"What the heck is going on?"
Kalen's voice echoed off the crystalline walls of the inner sanctum, shattering the frigid silence like a hammer through glass.
His breath misted in the cold air, every inhalation tight in his chest. His eyes were wide, not just from confusion, but from a kind of dread that ran deep.
He stood in the center of the vaulted chamber, the light from the crystalline floor bathing him in pale, flickering blue.
Holograms hovered all around with maps of star systems, streams of alien script, and complex models of genetic helixes and architecture. All running faster than he could comprehend.
A figure stepped forward from the alcove at the far end of the chamber. It wasn't organic.
The robotic figure's body was sleek, tall, polished silver-blue with glowing white circuitry tracing its limbs like nerves. Its single eye shone like a focused headlamp.
Across its chest, etched in the same style as the S-shaped crest on Kalen's suit, was a simple shield icon with the numeral "1" glowing inside it.
"I am Kelex," it said. "I serve the House of El. And I have waited a long time for you."
"I don't… I don't understand," Kalen said, stepping forward, eyes darting across the floating displays.
"I was found in a wreck. A pod. Alliance patrols pulled me from debris they called DC1938. No one knew what it was. I didn't even know what I was until I started flying. You're telling me that wreck came from… this?"
Kelex turned and gestured to a large circular panel on the far wall. A shimmering projection appeared, and with it, an image of a distant red sun.
"This," Kelex said, voice full of reverence, "is Rao, the star that once warmed Krypton, your true homeworld."
Kalen stared.
The hologram shifted showing a gleaming planet orbiting Rao. White towers stretching into the clouds. Hexagonal cities nestled in valleys. Flying vehicles, great crystalline spires, and people in robes and armor, all bearing variations of the same insignia now engraved on his chest.
"Krypton," Kelex said. "Was the jewel of the Rao system. A seat of science, philosophy, art, and power."
"You're saying I'm from there?" Kalen asked.
"Indeed Kal-El," Kelex said with quiet awe. "Son of Jor-El and Lara Lor-Van. Heir of the House of El. The last natural-born Kryptonian."
The words struck Kalen like a cold blade. He turned, backing away from the projections.
"No. I don't even remember them. I couldn't. I grew up in orbit above Neptune, for stars' sake. All I've known is the Alliance, Chakwas, Anderson, Earth history. I'm just… I'm just trying to help people. That's all I've ever been."
"And yet you are so much more," Kelex said, tilting its head. "You were saved not only to survive, but to carry on the legacy of an entire civilization."
Kalen shook his head slowly, disbelief still thick in his voice. "Why is this place on Earth? Why here?"
The chamber dimmed. Another projection appeared of a massive, blocky structure descending through a swirling atmosphere. A crystalline ship, similar in shape to the pod he was found in but ten times larger.
"This structure," Kelex said, gesturing around them, "was once a Kryptonian scout ship, sent during the Age of Expansion. A time when Krypton looked to the stars in search of habitable worlds and knowledge. Earth was one such candidate."
"So this place has been here for centuries?" Kalen asked.
"Longer," Kelex replied. "Millennia. Buried beneath your Arctic. Its technology adapted to the environment, hiding itself until a descendant of the House of El activated its core."
"My pod," Kalen whispered. "It started pulsing a few weeks ago. Only I could hear it."
"Affirmative," said Kelex. "The signal was embedded in your genetic code. Designed to awaken upon your coming of age."
"And what exactly am I waking up to?" Kalen asked, his voice sharpening. "You keep saying legacy. Rebuilding Krypton. How am I supposed to do that when I'm the only one left?"
Kelex paused, as if considering the weight of the moment. The floating images faded. The chamber fell silent again, save for the quiet hum of the fortress.
"You are not being asked to recreate the past," Kelex said softly. "You are being offered the knowledge, wisdom, and history of a lost world. What you choose to do with it... is yours alone."
Kalen's shoulders sagged slightly. He felt the weight of the galaxy pressing down on him… again.
He thought back to every disaster he'd stopped in secret. He had thought he was doing enough.
But now this?
"You said my father, Jor-El, supported these exploration efforts?"
Kelex nodded. "He believed Krypton had lost its way. That the rigid caste system and isolationism of the High Council had sealed our fate. When his warnings of planetary instability were ignored, he took matters into his own hands."
