Superman hovered in Watchtower as if he had just gone back to his high school days again—corner of the room, attempting to camouflage behind walls he might have to blow through. Everyone else had already taken their seats. The table shone with gleaming arrogance. Batman barely looked at him. Wonder Woman gave him the diplomat's smile. Flash mouthed yo, either being polite or not knowing where to place his mouth.
"Clark Kent of Earth-One," J'onn intoned, his voice as serious as a priest giving last rites. "You have been studied. Dissected. Debated. Your case is... unique."
Unique. That's how they referred to him these days. Not "Superman." Not "legend." Not even "you." A special case. A glitch in history. A memory in cape.
"You are not the same man who leads this League," he said, as if this was reassuring. "But you are a Superman. That's worth something."
"No pressure." Flash spoke. "Just, you know, don't turn into antimatter or blow a hole in time."
This brought forth some laughter. Not from him.
Clark cleared his throat. "I did not come here to be anyone's ghost. I am not here to replace your Superman. I only wish to help."
He wished. God, he wished. But being here, witnessing a League built without him, a world that just kept spinning without so much as a hitch when he died screaming into the antimatter, it made him feel like a statue that had stood up and just kept walking. Everyone else had moved on. He hadn't.
"We discussed it," said Diana, her tone as hard as steel. "You've had to fight to be accepted for who you are. What you've done. What you can still accomplish."
He blinked once. It had felt as though someone cracked ice under his ribs.
"You are now officially an honorary member of the Justice League, effective today."
Honorary. A word that nearly rhymed with pity with honey.
"Cool," he grinned, lying. "Do I get a decoder ring or just a plaque?"
"Neither," said Batman firmly. "You've earned your place at the table. When you're called, you come. But you don't have a vote. You don't issue orders. You follow."
"Like a good soldier," Clark replied more softly.
No one answered.
He wanted to scream. Shred the table in half. Fly to the sun just to experience anything. But he looked around. At these newer, thinner deities. Gods who had not lost Supergirl. Gods who had not seen Earth die. Gods who had not scratched their way through the continuity just to be considered honorary.
He took a slow breath.
"Alright," he replied. "I'm in."
Diana stood up and extended her hand. "Welcome, Superman."
He looked at it as one would at a dagger. Then he shook it.
When finally alone in the observation deck, he looked out over the earth suspended beneath him. Beautiful. Green. Crisis-unscathed.
He did not realize he was being approached. How could he? Silence was an art Batman had mastered.
"You have done the right thing," said Bruce.
"You mean by not telling them to go to hell?" Clark said.
Batman said nothing. There was no need to.
"I was Superman." Clark said. "I was. And now.. this. A copy. A leftover. A 'backup plan.' What does that even mean?"
Batman folded his arms. "It means you are not the man we constructed this League with. But you are still a Superman. That means something."
"To you?"
"To those in need of salvation."
Silence between them thickened. Not uncomfortable, but heavy.
He directed his attention again to the stars. "I don't want to be a museum piece, Bruce. I want to be significant again."
"Then make your presence felt. But don't, however, expect applause."
Clark nearly laughed. Came very close. Looked sideways. "You ever get tired of being right?"
"All the time," Bruce said, then disappeared again in darkness.
Clark just stood there, observing the world. Still. Alive. Waiting.
For the first time in months, he allowed himself to contemplate that his story wasn't done yet.
Not even by a long shot.
Superman emerged in Metropolis as if stepping into another's dream. The skyline loomed higher. Sleek. Corporate icons flared with fiery neon godliness. Drones whizzed by with shrieking metal sounds. Humans hurried along more quickly. Spoke more loudly. Nobody looked upwards anymore.
They didn't have to. They used their smartphones.
He came in through an alley from a laundry mat, dressed in civilian clothes--suit, tie, glasses, second nature--but it would not hold. The cracked mirror beside the dumpster reflected a stranger's features. Too boxy. Too old-fashioned. Too real.
"All right," he muttered to himself. "Just blend in."
He couldn't even make it then in the 1950s, but come on. Hope is eternal.
He took to the streets. Looked for something to be done. A good heart, untied hands. Journalism? Taken. Clark Kent with his wife, home, son—he'd already stitched that name to the world as his autograph. The Daily Planet didn't need another.
"Freelance reporting," she had told him that morning, smiling as if doing her a kindness. "You'll have to have a press pass. And credentials. And LinkedIn."
"Is that a sort of club?" he asked, deadpan.
She blinked. "Jesus Christ, are you being serious?"
He left five minutes later. Smiling, still. Barely.
He then walked down 7th Avenue, dodging e-scooters, noticing a kid with purple hair vaping something which smelled of burning mint. He looked over at Superman, squinted, and just said, "Cool cosplay."
Clark smiled. "Thanks."
The city wasn't bad. It just wasn't his.
He swung into a diner that the chains still hadn't been absorbed by franchises. Vinyl booths. Grease-slicked menu. Smelling of onion rings and failed aspirations. Took his place in the back booth. Waitress plodded over to him, her eyes beautiful in her exhaustion.
"Coffee," she said.
"Black," he asked. "Please."
"Do you have a name, stranger?"
He stopped. Then: "Clark."
She smiled, wrote it down as if it mattered. "You have the build of someone who's spent time inside."
This cut him off in his laughter. "Not exactly."
"Well, whatever it is you've done, don't bring it in here. I have enough trouble with the drunks and TikTokers."
He agreed. "Alright."
