Art and Ronnie burst out of the hallway leading to the kitchen, practically tripping over each other.
"Boss, you're on TV!" they shouted in unison.
Daniel didn't look away. "I'm always on TV. Don't bother." He never wore a mask, and the 24-hour news networks loved plastering his face across the screen whenever they needed a ratings bump.
"No, this time it's different," Ronnie insisted, pointing at the living room wall. "You're wanted as a criminal!"
"What?" Daniel frowned, finally lowering his head.
The bickering in the living room stopped instantly. Every woman turned toward Art and Ronnie. Daniel grabbed the remote off the coffee table and hit the power button.
"It's on every channel," Art added, staring at the screen.
The television flared to life. A stern-faced anchor appeared above a scrolling red chyron: METAHUMAN REGISTRATION ACT PASSED.
"...The United States government has officially passed the new legislation, approved in a sweeping emergency vote," the anchor reported, looking into the camera.
"Effective immediately, this law strictly prohibits all superpowered vigilantes from taking the law into their own hands."
"As of today, they are classified as federal criminals. If they wish to continue helping the public, they must unmask, register, and operate under direct government oversight."
Clips played of crushed highways, leveled buildings, smoking craters in the middle of major cities.
"This aggressive crackdown is a direct response to the amount of property destruction caused by these unchecked individuals," the anchor continued.
"The Department of Defense has officially released its most wanted list of the worst offenders."
The screen cut to three large profiles.
"Taking the number one spot, single-handedly responsible for over five hundred million dollars in property loss, is the unregistered entity known as Reaper." A high-definition, unmasked photo of Daniel appeared on the left.
"In second place, causing an estimated two hundred million dollars in infrastructure damage, is Superman." A blurry photo of the Man of Steel appeared in the middle.
"And rounding out the top three, responsible for fifty million dollars in property loss, is the Gotham vigilante known as Batman."
Daniel stared at the television in dead silence.
"Five hundred million?" Ronnie whistled, breaking the quiet. "Damn, boss. You beat the boy scout and the bat."
"What the fuck is this shit?" Daniel muttered, staring blankly at the screen.
He hadn't expected the government to have the balls to pull a move like this — happy to tally up a five-hundred-million-dollar repair bill and blast his face across national television like a common bank robber, while conveniently leaving out the part where he'd personally saved the entire planet from total annihilation. Twice.
The broadcast cut to live footage of a street protest outside Capitol Hill — crowds clashing with police barricades, holding up crude cardboard signs.
THEY ARE NOT CRIMINALS, one read. THEY SAVED EARTH FROM INVASION, read another.
"At least some people still have a brain," Ronnie muttered, leaning against the kitchen doorframe.
But the anchor's voice cut back over the footage, shutting down the optimism in the room.
"In response to today's demonstrations, the White House Press Secretary issued a direct statement just moments ago," the anchor said grimly.
"Quote: 'While the administration acknowledges that these unregistered individuals participated in repelling the recent extraterrestrial invasions, the public must not forget one critical fact."
"Superman's very existence on Earth is exactly what drew those hostile alien forces here to begin with.'"
Daniel's eyes narrowed. A brutal, perfectly executed PR spin.
The anchor noted that public sentiment was already shifting online. The government had successfully flipped the narrative — they weren't saviors who stopped an apocalypse anymore, they were the dangerous liabilities who caused it.
Negativity toward the superhuman community was climbing by the minute.
Daniel tossed the remote onto the couch. The timeline might be fractured, but politics were exactly the same as always.
"I have a feeling this wasn't some idea some bureaucrat came up with," Daniel said. "Someone nasty's definitely planning this."
***
Clark sat at his desk in the bustling bullpen of the Daily Planet, staring at the front page of the morning edition.
The headline ran in bold letters: SUPERMAN NO LONGER NEEDED. Beneath it, a detailed breakdown of the $200 million in collateral damage he supposedly owed the federal government.
"What the heck?" Clark whispered, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses.
He didn't even have a thousand dollars in savings. He lived on a reporter's salary in Metropolis.
Where was he supposed to get two hundred million dollars for smashed pavement and broken glass? Still, glancing at the sidebar listing the number one offender — Reaper, with a $500 million tab — he felt a tiny, shameful sliver of relief. At least he wasn't the worst on the list.
Lois Lane walked up and leaned over his cubicle, dropping a stack of folders next to his keyboard.
"Well, it seems Superman can't come out to play for a while," she said, keeping her voice low.
"The public backlash is too big right now. It's a PR nightmare." She wrapped an arm around his shoulders, leaning in with a reporter's gleam in her eye.
"But speaking of PR — do you think you could ask your friend Reaper to give me an exclusive interview? He's the hottest topic on the planet right now. Front-page gold."
Clark grimaced, adjusting his tie.
"Well, Lois... you know Daniel. He's got zero restraint. If something annoys him, he doesn't use words, he uses portals and blunt force. I'm not sure interviewing him right after he's been declared Public Enemy Number One is a safe idea."
Lois sighed, though she didn't disagree. "Fair point. So how's your cousin handling all this? You said she's been having trouble controlling herself lately if she sees something bad."
Clark tensed. "Yeah. I really hope she doesn't see this."
Kara's reaction to anything involving Daniel had been complicated lately.
Ever since their last encounter, she'd developed a strange fixation on him — if anyone insulted him, she tended to lose her temper.
His instincts, as usual, were correct.
Miles away in National City, Kara Danvers stood by the glass copy machine in the offices of CatCo Worldwide Media, holding the morning edition of the National City Tribune, eyes locked on the front-page photo of Daniel's face beside the word CRIMINAL.
Her breath hitched. Her eyes flashed with a dangerous glowing heat. Without a sound, her h
*****
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