Nova: The Un-Animated Series

By Jack Bronson

Episode 1: No Chains Part I

Scene 1: “The Light That Refused”

 Prologue – Apokolips, Then and Now 

The arena reeked of scorched metal and screams long turned to ash. Ash drifted in the stale air, stirred by the low hiss of fire pits beneath the obsidian floor. Jagged walls rose like fangs around the combat ring. Shadows clung to their edges, thin and watchful. 

Above, the sky bled red—eternal, oppressive, without warmth. Two boys stood in the pit.

 No—only one still stood. The other lay broken. Ribs like cracked glass beneath too-thin skin. One eye swollen shut. A trail of blood crept from his mouth in slow defiance of gravity. Granny Goodness’s voice knifed through the air. 

“Finish him!” 

The standing boy said nothing. His fists twitched at his sides. His chest rose in shallow, fractured breaths. A bruise blossomed across his jaw, but he didn’t feel it. Couldn’t feel anything but the weight of what she’d demanded. The boy at his feet was a fellow trainee. A brother in pain. They’d fought side by side, shared stolen food and bruised whispers in the dark. And now, for her pleasure, one of them was supposed to die. A flicker passed through him. Not fear. Not rage. Choice. He stepped back. 

“I said finish him!” Granny snapped, the sharp edge of anticipation cracking in her voice. The boy turned to her. His voice—when it came—was quiet. Simple. 

“No.” 

Granny’s eyes narrowed. On Apokolips, disobedience was pain. But there it was: the first rebellion. 

Years later. 

The boy was gone. In his place stood a weapon. The beast snarled—twelve feet of Apokoliptian nightmare. Limbs stitched from sinew and scrap. Molten cables pulsed through its chest like infected veins. 

Lava drooled from a jaw built for slaughter. Its eyes burned with engineered madness. It lunged. And died. A pillar of golden light erupted from the young man’s hand—Slamming into the monster’s skull with a concussive scream of energy. 

Bone shattered. Flesh liquefied. The carcass hit the ground like a felled star. The young man didn’t flinch. 

He stood tall—broad-shouldered, powerfully built. A frame carved by survival, not sculpted for show. His suit, dark and skin-close, glowed with faint photon lines that pulsed inward—feeding the radiant core in his chest like a second sun. Gold shimmered along his fingers, the last echo of the blast he’d fired. His black hair was jagged, cut with the casual aggression of a blade. And his eyes burned gold—not with wonder. With warning. 

Above, Granny Goodness clapped, slow and venomous.

“Finally, my child… you understand.” 

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The other trainees watched from the shadows—half reverence, half dread. He wasn’t one of them anymore. He was something worse.

“Next combatant!” Granny bellowed. But the sky split before she could name one. 

A boom. A scream of light. Reality tore—Boom Tube, midair. Lightray burst through the Boom Tube like a thunderbolt wrapped in gold. No hesitation. He slammed into the young man, locked an arm around his waist, and launched skyward. The arena erupted. 

“Furies—NOW!” Granny shrieked. 

Smoke exploded. The Furies surged. Lashina leapt—whip snapping like a serpent. Stompa launched, cracking the floor on impact. Parademons swarmed overhead in a storm of wings and war cries. Lightray climbed—fast and gritting his teeth. His Mother Box buzzed frantically in his hand. 

“Come on… come on—” 

The device flared. A second Boom Tube snapped open—high above the arena. Too far. Lashina’s whip cracked past his ankle, missing by inches. The young man stirred in his grip, semi-conscious. “No,” Lightray muttered. “Not yet.” He looked up at the Boom Tube. Then down—at the storm rising to meet him. “I’m sorry we took so long.” He let go. With a twist and a grunt, he hurled Nova into the light— Like throwing a star back into the sky.

He flew.

He didn’t remember falling—only light.

Cold.

Silence. 

He tumbled, weightless, through the breach between worlds. His vision blurred.

His eyes closed. And for the first time in his life…

…the flames of Apokolips didn’t follow.

Scene Two: “Good Mornings and Groundings”

 Smallville – Kent Farm, Morning 

The creak of old wood announced her before her footsteps did. Kara Kent bounded down the stairs two at a time, blonde hair pulled back in a black headband, stubborn confidence in every step. A white crop tee clung under her black-and-red Smallville High letterman jacket—an “S” stitched over her heart, House of El faint beneath it. Smallville High colors. Kryptonian strength. Black jeans hugged her legs as she hopped the last step, landing soft in socked feet.