"The Codex, Krypton's genetic destiny, was eugenics. Jor-El fought against its misuse. He believed in choice. That free will could be Krypton's salvation."
"That's why I was born," Kalen muttered, realization creeping in. "Not grown in a pod, but born. Naturally."
"Yes," Kelex said, almost reverently. "You are the first of a new possibility."
Kalen didn't speak for a long time.
"What am I supposed to do?" he whispered. "I've got obligations now. Friends. A role to play in this galaxy. The Alliance, Anderson, Jane. They all need me. I can't just disappear and become some kind of Kryptonian emperor."
"You are not required to rule," Kelex said. "Only to understand. To decide what of Krypton's knowledge should endure… and what should not."
Kalen looked up slowly, the blue light reflecting in his eyes. "Then tell me everything."
Kelex gave a slow nod. The walls around them began to shimmer with new light, a gateway opening deeper into the fortress. The path forward.
"This is only the beginning, Kal-El."
***
The dropship's ramp hit the tarmac with a dull thud, followed by the hiss of the stabilizers decompressing.
Heat from the engines dispersed in waves as the Alliance base in the Skyllian Verge came into view.
Jane Shepard stepped off the ship, blood crusted into the joints of her armor, limping slightly, eyes shadowed. Her weapon was still slung across her back, even though she'd been ordered to disarm hours ago. She hadn't. No one pressed the issue.
A few soldiers nearby stopped what they were doing to stare.
No cheers.
No salutes.
Just stunned silence.
Whispers followed her like ghosts.
"Is that…?"
"She was listed as KIA."
"They said the whole squad was gone."
"Jesus, how is she even walking?"
Shepard kept her head high, even as the buzz of murmurs built around her like static. Every step toward the command wing felt heavier.
Not from pain but memory. Of blood, smoke, screaming, the sound of children crying in cages, the reek of disinfectant and fear. The weight of those she couldn't save clung to her like phantom limbs.
She received proper treatment, fully recovered, and was able to attend an expected meeting.
By the time she entered the debriefing room, her face was unreadable, stone carved by experience.
Three Alliance officers stood waiting. A white-haired admiral with lines carved deep across his face. A mid-level command analyst checking something on a datapad. And one quiet man in a dark uniform who hadn't introduced himself yet.
"Lieutenant Shepard," the admiral began, voice like gravel, "you've had quite the week."
She saluted. "Sir."
"You were part of a black ops infiltration strike. The official report stated your team was wiped out mid-deployment. Comms blacked out. No signs of life."
"I was very much alive, sir," she said, voice flat.
"And you alone disabled the slaver facility, rerouted its security systems, armed the captives, and led a full civilian extraction under hostile conditions."
"Yes, sir."
"And you disobeyed standing protocol by refusing to wait for reinforcements. You diverted resources, engaged in unauthorized command, hacked a classified encryption channel, and risked the loss of classified gear and transport during a firefight."
"Yes, sir."
A long silence.
The analyst looked up from his datapad. "Shepard, what you accomplished was a statistical impossibility. No backup. No support. Your fireteam's dead, and you brought back thirty-six civilians alive."
"They wouldn't have survived waiting for permission," Shepard said quietly.
"You're a soldier, not a rogue element."
"I'm a soldier, sir. That's why I did it."
The admiral's jaw twitched. The analyst looked uncertain. The third man, who had stayed silent until now, finally stepped forward.
He was calm. Measured. Dressed in plain black with no rank insignia.
"Lieutenant Shepard," he said, "I represent Alliance Special Forces. We've reviewed your profile. Combat logs. We're interested."
"In what?"
"In what you do when no one's looking. In what you do when the rules fail the people they were supposed to protect."
Shepard met his eyes and said nothing.
"We're not in the business of making heroes, Shepard. We're in the business of preparing them. What you did out there… it wasn't just skill. It was conviction. Unflinching. Painful. Reckless. But right."
She stayed silent, guarded.
"The N-School."
The datapad on the table slid toward her. It displayed a red and black interface.
N7 APPLICATION – CONFIDENTIAL CLEARANCE REQUIRED
STATUS: PENDING
The representative leaned in slightly. "You don't follow orders. You follow the truth. That's what we need."
He walked out without waiting for an answer.
The admiral gave her one last look. It was something between admiration and unease.
"This could be the end of your career," he said gruffly. "Or the start of something much larger. It all depends on how you handle what comes next."
She nodded. "Understood, sir."
