The cliff's edge cut sharp against the horizon, its rocky face dropping into a shadowed valley below. The late afternoon sun burned overhead, a fierce orange disc soaking Clark Kent in its heat. He stood motionless, his boots inches from the drop, his blue eyes fixed on the sky. Sweat beaded on his brow, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. For months, he'd come here, pushing his body, testing the Kryptonian blood he knew ran through him.
Nothing. No heat vision searing the clouds. No super speed blurring the world. No flight lifting him free. His strength was better than a normal teen's—maybe enough to rival a champion wrestler—but it was nothing close to what he'd expected. Fifteen years of waiting, of knowing he was Clark, the last son of Krypton, and still, he was chained to the ground like any human.
His fists clenched, nails biting into his palms. "Why?" he growled, the word swallowed by the wind.
He'd planned for this—his rise, his dominance. He'd built his life around the promise of power, the day he'd tower over this world. But every test failed. Hours under the sun, lifting weights until his muscles screamed, trying to leap and fly, to burn steel with his eyes—nothing worked. The Marvel Universe, with its gods and chaos, loomed larger every day, and he was still just… him.
A dark thought slithered in, cold and sharp. What if I never awaken? What if I'm stuck like this—powerless, ordinary? The idea twisted in his gut, a blade of fear he hadn't felt before. Without powers, he was no king, no god. Just another face in a world of monsters.
He gritted his teeth, stepping closer to the edge. "One last test," he muttered, his voice hard.
He took a deep breath, the air sharp in his lungs, and stepped off the cliff.
The wind roared, tearing at his clothes as he plummeted. He reached for something—instinct, power, anything—but the ground rushed up, unforgiving. He hit hard, the impact jarring his bones. Pain flared—ribs cracking, his shoulder popping out—but within minutes, the wounds closed, his body knitting itself back together. Fast healing, sure, but nothing like a Kryptonian's true strength.
He slammed his fist into the dirt, a snarl ripping from his throat. If his powers wouldn't come naturally, he'd force them out. He had to. But how?
Days later, Clark was a shadow of himself, his mind trapped in a loop of failure. He barely spoke, his answers clipped, his eyes distant. Gwen noticed—she had to. The way she looked at him, hesitant and searching, said it all. He was pulling away, and she was scared.
When she asked him to join her for a date in the city, he didn't say no. Maybe he needed the distraction, or maybe he just didn't want to face her rejection. Either way, he went.
The city streets buzzed with evening life, neon signs flickering like festival lights gone wild. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of street food—spiced and smoky, like a roadside stall. Gwen clung to his arm, her warmth a quiet anchor, but Clark's mind was elsewhere, lost in the abyss of his own limits.
She glanced up, her blonde hair catching the streetlights, her voice soft. "Clark… are you mad at me?"
He stopped, blinking. "What?"
"You've been so distant," she said, biting her lip, her eyes shimmering. "Did I do something wrong?"
Clark exhaled, his shoulders slumping. "No, Gwen. It's not you."
"Then what?" she pressed, her grip tightening on his arm. "You don't talk anymore. You barely look at me."
He stayed silent, his jaw tight. How could he explain? The weight of his failure, the fear of being nothing—it wasn't her burden.
Gwen's voice cracked, desperate. "Are you breaking up with me?"
He turned to face her, her eyes wide with panic, tears brimming. Before he could speak, she rushed on, words tumbling out. "No! Don't leave me, Clark! If you love someone else, I don't care! You can be with her—just don't push me away!"
Tears spilled down her cheeks, her body trembling. Clark froze, his breath catching. He'd shaped her, twisted her feelings with careful precision, but this—this raw, broken plea—was more than he'd expected. Had he pushed her too far, bent her mind past reason?
"Gwen…" he started, his voice low, searching for words.
Then the world exploded.
A deafening BOOM shattered the night, fire erupting down the street. Screams pierced the air, sharp and frantic, as the city dissolved into chaos. Clark reacted without thinking, yanking Gwen behind him, his body shielding her from the blast. Glass rained down, cars screeched, and gunfire rattled like firecrackers at a festival gone wrong.
He scanned the street, his eyes narrowing. Three armed men emerged from the smoke, their faces hard, their rifles glinting. Civilians fled or fell, the street emptying fast. Only Clark, Gwen, and two others—a trembling couple—remained, exposed.
The leader, a tall man with a scarred face, leered at Gwen, his voice low in Arabic. "She's pretty. Take her."
Gwen screamed as he grabbed her wrist, yanking her forward. Something inside Clark snapped.
His vision blurred, his skin burned, a primal roar building in his chest. The world slowed, and a deep, electric force surged within him, like a dam breaking. His Kryptonian blood roared to life, but something else came with it—a wild, twisting energy, not of this world, pulling at him like a tide.
He ignored it, his eyes blazing red.
Twin beams of heat vision erupted, slicing through the first terrorist in a flash of molten light. The second raised his gun, but Clark was already moving, a blur of speed. His hand closed around the man's throat, crushing it with a sickening snap.
The scarred leader, still gripping Gwen, stared in horror. "You—"
Clark didn't hesitate. He snapped his fingers, and a shockwave of invisible force—his world energy—ripped through the air. The man vanished, erased, as if he'd never existed.
Gwen collapsed, gasping, her voice a sob. "Clark…"
He barely heard her. His body hummed, alive with power, but it was too much, too raw. His vision swam, his chest heavy, the strain of his awakening clawing at him.
Then—a crack of gunfire.
Pain exploded in his chest, a bullet tearing through flesh. He staggered, his mind screaming, How the fuck did I get shot? His powers were here—heat vision, speed, strength—yet a simple bullet brought him down. His knees buckled, the world fading.
"CLARK!" Gwen's scream cut through as he hit the pavement, blood pooling beneath him.
Gwen sobbed, shaking his limp body, her hands slick with red. Clark's eyes were closed, his breath shallow, his face pale against the asphalt. The street was quiet now, the gunfire gone, but the danger wasn't.
A fourth terrorist stepped from the shadows, his boots heavy, a cruel smile twisting his lips. He raised his gun, eyeing Gwen like prey. She gasped, scrambling back, her heart pounding. Clark was down, vulnerable, and she was alone.
The man took a step closer, his finger tightening on the trigger.