The oncologist's words hung in the sterile air of the examination room, each syllable a tiny, poisoned dart finding its mark. "Aggressive… Stage IV… limited options…" The rest of the medical jargon blurred, a soundtrack of doom to the closing credits of my life. Forty-three years. That was my runtime. Not exactly a blockbuster, more like a limited-release indie film that nobody remembers a year later.
Outside, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the parking lot, painting the ordinary world in hues of melancholy. People hurried to their cars, their lives stretching out before them like uncut reels of film. They had errands to run, dinners to cook, futures to plan. I had… well, I had a rapidly approaching fade to black.
I, Arthur Finch, was not a superhero. Not in this life, anyway. My superpowers consisted primarily of an encyclopedic knowledge of superhero movie lore, an uncanny ability to predict plot twists, and a deep, abiding love for the genre. Comic books, graphic novels, animated series – I devoured them all. But my true passion, my cinematic religion, was the live-action spectacle. The soaring scores, the practical effects (when done right!), the charismatic actors embodying larger-than-life ideals – it all resonated with a part of me that felt profoundly… un-super.
My apartment, a cozy two-bedroom in a quiet suburb of Fischers, Indiana, was a testament to this obsession. Shelves overflowed with Blu-ray cases, action figures stood guard on every available surface, and framed posters adorned the walls, a vibrant tapestry of heroism and adventure. My pride and joy was a meticulously organized spreadsheet detailing every single superhero movie ever made, ranked by various criteria, complete with behind-the-scenes trivia and personal commentary. It was, in its own nerdy way, my life's work.
Now, that work felt… pointless. What good was knowing the intricate details of the Infinity Gauntlet if I was about to face my own inevitable snap? What solace could I find in the triumphant score of Superman's theme when my own story was ending on such a discordant note?
The weeks that followed were a blur of doctor's appointments, hushed conversations with my sister, Carol, and the gnawing, persistent ache of mortality. Carol, bless her pragmatic heart, tried to be strong, organizing my affairs, offering platitudes that we both knew were hollow. I appreciated the effort, the unwavering love in her tear-filled eyes, but it only served to underscore the unfairness of it all. She had a family, a future. I had… memories of watching Christopher Reeve take flight for the first time, the collective gasp of the audience a moment forever etched in my mind.
I spent my remaining time doing what I loved. I re-watched my favorite superhero movies, seeking a strange sort of comfort in their familiar narratives of hope and resilience. I revisited the Arrowverse, that sprawling tapestry of interconnected shows that had captivated me for years. Green Arrow's gritty determination, The Flash's infectious optimism, Supergirl's unwavering idealism – they were all old friends, now offering a bittersweet farewell.
"You know," I said to Carol one evening, as we sat in the living room, the opening credits of "Superman & Lois" playing on the television, "if I could have any superpower, it wouldn't be flight or super strength. It would be the ability to step into those worlds, to actually live those stories."
Carol managed a weak smile. "You always were a dreamer, Arthur."
"Maybe," I conceded, my gaze fixed on Tyler Hoechlin's earnest portrayal of Clark Kent, the weight of the world etched on his face. "Maybe that's why I loved them so much. Because they offered a world so much more… vibrant than this one."
As my strength waned, my world began to shrink. The vibrant colors of my movie posters seemed to dim, the heroic scores faded into a dull hum. Sleep became my primary occupation, a hazy landscape punctuated by fleeting dreams of caped crusaders and interdimensional battles.
Then came the final act.
It wasn't dramatic, no sudden surge of pain or desperate struggle. It was a slow, gentle surrender. I was lying in my bed, Carol holding my hand, her face a mask of grief. The room was quiet, the only sound the soft rhythm of my weakening breaths.
My eyes drifted closed. The last thing I saw was the faint glow of the television screen, the familiar "S" shield emblazoned across Superman's chest. A wave of profound weariness washed over me, followed by… nothing.
Darkness. Absolute, all-encompassing darkness.
There was no tunnel of light, no ethereal figures beckoning me towards the great beyond. Just an absence of sensation, a void where consciousness had once resided. For a time, there was nothing. No thoughts, no feelings, no awareness of self. It was as if the projector of my existence had simply run out of film.
Then, a flicker. A tiny spark in the vast emptiness. It wasn't light in the traditional sense, more like a nascent awareness, a faint whisper of being. It grew slowly, tentatively, like a single frame of film clicking into place.
Sensations began to return, disjointed and unfamiliar. A pressure, a warmth, a muffled sound that resonated deep within. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced, a primal connection to something… else.
