly, voice cutting through the crackle of dying embers. "You're safe now. I'm getting you out of here."
He reached out, fingers settling on the figure's shoulder.
The "skin" beneath the blanket was cold, hard, ridged—like armor plating.
The figure turned.
Rows of jagged, serrated teeth flashed in the darkness, glowing faintly like embers in a dying fire.
"What are..."
A furnace-blast of flame erupted from its maw.
The world flipped. Superman shot backward through the wall in an explosion of brick and timber, trailing smoke and fire. He hit a police cruiser roof-first. Metal buckled like foil. The impact cratered the vehicle, glass exploding outward in a glittering storm. Officers dove, screaming, covering their heads as shrapnel rained.
Superman lay in the wreckage a heartbeat longer than anyone expected, chest smoking, suit scorched black across the crest. Then he pushed up, eyes glowing with rage.
He launched skyward and punched back through the hole he'd just made.
The room was empty.
Nothing but drifting ash and the lingering stench of sulfur and brimstone.
Superman hovered in the silence, fists clenched, staring at the spot where the thing had been.
Whatever it was… it was gone.
He turned back to the dying flames, jaw tight, and blew the last of the fire
into glittering frost.
Outside, Jose lowered his arms from his face and stared at the suddenly quiet building, breath fogging in the sudden cold.
The worst, maybe, had been avoided.
But something else had just begun.