Chapter 16: Ripples of Power
The world was no longer the same. Overnight, it had fractured, reshaped by grainy phone videos and flickering news broadcasts that spread like a monsoon flood. Social media buzzed, screens glowed, and voices—awed, terrified, angry—clashed in a storm of reaction. The footage was everywhere: a boy, eyes blazing red, cutting through men with beams of light; a girl, cloaked in red, descending like a goddess of wrath, tearing lives apart with effortless fury. Smallville, once a sleepy dot on the map, was now the epicenter of a global reckoning.
It began with Clark, standing tall , his heat vision searing through a terrorist in a flash of molten rage. Then the gunshot—a crack that silenced the night, his body jerking back, his smirk fading as he crumpled to the pavement. Gwen's scream, raw and piercing, echoed in every replay.
Then came Kara. Her landing cracked the earth, her red cloak snapping in the wind like a village banner in a storm. The cameras caught it all: her speed, a blur too fast to track; her strength, crushing a man's skull like clay; her heat vision, reducing another to ash in a heartbeat. Her face was a mask of rage, unyielding, unstoppable.
Some called her a hero, a savior who stopped a massacre. Others called her a monster, a force too dangerous to exist. But one truth united them: she wasn't human. Neither was the boy she'd carried into the sky, his blood staining her arms. The world watched, and it trembled.
Kara didn't land softly. The hospital rooftop buckled under her boots, concrete splintering as she burst through the doors, Clark limp in her arms. His head lolled against her shoulder, his face pale, his chest barely rising. Blood soaked his shirt, dripping onto the floor, a trail of red marking her path.
"HELP HIM!" she roared, her voice raw, cracking with panic. Nurses froze, their eyes wide, trays clattering to the ground. Doctors gaped, caught between fear and duty, staring at the girl with glowing eyes cradling a dying boy.
A senior surgeon snapped to action, his voice sharp. "Get him to the ER! Move!" A stretcher rolled forward, wheels squeaking, but Kara's grip tightened, her body a shield between Clark and the world.
"Miss—" a nurse started, her voice trembling.
"Fix him!" Kara snapped, her eyes flaring red, her hands shaking as she held him closer.
The nurse hesitated, then touched Kara's shoulder, gentle but firm. "We will. But you have to let him go."
Kara's jaw clenched, her breath hitching. Every instinct screamed to keep him close, to protect him. But she forced herself to loosen her grip, laying Clark on the stretcher. His body looked so small, so fragile, it twisted her heart.
The medical team swarmed, cutting away his shirt, hooking up monitors. But then—confusion. His wound wasn't bleeding anymore. A scalpel bent against his skin. An IV needle snapped, useless. "What the hell?" a nurse whispered, stepping back.
Kara's stomach sank. She knew why. Clark was changing, his Kryptonian blood waking up, rejecting human tools. But it wasn't enough—not yet. "Why isn't it working?" she demanded, her voice shaking.
The lead surgeon wiped his brow, his eyes uncertain. "His body… it's resisting everything, for lack of a better word." He met her gaze, hesitant. "We don't know if he'll wake up. It depends on him."
Kara's fists clenched, her nails biting into her palms. She looked at Clark, his face peaceful, almost serene. He should've been safe, untouchable. But now, he was fighting for his life, and she'd failed to protect him. Guilt and fear churned inside her, a storm she couldn't outrun.
Outside, the hospital was a circus. News vans clogged the parking lot, their satellite dishes jutting like festival stalls in a chaotic market. Reporters shouted over each other, cameras flashing, their voices a frantic buzz. "Who is she?" "What are they?" "Is this a government cover-up?" Government SUVs rolled in, their tires screeching, officials barking orders to cordon off the building.
In a dimly lit conference room in Washington, a dozen suits sat around a polished table, their faces grim. A large screen replayed the footage—Clark's heat vision, Kara's wrath, the bodies left behind. "We need to find them," a general growled, slamming a fist on the table. "Both of them."
A quieter voice cut through, calm but firm. "We already have someone on it." The screen flickered, showing Nick Fury's face, his single eye unreadable as he watched the same footage.
Fury leaned back in his chair, his voice low. "Send a team." The order was simple, but the weight behind it was seismic. The world had just met its first superhumans, and SHIELD was on the clock.
Kara sat by Clark's hospital bed, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white. The room was sterile, the hum of machines and the beep of monitors a constant drone. Clark lay still, tubes snaking from his arms, his chest rising faintly. The doctors had given up trying to pierce his skin, their tools useless against his awakening Kryptonian cells. All they could do was watch, wait, and pray.
Outside, Kara heard the chaos—reporters' shouts, officials' footsteps, the murmur of nurses whispering about "the alien girl." Her senses, sharp as ever, caught every word, every glance. She hated it, the exposure, the eyes on them. She'd been reckless, and now the world knew their secret.
The door creaked open, and Kara's head snapped up, her body tensing. A tall man stepped in, his long black coat sweeping the floor, his single eye sharp as a blade. Danger radiated from him, calm but undeniable, like a storm waiting to break.
"Miss Kent," he said, his voice deep, measured. "You've caused quite the stir."
Kara stood slowly, stepping between him and Clark, her eyes narrowing. "Who the hell are you?"
Nick Fury smirked, unfazed. "Someone who needs answers. And I think you've got them."
Her fists clenched, her voice icy. "I don't owe you anything."
Fury chuckled, his gaze flicking to the window where news helicopters buzzed like flies. "No, but the world might disagree. You just announced yourselves to the planet—loudly."
Kara's jaw tightened, her heart pounding. She wanted to lash out, to shove him away, but she held back, her eyes darting to Clark's still form. "Stay away from us," she said, low and fierce.
Fury studied her, his smirk fading into something harder, more calculating. He turned to leave, but paused at the door, his voice quiet but piercing. "You think you're the only ones out there?"
Kara froze, her breath catching.
"You're not," he said, not looking back. Then he was gone, the door clicking shut.
Kara sank into the chair, her hands trembling. She looked at Clark, his face calm, unaware of the storm now raging around them. Fury's words echoed, a warning she couldn't shake. The world had seen them, judged them, feared them. Life as they knew it was over.