She had poured coffee. It steamed softly, as if by miracle. He simply stood there holding the mug for a moment. Felt heat seep through his palms. It was the most alive he'd felt in days.
He looked out of the window. On the sign, Lex Luthor was shaking hands with the mayor. Progress with Purpose.
His teeth grated.
This world too had its own bad guys. Its own him. Its own everything. And still, somehow, in need of being saved. He saw it in cracked sidewalks. Tired faces. The way people winced when cars backfired.
He took a sip of coffee. Bitter. Real.
"Got work?" his waitress repeated, refilling his cup.
"Not yet," he replied. "Looking."
"You any good with your hands?"
He looked at them. Hands capable of destroying mountains. Changing rivers. Breaking steel like celery. "Yeah.," he said, "You could say that."
"I have a friend in need of help with construction. Blue-collar sort of work. Pays in cash off the books. Interested?
He looked at her. The greasy notepad. The scratched Formica. The "MIRIAM" in pale red letters that adorned her name tag. "
Yes," he said. "I'm interested."
Superman woke up at 4 a.m. despite not needing to. This is what humans do. He liked to watch the sunrise. From the fire escape of his apartment, which the League provided for him, he watched the sky above Metropolis grow orange and gold as pigeons fought over a cigarette butt three stories down.
The room was plain. It contained minimal furniture from Batman's "bare essentials" kit. A bed, a fridge, and a shower. No photos. No mementos. It was bare, but clean. A monk's cell with air conditioning.
The construction site lay to the south. It was LexCorp's latest "affordable housing" development, which in reality equaled expensive condos with substandard plumbing. The foreman's name was Rick. He grunted a lot and referred to him as "big guy" as if he lost his ability to remember names after lunch.
"You hold the rebar like chopsticks, Kent," said Rick softly, glancing at his clipboard. "Do you have mutant genes or something?"
He smiled. "Just good bone structure."
He picked up steel beams with ease. Created holes very precisely. Practically did it to perfection. He ensured that he sweated. Allowed his shoulders to do hard work. Grunted somewhat as he lifted. It was like art being performed. Nobody questioned it.
Waitresses. Receptionists. Women stared. One hard hat-clad woman with red nails leaned over the scaffolding and exclaimed, "If I had known that God created humans such as yourself, I would have prayed harder."
He laughed it off. Polite. Friendly. Then walked away.
He did not need attention. Not this sort. Not at this present. This life was fleeting. It was borrowedd. He wasn't ready to meet someone who didn't know what it meant to die and come back with dirt in their lungs and without someone with them.
His shirt clung to him as the sun began to set, and his hands were coarse. He took the long route home, relishing sounds of the city as if they were symphonies. When he arrived at his apartment, he was exhausted—not in his body, but his mind. It was exhausting to act normal.
He opened the door, entered, and then halted abruptly.
Power Girl was sitting on his kitchen counter. Legs crossed. No suit. Civilian clothes—jeans, leather jacket, a tank top that didn't believe in modesty. Her hair was tied back. No cape. Just confidence.
He set down his workbag. "Kara, how did you get in?"
"Batman," she said, sipping from one of his mugs. "You truly believe that the League doesn't have keys to these places? He wanted me to check on you. I volunteered."
He blinked. "You didn't need to."
"Didn't say I had to. Said I wanted to." She slid down from the counter, her bare feet pattering softly on the tile. "So how's the experiment in being human coming along? Have you decorated the curtains yet?"
He smirked. "Got some at a discount store. Brown. No patterns."
She winced. "God. Tragic."
He passed by her to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water. He downed half of it in one gulp. She stared at his neck as he swallowed.
"I saw the building," she said. "Are you doing strongman work for pay now?"
"I pay rent. It stabilizes me."
"You know you're allowed to exist, right? You don't have to suffer for it."
He tilted his head and leaned against the counter. "You think I am hurting myself?"
"I know you are," she told him. "You work twelve hours, sleep in a bed that's as hard as concrete, and you don't even have a television."
He shrugged. "TV's complicated."
She inched nearer. "You could come back. Be Superman 2.0. Full-time. No one would stop you."
"I'd stop me."
She paused. "Why?"
"He's already present. The world already has its guy. Its emblem. Its narrative."
"And you?" she said.
"I'm the echo."
The room was silent. She walked to the window and gazed out over the city. She crossed her arms in front of her chest. Her own face appeared beside his in the window.
"To me, you are not an echo." She said.
He looked at her. He stared. Her tone was lower. Her eyes softened, but remained keen. She appeared to consider her words.
"Kara, I'm glad you are here," he said. "I didn't know how much I missed speaking with someone who remembers what it's like."
She turned and leaned her hip upon the windowsill. "I remember many things."
She gazed at him longer than she needed to.
He totally missed it.
"Are you hungry? I have cereal. I also have a banana."
She smiled again. "Jesus, you're hopeless."
"I don't follow." He stuttered.
"No," she said, moving past him again, her hand brushing his shoulder as she passed, "you really don't."
He stared at her as though he saw a comet. Dazzling. Potentially hazardous. Incredible.
She paused in the doorway. "I'll come by again."
"I would like that," he replied.
"Wear less."
He furrowed his brow. "But I wore my uniform."
She purred. "Exactly."
The door shut behind her with a soft click.
There was Clark, alone in the silence.
"What did she mean by that?" he wondered aloud.
There was nothing. Only silence from the refrigerator and sounds of the city.