He turned away. "Dismissed."
The door hissed shut behind her.
Shepard stood in the corridor for a moment. The sterile light of the base flickered faintly overhead. A med-drone hovered nearby and beeped, offering a stim. She waved it away.
She found her way to the observation deck. A wide, reinforced pane of glass overlooked the horizon.
She stared at the datapad in her hand.
Images flickered in her mind:
A child in a cage whispering "Not again."
A Batarian begging before she silenced him.
Screams she couldn't silence.
The faces of the fireteam she'd lost, gone in the first wave.
She gripped the edge of the railing until her knuckles ached.
Her reflection in the glass showed a different woman than the one who'd first arrived on base a year ago. Gone was the raw recruit. This one… this one had seen hell. And crawled out of it carrying others.
Where was Kalen now? Was he looking up at stars like she was? Still saving people in silence?
Part of her had wished, just a small part, that he'd come crashing in like he had on Mindoir.
But he hadn't. And she'd made it anyway.
She didn't need to be saved.
She just needed to be strong enough to fight beside him. Not beneath him. Not behind him. With him.
Her eyes returned to the datapad.
She tapped the screen.
ACCEPTED.
TRANSFER EN ROUTE: N7 TRAINING FACILITY, ARCTURUS STATION
***
Kalen had always thought the hardest part of life was the isolation. Not the kind that came from solitude or silence, but from always being othered.
Not quite human. Not quite alien. Something in between.
He had long grown used to the sidelong glances in Alliance halls, the whispers that trailed his shadow, the awe and fear braided into every salute or scowl.
Even among his allies, he was a symbol. Sometimes a hero, sometimes a weapon, sometimes a threat. Never just… Kalen.
For the first time in his life, Kalen was facing something that shook the foundations of who he thought he was.
Not the enemy outside. But the truth within.
He stood in silence in the crystal chamber of the Kryptonian vault buried deep beneath the Arctic ice.
The architecture shimmered with elegance. The low hum of energy pulsed in the walls like a heartbeat.
Kelex had finished its role in aiding Kalen catch up with the basics of his people's history. The next part of these revelations was to be discussed by a different individual.
Light coalesced into a figure. A man.
Regal. Composed. Draped in flowing Kryptonian robes woven with the House of El sigil. The hologram of Jor-El flickered into being with a tranquil gaze, eyes filled with warmth and centuries of knowledge.
"My son," he said gently, his voice echoing through the stillness like the first breeze in a long-forgotten temple. "You've come home."
"I grieve every moment I was not by your side. But I am not merely a recording. I am a reflection of the man who sent you away. With hopes. With heartbreak. With love."
There was a long pause. Kalen looked down. "Why now?" he asked. "Why keep all of this secret? Why bury this on a planet that didn't even know we existed?"
Jor-El stepped forward, the light around him dimming slightly. "Because Earth was not ready. Because you were not ready. You needed time to choose your own path, not one dictated by our legacy. The galaxy is a dangerous place, and power, true power, must be tempered by perspective. You had to learn compassion. Justice. Restraint. And in your years among humanity, you have."
Kalen exhaled slowly. "What am I supposed to feel?"
"Feel whatever is true to you," Jor-El said. "I am not your father in flesh. But I can be your father in spirit. To teach you what I know. To remind you that you are not alone, even if the galaxy tells you otherwise."
Kalen's voice softened, the bitterness dulling. "I thought knowing where I came from would make me feel whole. But all I feel now is… more alien than ever."
Jor-El's hologram moved closer. "Then take that feeling, and turn it into purpose. You walk between worlds, my son. You carry the blood of a lost people, and the hopes of a fragile one. Be the bridge. Not by conquering or yielding, but by showing them what's possible."
Kalen stared at him.
Jor-El continued, his voice resolute now firm, but kind.
"They will stumble, and falter. They will distrust you, maybe even fear you again. But in time, your example will shine brighter than any weapon. And they will follow. Because you will help them rise. And one day, they will stand beside you in the light."
Silence fell.
Jor-El faded, his final words lingering like a flame.
Kalen stood still for a long moment.
Then turned.
And walked away.
Back outside the room in the fortress, Kalen motioned to speak to Dr. Chakwas while the rest of the team continued to look around.
He offered her a small nod. "It's… a lot," he said simply.
"I can imagine," she replied gently. "But you don't have to explain everything now."
