….
The voice continued. "And I think it's time I visited my son."
He walked across the apartment. Three steps. Each one exactly the same length and rhythm.
He reached a small table and picked up a photograph.
The camera didn't show the photo's face. But Max saw Jonathan's expression as he looked at it.
Saw the micro-expression that flickered across his face.
Not grief. Not love. Not longing.
Curiosity.
Jonathan added, now sounding amused. "I wonder... how long before he realizes?"
Max's blood went cold.
Realizes what?
Jonathan set the photo down with such gentleness, but couldn't pinpoint the reason.
He walked toward the door.
His reflection caught in a mirror on the wall as he passed–
–and for ONE frame, maybe less, the reflection GLITCHED–
Max saw it. Barely. His brain screaming that something was WRONG with what he'd just seen. The reflection had been–
–wrong geometry, angles that shouldn't exist, a face that seemed to exist in multiple places simultaneously, something purple and vast and AWARE–
–then just Jonathan again.
Max's heart hammered.
What the fuck was that?
Jonathan reached the door. Put his hand on the knob.
Then stopped.
Turned his head.
Looked directly at the camera.
Directly at MAX.
And smiled.
Max wanted to look away. Couldn't. That smile was wrong. Too wide. Too knowing. The smile of someone who KNOWS they're being watched and is DELIGHTED by it.
"This is going to be fun~"
The way he said 'fun' made Max's skin crawl. The emphasis all wrong. Like someone who'd learned the word but was still figuring out what it meant.
Jonathan opened the door. Stepped through. Into a Metropolis night that suddenly felt much less safe.
The door swung shut.
The camera was held in the apartment. Empty now. Just that photograph on the table.
Max squinted at the screen, trying to see it.
The photo: Clark. High school graduation cap and gown. Jonathan's arm around him. Both smiling.
Then–
–the photo MOVED–
Just slightly. Just barely. Clark's smile widening. And widening. And widening. Stretching past human limits. Becoming something that shouldn't be possible on a still photograph–
Max jerked back in his seat.
The photo was still again.
Had he imagined it?
CUT TO BLACK.
Then: energy.
Purple. Crackling across the screen in patterns that hurt to look at. Geometric impossibilities. Angles that shouldn't exist in three-dimensional space.
The energy formed words:
[52]
[My name is Mxyzptlk! M-X-Y-Z-P-T-L-K!]
The purple energy lingered for a moment. In it, Max saw - or thought he saw - something vast. Something that was watching back.
Then darkness.
[Regal Seraphsail - Writer and Director]
The house lights came up.
Max sat frozen.
His brain was trying to process. Trying to connect dots that felt just out of reach.
Was that even Jonathan Kent?
No.
Was that even Stephen Hawking?
Where is his calm and gentle expression he held throughout the film?
No he is not that anymore.
He is Mxyzptlk!
But who was he?
Damn it! He cursed for the first time feeling lost and bad for not following MDC comics.
Still he didn't care about anything and pulled out his phone and typed into Google:
[Significance of 52 in MDC]
52 is a significant number in DC Comics. The Multiverse consists of 52 parallel Earths. It represents all possible realities…
He kept scrolling.
[Mxyzptlk]
The results made him go still:
Mister Mxyzptlk - Fifth-dimensional imp who torments Superman. Reality warper. Cannot be killed, only tricked. Often connected to the number 52 due to dimensional mathematics…
Max clicked on the Mxyzptlk wiki entry.
Read about a being who:
| Could reshape reality at will.
| Viewed Superman as a fascinating toy.
| Was immortal across all dimensions.
| Could perfectly mimic anyone.
| Fed on entertainment, on novelty, on seeing new things.
| Had once become genuinely DANGEROUS when he decided to play seriously.
There was an image. Comic book art. Mxyzptlk in his true form: purple energy, impossible geometry, that same too-wide grin.
And in one famous story arc: "Whatever Happened to the Man of Tomorrow?" where Mxyzptlk had stopped playing games and tried to actually DESTROY Superman psychologically.
Max's hands trembled as he read the plot summary:
...Mxyzptlk grew bored of simple tricks. Decided to see what would happen if he pushed Superman to his absolute breaking point. Killed his friends. Destroyed his reputation. Made him question everything…
The article continued:
The only way to defeat Mxyzptlk is to trick him into saying his name backwards (Kltpzyxm) or to create a situation so genuinely unexpected that he loses interest…
Max looked back at the dark screen.
Jonathan Kent. Back from the dead. Perfect in every way except the ways that mattered.
