The soft hum in the air grew louder until it filled the room like invisible static. The clock on the wall ticked to 9:00 a.m. exactly — and stopped.
Then, the voice came. Calm. Precise. Familiar.
"Time lock released. Check-In accumulation confirmed."
"Total days checked in: 5,479."
"Reward generation complete. Please prepare for synchronization."
Barry exhaled slowly, every hair on his arms rising. "Alright, system," he muttered. "Fifteen years of loyalty. Don't let me down."
The blue light filled his vision, growing until it swallowed the walls. His bed, his desk, even the posters on his wall faded into a shimmering void. He felt no fear — just an overwhelming rush of energy, like the world itself was pouring into him.
"Congratulations, user Barry Webb."
"You have unlocked the Golden Age Superman Template."
There was a pulse — deep and physical — that ran through his chest. His heartbeat thundered. His lungs burned with the sudden, intoxicating need to breathe more than air. Every breath filled him with something thicker, purer — power.
He doubled over, gasping. His fingers dug into the bedsheets and tore through the fabric like tissue. The sensation wasn't painful — it was too much. His senses exploded outward.
He could hear the refrigerator hum. He could hear the neighbor upstairs walking in slippers. He could hear a conversation happening three buildings away about a lost cat.
"Holy…" His voice cracked. He tried to stand, but the floor creaked beneath his weight as though he'd gained mass — or gravity had decided he mattered more.
Then, just as quickly as it began, the light condensed again — coalescing into something solid in front of him.
It floated there, suspended in the air: a neatly folded outfit.
Red, blue, yellow.
Not the sleek, modern armor from the movies or comics he'd seen as a kid. No — this was simpler. Cruder. Purer. The bright circus colors of a hero from an age before cynicism.
The original Superman suit.
Blue fabric that looked oddly hand-stitched. A bright yellow belt with a square buckle. Red trunks over blue tights, and a cape so vivid it seemed to bleed color into the air. On the chest — the early, slightly clumsy S-shield, a golden triangle with a red border.
"Supplementary reward generated," the voice said softly.
"Outfit: Golden Age Superman Uniform.
Contextual note: symbolic of legacy. Durable to template level."
Barry stared, speechless. "You're kidding me. You actually gave me the suit."
The fabric floated closer, unfolding midair, shimmering as though expecting him to take it.
He hesitated. "What, now you're telling me to wear spandex on my birthday?"
"Affirmative."
He snorted, half laughing, half disbelieving. "Figures. The system's got jokes."
Still, when he reached out and touched the suit, it was soft—not like synthetic athletic fabric, but something organic and resilient. It felt alive.
The moment his fingers brushed the cloth, the blue light enveloped him again — brief and blinding — and when it cleared, he stood in front of the mirror, transformed.
He looked… ridiculous.
And yet — iconic.
The cape fell perfectly behind him, the red boots fit like they were molded to his skin, and the S on his chest caught the morning light. For a heartbeat, the absurdity vanished, replaced by something else. Something right.
He stepped closer to the mirror. His reflection looked stronger. Shoulders broader. His skin glowed faintly, like sunlight beneath the surface.
"Template synchronization complete."
"Warning: initial parameters correspond to the earliest Superman model. Strength, speed, durability, and senses will evolve through progressive milestones."
Barry blinked. "Wait — earliest model? You mean I don't get to start with the planet-busting version?"
"Affirmative. Golden Age Superman's earliest documented feats include:
*Leaping one-eighth of a mile.
*Lifting an automobile effortlessly.
*Withstanding conventional small-arms fire.
Flight, heat vision, and higher-tier abilities are unavailable at this stage."
He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "So… I waited fifteen years to become a glorified kangaroo with good hearing?"
"Affirmative."
All joking aside, he couldn't deny how different he felt. His heart beat like an engine. The air felt lighter, his balance sharper. The whole world seemed to move just a little slower — and he was suddenly very aware of how fragile everything was around him.
He reached for his desk, and the wood cracked under his fingertips. He jerked back instantly. "Oh, no, no, no—"
"Adaptation period recommended," the voice advised calmly. "Proceed gradually to avoid collateral damage."
"Yeah, no kidding."
He paced his small room, careful not to touch anything. The cape swished behind him, an absurd splash of red in a room full of neutral tones.
Then he caught sight of himself again in the mirror.
For a long moment, he said nothing. He just stared.
The suit, the symbol, the new weight in his step — it wasn't just power. It was potential.
Maybe he wasn't the Superman of his dreams. Not yet. But he was a Superman.
And somewhere in the city below, the age of heroes was about to begin.
He smiled faintly. "Okay, old man Barry. Let's see how far this rabbit hole goes."