“Morning,” she muttered, sharp enough to count, soft enough to avoid war. 

At the table, Jonathan Kent didn’t look up. “Crows made district finals.”

“Thrilling,” Kara said, dragging out the word like it owed her something. 

Martha smiled from the stove. “Eggs are hot, sweetheart. Plate’s coming.” 

She set it down with practiced grace—farm-wife warmth over a metahuman support system. Eggs, toast, a slice of bacon that was more of a peace offering than a breakfast. Clark stood by the window, arms crossed over his chest, blue flannel buttoned up like it could hold back a lecture. He didn’t say anything at first. He didn’t have to. Kara stabbed her eggs.

“Just say it.” 

Clark frowned. “It’s not about what you did wrong.”

 Kara rolled her eyes. “Here we go.”

“You did good. In Gotham. With Batgirl.” He stepped closer, voice even but heavy.

 “But it was still dangerous. Catwoman rigged a kill switch to Livewire’s collar. You could’ve been—”

 “I’m just as bulletproof as you are.”

 “It’s not about bullets,” Clark said.

 “Gotham hurts in ways you don’t see coming.”

Kara stared at him. “You think I haven’t seen hurt?” 

Clark’s jaw tensed. Martha stepped in, soft but firm. “He’s just looking out for you, sweetheart. That’s all.” 

“I don’t need looking out for. I need trust.” 

Jonathan flipped a page. “Don’t need super-hearing to hear this one. And don’t need X-ray vision to know Kara’s got a point.” 

Clark exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not saying no forever. Just… not yet. Powers don’t teach judgment. Time does.” 

Kara bit into a piece of toast like it had personally offended her. “Right. Time. Like four months ago—Livewire, power-dampening tank, no casualties? Or three months back—Harley, bomb on a carousel? I disarmed it blindfolded because Babs couldn’t crack the firewall fast enough.” 

Clark was quiet. Jonathan sipped his coffee, still reading. “District finals are next Saturday. Just sayin’.” 

“Cool,” Kara muttered, mouth full of eggs. “Maybe the Crows can take out a bomb squad too.” 

Martha exchanged a look with Clark, then gently patted Kara’s shoulder before returning to the stove. The silence wasn’t angry. Just full. Kara didn’t stop eating. But her fork slowed. Her eyes flicked to Clark. And for a second, the edge in her glare dulled. She knew he worried. She didn’t need him to say it. But she also didn’t need a cage. Even one built out of love.

Scene Three: “First Contact”

 Sector 2814 – Near Mars

Stars burned in silence. Hal Jordan didn’t. He streaked through the darkness in a blaze of green, carving past the moon with casual ease. One hand on his hip, the other adjusting his comm, Hal coasted just outside Earth’s gravity well. “Still no sign of John?” he asked, voice lazy but alert. Batman’s voice crackled back—flat, clipped, never casual.

“Delayed. Emergency in Sector 674. System-wide destabilization.” 

Hal sighed. “Figures. I finally get assigned a patrol close to home, and Lantern Stewart gets the real fireworks.” 

“Hm,” Batman replied dryly. 

Hal grinned.“Hey, I’m not complaining. Earth’s in view, podcast’s queued, and my ring’s been dead silent.” 

He should’ve known better than to say it out loud.

Space ripped open. A vertical seam of white-hot energy ripped open space like a wound screaming against reality. No warning. No precedent. Just a Boom Tube—blinking into existence like a god’s idea of a surprise party. 

Hal’s grin vanished. “Ring,” he barked. “Talk to me.” 

“Dimensional breach detected. Origin: Apokoliptian transport corridor. Tracing residual energy…” 

“Yeah, I see it,” Hal muttered, banking hard. “Pull visuals.” 

A moment later, he saw it— A figure, limp and drifting, caught in the Boom Tube’s aftershock. Teenage. Humanoid. Dark suit threaded with dim gold lines. Black hair. Glowing at the core. The energy around him was like staring into a dying sun. 

“Lifeform scan initiated...” The ring's voice was clinical—but not calm. “Species: Undetermined. Energy matrix unstable. Origin: Apokoliptian-adjacent. Threat Potential: High. Classification: Unknown divine class.” 

Hal exhaled. “Of course.” 

