BOOM!
High above the Antarctic wasteland, thick cloud formations exploded outward in perfect spherical shockwaves, the atmospheric pressure differential creating temporary vacuum pockets that collapsed with thunderous roars. Two red streaks carved impossible trajectories through the sky, their passage shattering cumulus formations and leaving spiral contrails of superheated vapor in their wake.
The sonic booms they generated weren't merely loud, they were seismic events, each collision sending earthquake-level tremors rippling through the upper atmosphere. Clark struggled to track Ben's movements even with his enhanced reflexes, the older Kryptonian's combat experience translating into tactical superiority that made every exchange a harsh lesson in applied physics.
CRASH!
Another bone-jarring impact sent Clark tumbling through three cloud layers like a broken doll, his cape streaming behind him as he fought to regain control of his flight path. Facing Solarion, Ben's genetically optimized Kryptonian form, was like sparring with a living weapon designed specifically for aerial combat.
The disparity wasn't just about raw power, though Ben's enhanced physiology gave him certain advantages. The real gap lay in practical application. While Clark had spent twenty-three years suppressing and hiding his abilities, afraid of the destruction they might cause, Ben had thrown himself into space-level conflicts from day one. The difference between theoretical potential and battle-tested expertise was written in every perfectly executed maneuver.
Ben had resolved prehistoric alien invasions in New York, conquered the gladiatorial world of Sakaar in a month, dismantled Hydra's global conspiracy, personally killed Thanos in single combat, and claimed dominion over nine dimensional realms. His resume read like mythology made manifest.
By comparison, Clark was a talented amateur whose greatest challenge had been stopping runaway school buses without revealing his secret.
Yet despite the punishment he was taking, Clark's learning curve was extraordinary. His enhanced Kryptonian intellect absorbed Ben's combat techniques with frightening speed, incorporating Tetramand martial arts principles and aerial maneuvering strategies into his own fighting style. The genetic memory embedded in his cells seemed to awaken under pressure, unlocking instinctive combat protocols that had been dormant since birth.
More importantly, Clark felt a joy he'd never experienced before. For the first time in his life, he could unleash his full strength without fear of consequences. No more careful modulation of every movement, no more terror that a moment's inattention might accidentally harm someone he cared about. He was finally free to be what he truly was, and the liberation was intoxicating.
Even as Ben's latest assault sent him spinning through the stratosphere, Clark found himself laughing with pure exhilaration. The sensation was like being released from a prison he'd built around himself, brick by careful brick, since childhood.
Ben capitalized on Clark's momentary distraction, diving from above to grab the flowing red cape and begin spinning his opponent like a human centrifuge. The centrifugal forces were tremendous, enough to liquefy an ordinary person, but Clark's Kryptonian physiology absorbed the punishment while his inner ear struggled to compensate for the disorienting rotation.
The wind patterns they generated took on a life of their own, pulling surrounding cloud formations into a massive atmospheric vortex. What had begun as a simple training exercise was reshaping local weather systems, creating a hurricane-force cyclone from nothing but the kinetic energy of their combat.
Then Ben released his grip, launching Clark toward the edge of space with carefully calculated force. The younger Kryptonian rocketed upward through progressively thinner atmosphere, the blue curve of Earth growing larger in his vision as he left the protective envelope of breathable air behind.
When his momentum finally ceased, Clark found himself floating in the profound silence of near-vacuum, medium-altitude satellites drifting past him like technological fireflies. Below, Earth spread out in all its impossible beauty, a blue marble suspended in space darkness, so fragile and perfect it brought tears to his eyes.
But it was the golden radiance ahead that truly commanded his attention. Unfiltered sunlight bathed his form without atmospheric interference, and every cell in his body sang with renewed vitality. He could feel his power reserves increasing exponentially, solar radiation pouring into his Kryptonian physiology like nectar from the gods.
"Your cellular structure is designed to absorb and convert energy from the stars," Ben explained, materializing beside him with casual ease. His costume had changed during their ascent, the garish yellow and red replaced by a sophisticated black and silver design that echoed Clark's iconic colors while bearing the distinctive Plumber insignia where the House of El symbol would be.
Ben spread his arms wide in a cruciform pose, allowing the raw solar energy to wash over him like a benediction. Against the backdrop of infinite space, with Earth's curve providing a dramatic backdrop, he appeared almost divine, a dark angel silhouetted against the cosmic fire that powered their abilities.
"You look like a god," Clark murmured, struck by the visual poetry of the moment.
"Just because I'm positioned like Christ on the cross?" Ben asked with mild amusement. "I've never understood that symbolism. Do you really think Jesus would appreciate having his execution method turned into a religious icon? That's like commemorating someone with a miniature electric chair."