The darkness began to recede, replaced by a soft, muted glow. Shapes started to form, blurry and indistinct at first, but gradually sharpening into focus. I was surrounded by warmth, enveloped in a soft, yielding embrace. A rhythmic pulse vibrated through me, a comforting, steady beat.
Sounds emerged from the muffled silence. A low, soothing murmur, a gentle sigh. These weren't the sterile sounds of a hospital room. They were… organic, intimate.
And then, a new sensation, overwhelming and undeniable. Hunger. A deep, primal craving that resonated through every fiber of my being.
A shift in my position, a gentle rocking motion. The muted glow intensified, and I found myself staring up at a blurry expanse of… something. It was a soft, warm color, occasionally punctuated by darker shapes that moved and shifted.
A face swam into view, a soft, blurry oval framed by dark, slightly tousled hair. Gentle eyes, the color of a summer sky, looked down at me with an expression of such profound tenderness that it felt almost… alien. A soft smile touched the lips, and the soothing murmur I had heard earlier intensified, forming into words, though I couldn't yet decipher their meaning.
This wasn't the void. This wasn't the afterlife I had vaguely imagined. This was… something else entirely.
Over the next few days, or what I perceived as days in my nascent state, the world slowly came into focus. The blurry shapes resolved into distinct objects. The soft, warm color above me was a ceiling, painted a calming shade of blue. The darker shapes were furniture, familiar in their basic forms but somehow… different.
The gentle eyes belonged to the woman who held me, who fed me, who sang soft lullabies in a voice that was both strong and incredibly gentle. Her face was kind, her features soft and familiar in a way that tugged at some deep, forgotten memory.
And then there was him. The man with the strong jawline, the earnest gaze, the dark hair that always seemed slightly out of place despite its neatness. He would hold me too, his large hands surprisingly gentle, his eyes filled with an emotion that mirrored the woman's – a fierce, protective love.
Their interactions were filled with a quiet intimacy, stolen glances, and soft touches that spoke volumes. They called each other by names that echoed in the air around me: Lois. Clark.
Lois and Clark.
The names sparked a jolt of recognition, a faint echo from a life that felt increasingly distant and dreamlike. Lois Lane. Clark Kent. Superman.
The realization hit me with the force of a Kryptonian punch. The familiar features, the gentle strength in their eyes, the very air around them seemed to hum with a subtle energy. This wasn't just a coincidence. This wasn't some elaborate hallucination in my final moments.
I was in the world of "Superman & Lois."
And judging by the way they cradled me, the way they looked at me with such unconditional love… I was their son.
My forty-three-year-old consciousness, crammed into the tiny, helpless body of a newborn, reeled. This was beyond anything I could have imagined, beyond the wildest fan theories or crossover events. This wasn't just watching the movie; I was in the movie. I was a character, a brand new addition to the mythos.
The implications were staggering. I, Arthur Finch, the middle-aged superhero movie enthusiast from Fischers, Indiana, was now the son of Superman. This wasn't just a new life; it was a whole new universe, filled with possibilities and perils I had only ever witnessed on a screen.
My days, or rather, my existence, in those early weeks were a sensory overload. The warmth of Lois's arms, the comforting scent of her skin, the sound of Clark's deep, reassuring voice – these were my constants. I experienced the world through the limited lens of a newborn: hunger, warmth, discomfort, the blurry shapes and sounds of my immediate surroundings.
Yet, beneath the surface of these primal needs, my adult mind was working furiously, trying to reconcile the unbelievable reality with the memories of my past life. I remembered the Kent farm in Smallville, the cozy farmhouse filled with a sense of quiet strength. I remembered the bustling newsroom of the Daily Planet in Metropolis, the constant hum of information and the sharp wit of Lois Lane.
Where was I? Were we on the farm? In Metropolis? Had the events of the show already unfolded? Was Jonathan… my older brother? The thought sent a strange ripple of emotion through me, a mix of curiosity and a bizarre sense of familial connection to a character who had previously existed only on a screen.
My physical limitations were frustrating. I couldn't speak, couldn't move with any real purpose. My only forms of communication were cries of hunger or discomfort, which Lois and Clark seemed to interpret with an almost preternatural understanding. It was a humbling experience, going from a relatively independent adult to a completely helpless infant.
But even in my helplessness, I observed. I watched Lois and Clark interact, their easy camaraderie and deep affection a tangible presence in the room. They spoke to me constantly, their voices filled with love and wonder. They told me stories, not of Krypton or alien invasions, but of their day, of articles Lois was working on, of the farm. Simple, everyday things that somehow felt extraordinary in this context.