Hal drifted closer, hand extended. “Okay, kid... let’s get you somewhere safe.” 

He reached for the boy’s wrist. The boy’s hand snapped out first. He reached— But the boy’s hand snapped out first. Hal barely saw it. Just felt the impact—twisting, flipping, flung like a ragdoll. The impact rang through his constructs like a struck bell. Hal spun once—twice—then caught himself mid-spiral. 

“Okay—strong.” 

A golden flare streaked past— The boy igniting like a meteor, trailing heat and shimmering bursts as he rocketed toward Earth. 

“Oh, no you don’t.” Hal surged after him— Tackled the glowing figure mid-flight. They slammed together, careening toward Earth. They hit desert like falling gods. 

Sand cratered. Dust rippled in every direction. 

Hal groaned, stood, and raised a hand. A glowing green cage snapped around the boy. “Stay down, kid,” Hal muttered. “Not looking to make this personal.” 

Inside the cage, the boy stirred. His eyes burned gold. His voice was low and guttural: 

“Zar n’kra va-urak! Buth nalak vorr'den!” 

“Ring?” Hal asked. 

“Translation matrix incomplete. Closest match: Not found. Emotional tone: Defiance.

 Subject resists subjugation.” 

“Yeah, got that part.” 

The boy slammed both fists into the cage. It shattered like glass beneath a hammer. 

“Easy!” Hal snapped. “Calm down! I just wanna—” 

The kid lunged. 

Hal reacted fast—construct forming into a giant green hand, snatching the boy mid-charge. He fought like a trapped star, limbs thrashing, energy flaring. Then came the blast—golden, raw, pure. A photon wave exploded from his palms, shredding the construct into shards. 

“Okay, no more Mr. Nice Lantern.” 

Hal’s ring flared— Chains snapped out, glowing and thick, locking around wrists and ankles. They yanked the kid down, dragging him into the crater floor. 

“I’m not playing around, kid! Cool it!” 

But it didn’t hold. 

One leg snapped free.

Then the other. Cracks spiderwebbed across the glowing chains.

Batman’s voice crackled in Hal’s ear. “Sending backup to your coordinates now.” 

“Backup would be great!” Hal snapped, dodging a golden punch. “Because this kid hits like a Kryptonian gorilla!” 

Then the sky split again. 

CRACK-BOOM. 

A bolt of divine lightning slammed into the boy’s back, casting the sand in a thousand flickering shadows. He cried out and dropped— Glow dimming, body twitching in the crater. Above him, regal and furious, floated Black Adam. Arms crossed. Jaw clenched. 

“What do you think you’re doing—trespassing in my sovereign lands!?” 

Hal raised a hand. “Working on it.” 

“Work faster.” 

But the boy was already rising. He surged forward—tackling Hal just as a photon blast erupted from his hand. Hal took it in the ribs and skidded back. His next construct—a spiked wall—barely formed before it shattered under another golden blast. Adam raised a hand. 

Lightning cracked. 

It struck. 

The boy caught it— And absorbed it. 

“What?” Adam snarled. 

Hal formed a cannon construct and fired.

The blast hit—

But it didn’t stop what came next. 

Wide. 

Blinding.

A wave of pure radiant force swallowed the battlefield. Hal threw up a shield wall. “Stop feeding him energy!” he barked. “He’s eating it!” 

Another blast shook the ground. 

“Where’s that backup?!” Hal snapped into his comm. “This kid’s for real!” 

Then—a new shadow passed overhead. 

A hiss of gas. 

The boy choked—his light dimming, movements slowing. 

A green-yellow mist clung to him, dragging him down like sleep. When the mist cleared, Superman hovered overhead— A mask over his face, arms cradling the unconscious boy. He floated down beside Hal. 

“Everything okay?” Clark asked, voice calm. 

Hal wiped sweat from his brow. “Yeah. It is now. That kid’s a piece of work.” 

Superman looked down at the boy. “Batman’s satellites tracked you on reentry. This kid’s from New Genesis.” 

Hal sighed, shoulders slumping. “Great. New Genesis. The one place I’m not allowed to touch without a hall pass from the Guardians. Please tell me he’s the hugging kind of New God.”

Clark didn’t answer.

He looked down at the boy—bruised, glowing faintly, chest rising slow and steady. “I’m not sure why he’s even here.” 

