The silence that followed his landing was louder than the sonic boom. Only the oily lapping of waves against the tanker's hull and the groan of cooling metal broke the tense quiet.
Superman said nothing. He barely moved, floating with perfect stillness. His eyes, a piercing blue that seemed to see far more than mere physical form, scanned Marcus. They traveled over every detail of his posture, analyzed the way his muscles were tensed, assessed the latent power radiating from him. It was the gaze of a protector facing an absolute and potentially cataclysmic unknown.
Marcus, under the weight of this silence, felt a flicker of nervousness stir within him. The confidence he had felt while flying evaporated before this silent, living statue.
"Hey Sup, how's it going?" he called out, trying to sound casual. His voice echoed oddly loud on the deserted deck.
No response. Superman's gaze didn't waver.
"Hello, excuse me Sup, but please, say something," Marcus insisted, a little less assured. The gap between his own deliberately familiar approach and Superman's absolute gravity was dizzying.
Then, finally, the voice came. It was calm, without anger or fear, but laden with an authority that seemed to make the very air vibrate. It was not a polite question. It was a demand.
"Who are you?"
The question was simple, direct, and cut straight to the heart of the matter. It didn't ask for a name, but for a nature. An intention.
Marcus straightened up, abandoning the false nonchalance. He had to respond with the same seriousness. He met Superman's piercing gaze.
"I am Marcus Rogers, Sir."
The name, simple and human, hung in the sea air. It was a start. An identity offered. But they both knew it was only the first page of a much longer and more complex story. The real question, that of the powers flowing through Marcus's veins and the shadow of Homelander they carried, still hung between them, heavier than the oil slick.