A fifth-dimensional being who could BECOME Jonathan. Who could rewrite reality? Who thought tormenting Superman would be fun?
And Clark would have to PROVE it wasn't his father. Would have to convince Martha. Would have to REJECT the one thing he wanted most - his father back - because accepting the lie would be worse.
Everyone would see Jonathan. Everyone would WANT it to be Jonathan. The world would NEED it to be Jonathan - proof that good people can come back, that death isn't final, that hope wins.
And Clark would have to be the one to say: "No. That's not him. I won't pretend."
Even if it broke him.
Even if it meant losing his father AGAIN.
??Wait–
Stephen Hawking!!
Max looked around - wanting to say something, anything, to Stephen Hawking.
To thank him and tell him what his performance had meant, what this entire experience had meant.
But the seats were empty.
G15 and G16. Vacant.
They had left.
Disappointment crashed over Max like a wave.
He had been so absorbed in processing what he had just witnessed that he had missed his chance.
Missed the opportunity to speak to his favorite actor, to tell him—
Wait.
There was something on the seat.
A piece of white paper, folded once.
Max reached for it with trembling hands, unfolded it carefully.
The handwriting was elegant, precise:
"Hope you enjoyed the film."
And below that, a signature: Stephen Hawking Sr.
An autograph.
A personal autograph, left specifically for him because Stephen had noticed his reaction, had understood what this meant to him.
Max stared at the paper, and the tears came again, different this time.
It wasn't sad tears, not even necessarily happy tears.
Just... full tears.
The kind that came when something touched the deepest part of you, the part that remembered what it meant to feel wonder.
He sat there in the empty theater, holding the autograph like it was made of something precious and fragile, and let himself cry.
For the first time in ten years, Max remembered why he had fallen in love with movies in the first place.
And it felt like coming home.
….
As Max came out of the hall he realized–
What he had seen in the credit scene isn't just a sequel tease.
This was a NIGHTMARE.
A villain Superman couldn't punch. Couldn't overpower. Couldn't beat with strength or speed or heat vision.
A villain who'd studied him. Who KNEW him. Who was currently wearing the face of the man who taught Superman what it meant to be GOOD.
And who thought the whole thing was hilarious.
No matter how much he tried, he couldn't unsee it now.
That glitch in the reflection. That impossible geometry. That smile that was just slightly too wide.
He pulled out his phone. Texted Danny, his friend:
[Don't read ANYTHING online. Don't let anyone spoil it. Stay through ALL the credits. And when you get to the end... look up 'Mister Mxyzptlk' before you text me. Trust me.]
Then he walked out into the streets of a busy city.
Above him, stars. Distant. Cold. Indifferent.
And somewhere, in some other dimension, Max imagined something purple and vast and ancient was WATCHING. Was WAITING.
Max shivered despite the warm night.
And understood: Regal Seraphsail hadn't just made a Superman movie.
He had made a horror film disguised as a superhero movie.
And the monster wore the face of love itself.
….
Meanwhile—
"You left him an autograph." Ross observed.
"He recognized me. Seemed like a decent thing to do."
"Dont you get tired of giving those autographs?"
"I don't usually sit next to people who cry through my death scene." Stephen opened the car door for Ross. "Did you notice? He forgot I was there. Completely forgot. That's how absorbed he was."
Ross settled into the seat, and Stephen walked around to the other side.
"So…" He said once they were both inside and the driver was pulling away from the curb. "Was I right? Did your performance overshadow the film?"
Stephen was quiet for a moment, watching the city lights slide past the window.
"No." he said finally. "The film held. Everything served the story. Regal knew what he was doing."
"You sound surprised."
"Surprised? I don't know, but impressed? Definitely."
"So do you know about the end credit scene beforehand?"
"I am half aware, but–"
"But it was never like what you have witnessed right?"
"You really did take a liking to that kid huh? Color me surprised."
Ross ignored the comment and asked. "Still think he bit off more than he could chew with the climax setup? One mistake in the next film everything will be naught for."
"Are you perhaps worried?"
"...."
Ross was quiet for a long moment.
"Fine. The kid is talented. He will be allright. Happy now?"
Stephen smiled. "Ecstatic."
"Don't be smug. It's unbecoming."
But he was smiling too, and they drove through the Los Angeles night in comfortable silence, both thinking about the film they had just watched and the audience that had reacted exactly as they had hoped.
.
….
[To be continued...]
★─────⇌•★•⇋─────★
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