Black Adam landed beside them with a dull thud. “Get him out of my territory. Now. Whatever that boy is… he doesn’t belong here.” 

Superman nodded. “Don’t worry. He’s coming with me—to the Watchtower.” 

Hal floated up, dust trailing off his boots. “I’m not missing this.” 

The two heroes rose. Superman carried the boy—glowing dimly, like a fallen ember. Hal followed, dust trailing behind. They left the cracked desert—and thunderstruck silence—behind.

Scene Four: “Not Just a Girl in Class”

Smallville High – 3rd Period, Science 

The overhead lights buzzed softly—flickering in that way Kara was convinced only she noticed. Rows of half-awake juniors hunched over lab notes and diagrams. Mrs. Kilpatrick scribbled something on the whiteboard—what began as “Photosynthesis” had mutated into “Cellular Differentiation.” Kara Kent sat in the third row, seat by the window. One leg bounced rhythmically, elbow propped on her desk. Her phone, low behind her bio textbook, scrolled upward with a flick of her thumb. Her thumb stopped. 

“Yellow-Green Meteor Crashes Near Khandaq—Military Denies Involvement.” The headline pulsed. Blurry satellite images followed— A crater. Scorched sand. Glowing vapor. Kara’s mind drifted instantly. Her lips curled into a smile. In her head, she was airborne—streaking through Earth’s atmosphere, chasing meteors like fireflies. She imagined the impact site—alien drones spilling out like hornets, people screaming, governments scrambling— Until a red-and-white streak cut through the clouds. Her. Kara Zor-El. The last girl of Krypton. 

No waiting on Kal. 

No lectures. 

Just action. 

The aliens opened fire. She didn’t flinch. Heat vision. Sonic clap. Spin-kick through the lead war-bot’s chest. 

Boom. 

Save the world. 

Eat a burrito after. 

A nudge broke the fantasy. Kara blinked. Looked left. Dani Ortega—best friend since sophomore year, and the only person who could throw a hay bale farther than Kara without raising eyebrows—gave her a look and a chin-tilt toward the front. Kara followed her gaze. Mrs. Kilpatrick was staring directly at her, arms crossed, marker cap clicked with finality. 

“Well, Ms. Kent,” the teacher said, tone deceptively pleasant, “if you’ve got time to daydream, you must have time to answer the question.” 

Kara straightened in her seat. “Yes, Ms. Kilpatrick.” 

The teacher arched an eyebrow. “Then enlighten the rest of us—what’s the difference between a plant cell and an animal cell?” 

Kara didn’t blink. “Plant cells have a rigid wall made of cellulose and chloroplasts for photosynthesis. Animal cells don’t. Also, one big vacuole in plants. Scattered small ones in animals.” 

A pause. 

Mrs. Kilpatrick’s mouth twitched, resisting a smile. “Correct.”

Then, dry as desert air: “Please pay attention, Kara. I’m not up here for my health.” A few students chuckled. Dani smirked. 

Kara sank half an inch lower in her seat. “Yes, Ms. Kilpatrick.” She looked back at her phone, thumbing the refresh. The article had updated. 

“Superman Intercepts Khandaq Impact. Source Unknown. Situation Contained.” 

Kara’s shoulders slumped. 

Of course it was him. 

Always him. 

Another mission she didn’t get to take. Another “situation” she read about after the fact. Another moment Earth’s greatest hero handled— While she played the part of the girl who memorized cell diagrams and kept her boots just scuffed enough so no one asked too many questions. She locked the phone screen and stared out the window. Somewhere out there, the stars were moving. 

And Kara Zor-El was stuck in science class.

Scene Five: “The Observation Deck” 

Watchtower – Containment Level Gamma 

The boy was still unconscious. 

Beyond the reinforced glass, his body floated a few inches above the medical platform—limbs relaxed, armor scorched but intact, golden light pulsing softly from the center of his chest. The containment fields hummed softly—tuned to suppress power without triggering a defensive response. 

Batman stood with arms crossed beside the projection screen, fingers lightly tapping the edge of the console. He hadn’t blinked in five minutes. 

Diana leaned against the far wall, arms folded. Her brow furrowed—not in fear, but calculation. 

Superman was near the glass, eyes scanning the rise and fall of the boy’s chest, like he still couldn’t quite believe what they’d pulled out of Khandaq. 