Clark had no ready answer for that particular theological observation, so he shifted to more immediate concerns. "What's our next move?"
The question revealed something important about Clark's psychology. Despite his space-level abilities and superior moral compass, he naturally looked to Ben for leadership. Part of this was simple inexperience, Ben had demonstrated mastery of situations that Clark couldn't even begin to navigate. But there was also a deeper element of recognition and relief.
For the first time in his life, Clark wasn't the only person in the room with impossible abilities. Ben understood the weight of power, the isolation of being fundamentally different from everyone around you. In Ben's eyes, Clark saw acceptance rather than fear, kinship rather than awe.
"Obviously, we need to track down Zod and deal with him," Ben replied matter-of-factly. "I'm not particularly interested in waiting for him to make the first move."
The casual confidence in Ben's voice suggested he viewed General Zod as a moderate inconvenience rather than an existential threat.
"Maybe there's a better way," Clark said hesitantly. "Perhaps we could try communicating with them first?"
Despite everything Jor-El had revealed about Zod's nature, Clark still harbored hope for peaceful resolution. If he could grow up successfully on Earth, surely it proved that Kryptonians and humans were capable of coexistence. There had to be some middle ground between conquest and war.
Ben studied Clark's expression and recognized the naive optimism that was both Superman's greatest strength and his most dangerous weakness. Unfortunately, Zod's genetic programming made compromise literally impossible, but Clark would need to learn that lesson firsthand.
"Let me ask you something important, Clark," Ben said, his tone growing serious. "Are you a Kryptonian or an Earthling?"
The question hit like a physical blow, forcing Clark to confront the fundamental contradiction at the heart of his existence.
"When Zod refuses to cooperate, and he will, which side are you going to choose?"
Clark opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again as the implications crashed over him. Genetically, he was undeniably Kryptonian, a child of a dead world whose blood carried the heritage of an entire civilization. But emotionally, spiritually, he was a product of Kansas farmland and small-town values. Earth was home in every sense that mattered.
The conflict wasn't just political, it was existential. How could he choose between his birth species and the world that raised him?
"I'll tell you what the right answer is, Clark," Ben said, turning to face him with the sun blazing behind his silhouette. "I learned this from another hero who faced a similar choice, someone who was both human and something greater."
Ben's thoughts turned to the Ultraman series, where heroes regularly wrestled with dual identity and space responsibility. The answer wasn't about genetics or biology, it was about character, about the values you chose to embody regardless of your origins.
"The choice isn't determined by what species you belong to," Ben continued. "It's about having unshakable conviction in the face of impossible decisions. Your confusion in this situation? That's actually a sign of how much more growing you need to do."
Clark felt the words hit home with uncomfortable accuracy. He was still thinking like someone caught between two worlds instead of someone capable of transcending that limitation entirely.
"I'm not saying you can't try communicating with Zod," Ben added, his tone softening slightly. "But understand that he represents a genuine threat to Earth. If you want to attempt diplomacy, we do it far away from any populated areas."
The tactical wisdom was undeniable. Clark's own devastating power gave him a visceral understanding of what Kryptonian combat could do to civilian populations. The idea of their battle inadvertently leveling a city was horrifying.
"You're right," Clark acknowledged, and in making that admission, he unconsciously made his choice. He would stand with Earth, not because of genetics or programming, but because it was the right thing to do.
Unknown to them both, that decision would echo across the cosmos in ways neither could imagine.
Meanwhile, deep in the void between stars, General Zod's forces celebrated their impossible resurrection with the fervor of religious zealots. They had expected eternal imprisonment in the Phantom Zone, their rebellion against the Council of Elders earning them a fate worse than death. Instead, Krypton's destruction had shattered their dimensional prison, granting them both freedom and terrible purpose.
The irony wasn't lost on Zod, in trying to prevent their world's destruction, Jor-El had inadvertently ensured the rebels' survival. Now they alone carried the responsibility of preserving Kryptonian civilization, no matter the cost to other species.
"Dozens of worlds searched, and nothing," muttered one of Zod's officers, a lean man whose scholarly appearance concealed tactical brilliance. "Every outpost abandoned, every colony failed. Even the star systems have been corrupted or destroyed."
The Black Zero Legion had spent decades combing the galaxy for signs of Kryptonian survival. Ancient colony worlds lay barren, their terraforming equipment silent. Entire star systems had collapsed into black holes or suffered stellar death, leaving only frozen wastelands where garden worlds were meant to flourish.
"Maybe survivors from the ancient expeditions finally made contact," suggested another warrior optimistically. "The outpost crews might have established hidden settlements."
"Impossible," the scholar replied with scientific precision. "Those expeditions lost contact with Krypton millennia ago. They couldn't know about our current situation or possess the technology to signal across galactic distances."
