The blast tore through the complex like the wrath of God. Walls buckled, glass vaporized, and the golden light swallowed everything in its reach. When it finally faded, there was nothing left of Christopher Reeves.
Cecil Steadman stood among the ruins hours later, soot-streaked, his uniform torn. Search teams picked through rubble, coughing in the smoke. But there was no body to bury, no ashes to hold. Only a crater and the faint shimmer of a power that refused to die.
"He's gone," a general muttered, staring at the wreckage. "Our boy genius burned himself out."
Cecil didn't answer. He kept his eyes on the cracked remnants of the Zar' Eth gate. Its golden pulse flickered once more before collapsing into nothingness. And across the world, every other portal followed—imploding violently, swallowing the invaders back into whatever realm they had crawled from.
The Zar' Eth were gone. The invasion was over.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Soldiers and scientists alike stood frozen in disbelief. Then one officer said it, his voice carrying through the ruins like a verdict:
"That boy just saved the world."
No one argued. They all knew it was true.
In the weeks that followed, Frederick Vought seized control of the narrative. With Chris gone, the formula for Compound V rested solely in his hands. He told the public that his science had saved the war, that his heroes had stood tall against monsters from beyond. Payback became living legends, their staged victories rewritten as genuine triumphs. Soldier Boy grinned from billboards, his shield raised high, as if he alone had turned the tide.
In truth, it had been Chris's genius that stabilized the serum. But Vought buried that fact deep, rewriting history in his own image. By the war's end, the United States had soldiers. Vought had superheroes. And the monopoly was his.
Cecil remained in uniform, but something inside him hardened. He smoked more. Slept less. Every time he looked at a cape smiling for the cameras, he saw Chris's glasses reflecting golden light. He had lost more than a colleague—he had lost the only man who might have kept Vought honest.
History marched forward. The Zar' Eth never returned. The gates were gone. Vought's empire grew, brick by brick, lie by lie. And the name Christopher Reeves became a footnote, whispered only by those who had known him, then silenced altogether.
—
Chris gasped. His eyes opened.
Silence. Stars burned unfamiliar above him. He floated weightless, his body whole, his mind blazing with golden fire.
He was alive.