Hal Jordan sat on the edge of a steel bench, elbows on his knees, ring hand twitching with residual frustration. As Barry’s eyes were glued to the screen.

J’onn hovered slightly above the floor, calm, quiet, eyes focused on the replay footage casting faint shadows against the wall. 

No one spoke for a long moment. 

Hal exhaled through his nose. “Guy caught a full-on energy construct, shattered it like candy glass, and launched me into a dune like a dodgeball. I’ve fought Parallax-possessed Lanterns with better manners.” 

Diana didn’t look away from the glass. “His movements were adaptive. Efficient. He changed his tactics every time you changed yours.” 

“Yeah, I noticed,” Hal muttered. “Guy fought like he’d been studying me since boot camp.” 

Superman’s voice was low. “When I carried him in, it was like holding a collapsed star. His body mass doesn’t match his frame—dense, reinforced, almost unbreakable.” 

“New God,” Batman said. All heads turned toward him. He finally looked up. “His energy signature doesn’t fully match Apokolips. The photonic imprint carries Source-level radiation—consistent with New Genesis.” 

J’onn tilted his head. “But he speaks Apokoliptian.” 

“So does Barda,” Diana pointed out.

Batman nodded. “Doesn’t mean he’s loyal. Just trained.” 

Hal scoffed. “Trained? He fights like Apokolips. You should’ve seen the way he looked at me when he woke up. No fear. No hesitation. Just... target acquisition.” 

Superman turned. “He never aimed to kill.” 

That silenced the room. 

Clark added, “He could’ve fried both you and Adam. Instead—he pushed. Dodged. Controlled his fire. That matters.” 

“Matters less if he decides to stop holding back,” Hal said. 

Diana stepped forward. “Should we alert Orion? Or Highfather?”

 Batman’s reply came cold and flat. “I called Scott Free.” 

J’onn finally spoke again, eyes narrowing as he reviewed the playback. “The language he used—his phrasing was not fully militarized. There was emotion in it. Defiance, yes. But also fear. Desperation.” 

“Ring couldn’t translate a word,” Hal said. 

Diana stared at the replay as the boy’s photonic blast rippled across the battlefield. “Such power.” 

Batman tapped a key. A side screen flickered on, showing a heat-map of the blast radius. “He would've left a crater the size of Metropolis if Superman hadn’t intervened when he did.” 

J’onn glanced at the boy through the glass. “So much power. In someone so young.” 

Batman didn’t turn. “He might not be. New Gods age differently. He could be a hundred years old—or seventeen.” 

Hal rubbed his temples. “Terrific. A teen god with rage issues.” 

The containment room’s air pressure shifted. A soft chime rang out behind them. The teleporter hissed open. Boots clicked on the metal floor. Mister Miracle stepped into the room—without ceremony. No cape. No armor. Just a red jacket over a utility harness, green gloves folded at his sides, and eyes that had seen the pit—and walked out anyway. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t introduce himself. He walked past the League and stopped at the glass. Nova stirred slightly, brow twitching in his sleep. Scott Free said nothing. 

Beyond the glass, the boy drifted—weightless, suspended in the containment field. His breathing was slow. Shallow. The gold beneath his skin had dimmed, dampened by the lingering effects of the radion compound.

The League waited, each for different reasons. 

Scott’s eyes didn’t move to the boy’s hands. Or his armor. 

They locked on his face—his expression. The way his jaw clenched in sleep, like he expected pain. Finally, Scott spoke. Quietly. Flat. “That’s not New Genesis armor.”

 Batman moved beside the console, not interrupting. 

“Definitely not,” Scott said. “It’s Apokoliptian. Gen-melded. Looks like a Fury tech-plate—stripped of insignia. Reforged. That chestplate’s molded for field command. But the neck seam? Child’s sizing.” 

Superman stepped closer to the glass. “You’re sure?” 

“I’ve worn it,” Scott said. “Or something like it. When I was ten.” 

Hal folded his arms. “So he’s not New Genesis?” 

“Oh, no. He is,” Scott replied, finally turning toward them. “That’s what makes it worse.” 

J’onn’s brow furrowed slightly. “Elaborate.” Scott’s tone stayed even, but his jaw tightened. “They didn’t make him on Apokolips. They stole him. Raised him in the pits. Trained him under silence protocols—same as me. Except... no one pulled him out.” He nodded at the faint burn marks around the wrist couplings on Nova’s suit. “He wasn’t trained. He was conditioned. Hardwired to survive—by any means. You don’t get that kind of muscle memory unless you’ve been surviving it daily since infancy.” 

