The city street was a graveyard of shattered glass and smoldering wreckage, the air thick with the acrid stench of smoke and blood. Flickering streetlights cast jagged shadows, their buzz drowned by distant sirens wailing like mourners at a village funeral. Gwen Stacy knelt on the pavement, her hands trembling, her blonde hair streaked with dirt and ash. Clark lay before her, his body still, his blue eyes dull, a crimson stain spreading across his chest. The bullet had torn through him, stealing his smirk, his spark, leaving only silence.
"No…" Gwen's voice was a broken whisper, her fingers hovering over his pale face. "No, no, no…" Tears carved tracks through the grime on her cheeks, her heart pounding so hard it hurt.
The world blurred—screams fading, lights dimming, the metallic tang of blood choking her senses. It felt like a nightmare, unreal and suffocating. But the terrorist standing over her, his rifle trained on her chest, was all too real. His lips twisted into a cruel grin, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Gwen froze, her breath catching, her body too weak to move. Then—a hiss, sharp and unnatural, like the air itself was splitting apart.
The gunman's grin faltered, his eyes darting upward. A shadow loomed, swift and unstoppable. A figure descended, her red cloak billowing like a storm cloud, her blonde hair glowing under the streetlights. Her eyes burned with a fury that stopped hearts.
Kara.
She hit the ground with a THUD that cracked the asphalt, the impact shaking the street. The terrorists spun, their rifles snapping toward her, but they were already out of time.
Moments earlier, Kara sat in a quiet diner, the hum of fluorescent lights mixing with the clink of dishes. Natasha Romanoff sat across from her, her red hair catching the glow as she rambled about some school event—a dance, a fundraiser, something trivial. Kara barely listened, her mind elsewhere, her fingers tapping restlessly on the table.
Then it hit her—a jolt, like a knife to the chest. Her heart stilled, her hands shook, her breath caught in a sharp gasp. Clark. She felt him, his life flickering, faint and fading. "No…" she whispered, lurching to her feet so fast her chair crashed to the floor.
"Kara?" Natasha's voice was sharp, her green eyes narrowing.
But Kara was gone, her senses stretching outward, her enhanced hearing slicing through the town's noise—thousands of heartbeats, breaths, voices—until she locked onto his. Weak, erratic, barely there. Then—gunfire. Screams.
Her eyes snapped open, glowing red with rage. She didn't think, didn't hesitate. With a burst of wind that rattled the diner's windows, she launched into the sky, a streak of red and blue cutting through the night.
Natasha stumbled back, her heart racing. Kara had always been cautious, paranoid about hiding her powers. For her to act so openly, so recklessly… Something was wrong—catastrophically wrong. Natasha pulled a burner phone from her jacket, her fingers steady despite the adrenaline. She dialed, her voice low and urgent. "Director Fury, it's Romanoff. Something's happening. We've got a situation."
Kara landed like a meteor, her boots cratering the pavement. The terrorists—three left, their faces twisted with greed and hate—didn't stand a chance. She moved before they could blink, her hand closing around the nearest man's throat. His rifle clattered to the ground, his gasps choking off as her grip tightened, unyielding as steel. Her eyes blazed red, heat vision charging.
He clawed at her arm, desperate, but Kara's scream—raw, primal—drowned his pleas. A burst of searing light erupted, incinerating him in a flash of ash and smoke. The other two staggered back, their eyes wide with terror.
"Monster!" one choked, fumbling for his gun.
Kara's gaze snapped to him, her face a mask of death. She flicked her wrist, and his rifle crumpled midair, metal folding like paper. A single blast of heat vision followed, reducing him to nothing.
The last terrorist dropped to his knees, his weapon slipping from shaking hands. "P-please—" he stammered, his voice barely a whimper.
Kara didn't hear him. Didn't care. In a blur, she was on him, her hands gripping his skull. A sharp twist, a sickening crack, and he collapsed, lifeless.
The street fell silent, save for Gwen's ragged sobs. Kara's glowing eyes dimmed, her fury giving way to dread as she turned to Clark. He lay in a pool of blood, his chest barely rising, his face cold and pale. She dropped to her knees, her hands trembling as she touched his cheek. "Clark," she whispered, her voice breaking.
She pressed her ear to his chest, her breath hitching. His heartbeat was there—faint, fluttering, fading fast. Panic clawed at her, sharper than any bullet. She scooped him into her arms, his weight nothing to her strength, and shot into the sky, a streak of red vanishing into the night.
Gwen stared at the empty street, her knees buckling, her body shaking. One moment, Kara was there, a whirlwind of rage and power; the next, she was gone, taking Clark with her. The blood on Gwen's hands—Clark's blood—felt warm and wrong, a stain she couldn't wipe away. Her boyfriend had been shot. An alien girl had torn through men like they were paper. And now, she was alone, the sirens growing louder, their wail like a festival gone to hell.
She collapsed, her sobs breaking free, a scream tearing from her throat. The world was unraveling, and she was caught in its threads, helpless and afraid.
In a sterile office deep within SHIELD's headquarters, Nick Fury stood before a bank of monitors, his arms crossed, his single eye unreadable. The room hummed with quiet urgency—agents typing, screens flickering with data, the air thick with tension. Natasha's report had just come through, her voice clipped and urgent, detailing Kara's reckless flight and the chaos in the city.
Fury's jaw tightened, his mind racing. He'd known about Kara—her strength, her secrecy—but this was different. An open display of power, a public bloodbath, and a boy at the center of it, now bleeding out. The world had shifted tonight, and not just because of Stark's toys or Asgard's whispers. Something bigger was waking up.
He turned to an agent, his voice low. "Get me everything on that city. Witnesses, footage, bodies. And find out who that kid is."
Deep down, Fury knew. The game had changed. Forever.