A-Train was in a bad way, though he did not know it. He had never felt better. The Compound V took the baseline rush of breaking the sound barrier and magnified it. The wind roared as white noise. The pavement blurred into a gray suggestion beneath his feet. His mind swam, loose and warm, steeped in the chemical high that told him he was operating flawlessly.
Total control, he thought. I've got total control.
His entire identity lived in the numbers: new records, faster splits, speeds that retired his competitors. The Compound V made those numbers stretch into infinity. As he tore through the city, reducing pedestrians to smears of color, he felt completely invincible.
"Hell yeah! Hell yeah! Hell yeah—"
He saw the woman a half-second before the math failed.
Drunk drivers believe they are sober. A-Train believed he had the situation handled. His reaction time remained human while his velocity did not. The gap between his physical momentum and his cognitive processing had widened.
The sequence assembled in his head: a supersonic collision. She would shatter upon impact. The outcome would not leave a recognizable person.
None of that happened. Someone stepped in front of her.
"Sir, please watch yourself."
A-Train hit him at full speed.
The man took two steps back. He yielded his stance, letting his Kryptonian bio-force field wrap around them both, absorbing and distributing the kinetic transfer to spare A-Train from flattening against him. A-Train bounced off a chest that felt like solid steel and slammed flat against the pavement.
"Sir, are you alright?"
A-Train lay on the asphalt and stared upward. He had braced for the grill of an oncoming train. Instead, he saw a square-jawed, open face. Blue uniform. Red cape. A large S across the chest.
That is not Homelander.
He would know Homelander anywhere from the posture alone. This man's brow pinched as he leaned down. A-Train had almost no reference point for the concern aimed at him.
"I'm good," he said, scrambling to his feet. His hand drifted to his bag strap, his fingers tightening over the fabric on reflex. "Yeah. Fine. All good."
The man stepped toward him. "Are you sure—"
"Totally fine, thanks, seriously, appreciate it." A-Train scanned the street, his eyes tracking windows and security cameras. "Nice uniform by the way. Big Homelander fan? I can hook you up with an autograph later."
He did not wait for a response. There were things to do. Then he was gone.
Clark watched the blue blur disappear around the corner. He tilted his head, his brow still knit.
"What," he said, "was that."
"A-Train." Jude stood six feet back, his hands in his pockets. "Speedster. Works for Vought International. Currently not operating at full cognitive capacity." He watched the empty stretch of street. "Also, that was almost the inciting incident for this entire universe's canon. So. Good catch."
Clark's eyes moved from the woman to the corner where A-Train vanished. His weight shifted forward, shoulders dropping, but he eventually turned his back on the empty street.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
The woman held both hands pressed to her face. Her skin cycled from pale to flushed as her chest hitched. She was in her early twenties, wearing a bright jacket, her shoulders shaking in small, rigid spasms.
"Fuck, oh my god," she managed. "Fuck superheroes. Fuck, oh my god, I almost, he almost—" She dragged her hands down her cheeks, swallowing hard. "Oh my god. Sir. Thank you. Thank you."
"You're alright," Clark said. His voice stayed low and steady. "Take a breath. You're safe now."
That voice, Jude thought. Sounds like it wants absolutely nothing from you. Remarkable tool in a crisis. Possible hazard in non-crisis situations.
She took a breath. She looked up at Clark. Her eyes focused, tracking over the blue suit and red cape. She smoothed her curly hair back from her face and extended her hand.
"I'm Robin," she said.
Jude rubbed the back of his neck. That name is doing a lot of work in this universe, he thought. Of all the names.
The young man beside her had remained frozen. He blinked rapidly, then reached out, gripping her arm and scanning her for injuries. His eyes stayed wide as he dragged a hand over his mouth. He extended a shaking hand to Clark.
"Hughie," he said. "Hughie Campbell. Seriously, thank you. I mean it." He took in the uniform, his brow furrowing. "You're a... you're a superhero, right?"
"People tend to call me that," Clark said. "Superman. That's what you can call me."
Hughie's eyes narrowed slightly. "Superman," he repeated. "So... are you, like, a Homelander fan? Because the suit's pretty similar. The S, the cape..."
"He's not a Homelander fan." Jude stepped forward to cut off the conversation. "This is his own suit. He's not really plugged into the, uh, the whole supe celebrity circuit. Doesn't follow it closely."
Hughie stared at him, his mouth falling open a fraction. "There are people who don't know Homelander?" he asked. "He's in the news. He's in the movies. He's on billboards. He's everywhere, like A-Train earlier."
"I know who he is," Jude said. "I've seen him. We just don't, we're not followers."
Clark frowned. "That guy. The one who almost hit you." He pointed down the block. "You mean... that was a superhero?"