One afternoon, as Clark held me close, his powerful heartbeat a steady rhythm against my tiny chest, he spoke softly, his voice tinged with a wonder that mirrored my own internal astonishment.
"Look at you, little guy," he murmured, his gaze fixed on my face. "So small, so perfect. It's still hard to believe you're really here."
His words resonated with a profound truth. It was hard to believe. For both of us, I suspected.
As the days turned into weeks, my senses sharpened. The blurry world gained definition. I could now clearly see the lines on Lois's face when she smiled, the way Clark's brow furrowed in concentration. I recognized the different textures of the blankets that swaddled me, the subtle shifts in light and shadow in the room.
I also began to notice things that a normal infant wouldn't. The almost imperceptible way Clark would sometimes tense, his gaze flicking towards the window as if listening for something beyond human hearing. The way Lois would occasionally glance at me with an expression that held not just love, but a hint of… concern? A protective instinct that seemed to go beyond typical parental worry.
These subtle cues fueled my internal narrative. I was in their world, the world of Superman. Danger was a constant undercurrent, a silent threat that lurked just beyond the horizon. And I, their seemingly ordinary newborn son, was now a part of that world.
My own physical development was progressing at a seemingly normal rate. I gained weight, my limbs grew stronger, my cries became more varied and expressive. Yet, inside this rapidly growing infant body, my adult mind remained, a silent observer, a bewildered passenger on this extraordinary journey.
There were moments of surreal humor. Here I was, a man who had spent countless hours debating the merits of different Superman adaptations, now being burped by the Man of Steel himself. The irony was almost comical, if I had the capacity to laugh.
There were also moments of profound tenderness. The way Lois would gently stroke my cheek as I drifted off to sleep, the reassuring weight of Clark's hand on my back. These were moments of pure, unadulterated love, and in those moments, the strangeness of my situation faded, replaced by a simple, primal sense of belonging.
As I grew more aware, I started to pay closer attention to their conversations, trying to piece together the timeline of this world. They spoke of Smallville often, of raising their other son, Jonathan, there. They mentioned the challenges of Clark balancing his responsibilities as a father and as Superman. They alluded to past threats, to villains and crises that I knew all too well from the show.
It seemed I had been born sometime after the initial seasons of "Superman & Lois," after they had revealed Clark's secret to Jonathan and Jordan. The absence of explicit mentions of Jordan made me wonder about his current age and whereabouts. Was he away at school? Had something happened?
The uncertainty was unsettling. My knowledge of the show was extensive, but it was still just a viewer's perspective. The reality of living in this world, of being a part of this family, was far more complex and nuanced.
One evening, as Lois cradled me in her arms, humming a soft melody, I focused all my infant concentration on trying to communicate, to somehow convey the awareness that resided within this tiny body. I looked up at her, my eyes locked on hers, and tried to form a thought, a plea, a question in the silent language of my mind.
Her humming faltered, her brow furrowing slightly. She looked down at me, her expression thoughtful.
"What is it, sweetie?" she murmured, her voice soft. "You're looking at me so intently."
Of course, she couldn't understand. I was just a baby, her newborn son. But for a fleeting moment, as our eyes met, I thought I saw a flicker of something in her gaze, a hint of… recognition? Or perhaps it was just a mother's intuitive connection to her child.
As the weeks continued to pass, I became more adept at observing, at absorbing the details of my new life. I learned the rhythm of their days, the subtle cues in their interactions, the unspoken language of their love.
I also began to notice things that were distinctly… super. The almost imperceptible shimmer that sometimes surrounded Clark when he moved quickly. The way Lois's eyes seemed to catch the light with an unusual intensity. The sheer, unadulterated strength in their gentle touch.
These weren't special effects on a screen. This was real. And I was right in the middle of it.
My past life, the world of superhero movies and comfortable normalcy, began to feel like a distant dream, a fading memory. This new reality, this extraordinary and potentially dangerous existence, was becoming my present.
I was no longer Arthur Finch, the movie buff with a terminal illness. I was… their son. A new life, a new identity, in a world I had only ever imagined.
The credits had rolled on my first life. Now, a new story was beginning. And as I lay in the arms of Superman's wife, in a world filled with heroes and villains, I couldn't help but wonder what my role in this epic saga would be. What kind of life awaited me, the newborn son of the Man of Steel?
The possibilities, like the vast expanse of the DC multiverse, seemed endless. And for the first time since receiving that devastating diagnosis, a flicker of something other than fear ignited within me. It wasn't hope, not exactly. Perhaps it was… anticipation. The slow-paced opening credits of my new life were finally drawing to a close. The real story was about to begin.