"I won't," he admitted. "Some of it's… private. It should stay that way. At least for now."
Chakwas studied him carefully. "This isn't secrecy, is it?"
"No," he said. "It's respect."
He joined the rest of the crew in a quiet debrief, offering only vague answers. A hidden alien structure, advanced technology, signs of a dead civilization.
His civilization. His people.
***
A large chamber filled with stark white light and soft echoes, the Alliance Defense Committee chamber. Holograms and delegates sat or floated in mid-air, connected from across human colonies.
New faces and old presided over the debrief.
Dr. Chakwas stood at the central podium, flanked by officers and scientific advisors. The topic: Kalen.
"What he found is beyond anything we've encountered," Chakwas began. "This structure… it's not Prothean. It's the missing link we've been searching to connect Kalen's origins. It's Kryptonian."
"And he won't share it?" snapped one military delegate.
"He didn't say that," Chakwas corrected. "He said he would protect it. There's a difference."
Another voice spoke, colder. "It's not his call. He's Alliance property. Think of the applications we can use the tech for. Maybe finally we can one up the Council."
Chakwas bristled. "He is not property. He's done his fair share for humanity. Saved countless lives without them knowing ever since Mindoir. He's never asked for anything."
"Which is precisely the point," came a third voice, more diplomatic and backing up Chakwas. "We've taken so much, and offered so little. The boy doesn't even draw a salary. He's never demanded power, or rank, or recognition."
"So we just let him sit on alien technology?" the skeptical delegate snapped. "Do nothing?"
A fourth voice chimed in: "We antagonize him, we risk more than losing trust. We risk war. With a single individual. And we know what he's capable of even when holding back."
"Regardless, we can't hide this structure forever," someone else said. "It's not like it's on some fringe rock in the Traverse. This is Earth. Someone will find it. A whistleblower. A drone. What do we do then?"
The room buzzed with tension, then it erupted, voices overlapping as each proposed their own solution for how to move forward.
The official story would be that the fortress was a long-dormant Prothean ruin, only now uncovered thanks to recent advances in archaeology.
It would be a shock, yes, but far easier for both the human and galactic public to accept if the truth ever came to light. And since this was on human soil, in their very capital, the Council would find it far harder to justify sending a large investigative presence of their own to Earth.
But what this development also produced was pushing the Alliance into a formalized agreement with their strongest asset: Kalen.
In recognition for all his efforts, and for reaching the human recognized age of adulthood, the agreement established the Fortress as a legally recognized cultural heritage site under Kryptonian sovereignty.
In practical terms, it meant the location was treated like an embassy or protected archaeological zone inviolable under interstellar law.
In return, Kalen formally swore that it would never be used to develop or stockpile offensive weapons. It was not a matter of hoarding technology from the Alliance; it was a matter of preserving the integrity of a civilization's history.
To maintain trust, the deal included provisions for neutral third-party oversight. Periodic inspections would be permitted, but strictly for the purpose of confirming that no hostile systems were being constructed or deployed.
This would also serve to uphold the image of Alliance research into this secret "Prothean" ruin.
Kryptonian security protocols would remain in place, preventing inspection teams from accessing actual data or artifacts. These safeguards ensured that while transparency was maintained, the Fortress itself remained secure and unviolated.
In exchange for that privacy, Kalen committed to a pledge that would bind his honor and his future: should a threat emerge that only Kryptonian technology could counter, he would personally intervene.
This assurance gave the Alliance the confidence that secrecy would not come at the expense of galactic safety.
The agreement also included a cultural bridge. Kalen would permit a limited exchange of non-sensitive Kryptonian heritage such as language, art, and philosophical works. All as a gesture of goodwill with the Alliance via the Cultural Preservation Office.
These offerings, while devoid of military or industrial applications, would deepen mutual understanding between his people's legacy and the diverse cultures of the Alliance.
The final clause was perhaps the most personal. The Alliance, both formal yet classified, granted him full citizenship, complete with the rights and protections afforded to any citizen.
No longer was he merely an "asset" of strategic interest; he was now an autonomous individual under the law, his sovereignty over the Fortress mirrored by his sovereignty over his own life.
What had once been a looming political crisis had, through patience and mutual trust, transformed into a framework for coexistence.
The Fortress would remain hidden to the wider galaxy, its secrets locked away not by government mandate, but by the choice of its rightful custodian.