Sub-Commander Faora said nothing, but her predatory gaze suggested she'd already reached the same conclusion as her general. Her enhanced physiology, optimized for combat and tactics, had identified the most likely scenario within minutes of receiving the transmission.
Zod himself felt a familiar surge of vindication mixed with fury. His steel-gray eyes blazed with the fervor of someone who'd been proven right by space catastrophe. "According to our timeline calculations, Jor-El's son would have reached maturity by now," he declared with growing excitement. "A Kryptonian raised among aliens, confused about his heritage, desperate to understand his true identity."
The logic was flawless. Kal-El would have discovered the scout ship while searching for answers about his origins, activating systems that broadcast their location across the void. The boy's natural curiosity had become a beacon guiding them to their ultimate prize.
"I told you I would find him, Lara!" Zod shouted at the star field, his voice carrying decades of accumulated rage and determination. His former friend's betrayal still burned like acid in his consciousness, the memory of Jor-El's naive idealism spurring him toward righteous vengeance.
Jor-El had destroyed Krypton with his selfish sentimentality, choosing the illusion of moral purity over the harsh necessities of survival. But Zod would complete the mission their people had entrusted to him, even if it meant teaching his friend's son the same brutal lessons that had shaped every Kryptonian warrior.
"Find him!" Zod commanded, his voice echoing through the command chamber. "Bring me the last son of Krypton!"
"What if he refuses to cooperate?" the scholar asked nervously. "A Kryptonian raised by aliens might not share our... priorities."
The question touched on Zod's deepest concern. Kal-El was naturally born rather than genetically programmed, making his loyalty unpredictable. Worse, decades among primitive humans might have corrupted his understanding of Kryptonian duty and racial superiority.
"Then we'll help him understand his obligations," Zod replied with cold finality. "Kal-El's personal feelings are irrelevant. He carries the future of our civilization in his very cells."
The Codex represented more than mere data, it was the compressed essence of their entire species, containing the hereditary information needed to rebuild Krypton from nothing. Without it, the scattered survivors would remain exactly that, survivors, not the foundation of a restored empire.
"But we must be careful," Faora interjected, her tactical mind already working through the operational challenges. "If the boy has been hiding among humans, he clearly doesn't trust them completely. We can use that isolation against him."
"Turn the humans against their supposed protector," the scholar added with growing enthusiasm. "Force him to choose between hiding among aliens and embracing his true heritage."
The plan had elegant simplicity. Humans were naturally xenophobic and fearful of superior beings. Reveal Kal-El's alien nature publicly, demonstrate the threat he represented, and their primitive governments would demand his surrender. Faced with rejection from the only species he'd known, the boy would have no choice but to accept Kryptonian guidance.
From beginning to end, they never considered Earth's inhabitants as anything more than resources to be manipulated. In Zod's worldview, humanity remained the primitive savages that ancient Kryptonian expeditions had observed, barely sentient creatures useful only as labor or raw materials for terraforming projects.
"Soon, Krypton will rise again!" Zod declared with messianic fervor. "And we shall complete our sacred mission!"
The speech was interrupted by an impossible sound, rhythmic knocking echoing through the ship's hull.
"Who could be knocking?" Faora asked, her enhanced senses immediately going on high alert. They were traveling through deep space at relativistic speeds, thousands of kilometers from the nearest planetary body. Nothing should be able to approach their vessel, let alone make contact with its exterior.
The knocking continued, patient, polite, but undeniably present.
Faora was first to spot the source, her vision detecting movement against the backdrop of stars. What she saw defied every principle of physics and biology she understood.
A shapeless, liquid mass clung to their ship's transparent aluminum viewport like organic adhesive. As they watched in fascination and horror, the substance began spreading across their hull with viral persistence, flowing into sealed compartments through microscopic gaps that shouldn't have existed.
The ship's engines died without warning, their hyperdrive systems simply shutting down as alien technology overwhelmed Kryptonian engineering. Whatever was attacking them possessed capabilities that made their most advanced systems seem primitive by comparison.
The liquid mass pooled on their command deck floor, reshaping itself with deliberate theatricality. Within seconds.
"How rude!" Upgrade said with mock indignation, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulders. "Didn't you hear me knocking? I was trying to be polite."
Behind him, the scout ship he'd commandeered docked with their ship through technology that bypassed every security system they possessed. The casual display of superior capability was more unsettling than any direct threat.
"Now then, General Zod," Ben continued, his tone shifting to businesslike efficiency. "We need to have a conversation. Would you prefer to do this civilly, or should I beat some sense into you first?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing takes time, coffee, and a lot of love.If you'd like to support my work, join me at [email protected]/GoldenGaruda
You'll get early access to over 50 chapters, selection on new series, and the satisfaction of knowing your support directly fuels more stories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~