Diana’s voice was low. “What about the photonic energy?” 

“Source-inflected,” Scott said. “Not a standard Apokoliptian weapon. That’s not power they gave him. It’s what he is.” 

He looked the replay footage. Then Clark. “That blast you intercepted? That wasn’t aggression. That was instinct.” 

Hal shook his head. “He flung me halfway across space like a ragdoll.” 

Scott glanced at him, unblinking. “He could’ve torn you apart and didn’t.” 

Batman crossed his arms. “He was breathing Apokoliptian battle patterns in his sleep.” 

“Because it’s probably all he’s ever known,” Scott said. “You don't unlearn that. You choose to fight against it—every second. Every day. And if you’re lucky... someone helps you.” 

Silence. Scott stepped forward, stopping just short of the glass. “This isn’t a soldier. Not a scout. Not a weapon they forgot to turn off. It’s a kid. One who survived something none of us should’ve. Alone.” 

Another flicker passed beneath Nova’s skin. A twitch. A breath that caught, clenched, resumed. Superman’s voice was softer now. 

“What happens when he wakes up again?” 

Scott didn’t hesitate. “We find out if he wants to keep surviving… or start living.” Nova’s fingers flexed. And his eyes began to open.

Scene Six: “Benched”

Smallville High – Gym Class, Early Afternoon. 

The gym pulsed with motion. Basketballs echoed off polished wood. Shoes squeaked across the court. Someone laughed too loud, someone else shouted for a pass. Teenagers scattered across the space in loose, messy clusters—running drills, dodging volleyballs, or pretending to do either while texting behind clipboards. Kara Kent sat high on the bleachers, legs dangling, posture loose—but her eyes were somewhere else. She wore the standard red-and-white gym uniform, her blonde hair pinned back with her usual black headband, but nothing about her looked like she belonged in the scene around her. She wasn’t bored. She was disconnected.

Dani Ortega dropped down beside her, cracking open a water bottle with one hand and wiping sweat from her temple with the other. “You’ve been weird lately,” Dani said, not looking over. 

Kara blinked. “Thanks?” 

“Not in a fun way.” Dani shot her a side glance. “You’ve been floating through this place like a ghost. You forget how to be social over the summer?” 

Kara tried to smirk, but it didn’t land. “Maybe.” 

Dani arched a brow. “Okay, what’s going on? You’re dodging group hangs, skipping lunch, you dipped halfway through Jessie’s pool party, and you used to at least pretend dodgeball mattered.” 

Kara hesitated. Her hand curled around the strap of her gym bag. “I’ve just been busy. My cousin—Clark? I’m trying to convince him to let me intern at the Daily Planet. So… been planning for that. You know. Career stuff.” 

It came out flat. 

Not unbelievable. 

Just practiced. 

Dani narrowed her eyes. “You’ve never talked about journalism. Ever.” 

Kara looked away. “People change.” 

But even she didn’t sound convinced. Down below, a basketball smacked into the bleachers with a hollow thump. Someone yelled “my bad” before the game resumed. Kara stared down at the court. At normal people doing normal things. Laughing, sweating, pushing each other too hard over points that didn’t matter. She wondered what it would be like to actually be one of them. To care about GPA stress and dodgeball matchups. To not constantly track every emergency alert three states away in case someone needed saving. 

“I’m just tired,” she said finally. 

Dani softened. “You’ve been tired for a while.” 

Kara didn’t answer. 

The bleachers rattled softly as a trio of girls made their way up the steps like they owned them. Sadie Westbrook led the charge—ponytail perfect, lip gloss sharp, every step like a social media pose. Maddie Kreel and June Hollowell flanked her, gym uniforms tied into fashion statements. None of them looked winded. All of them looked aimed. Sadie slowed as she passed Kara and Dani. 

“Hey Kara,” she said sweetly, just turning enough to make it seem casual. “Glad to see you’re awake today. Really brought the energy in bio.” 

Kara blinked. “What?” 

Maddie giggled. “You were, like, fully in another galaxy. Not that Mrs. Kilpatrick noticed—she probably forgot what she was teaching halfway through her own sentence.” 

Kara stayed quiet. 

Sadie tilted her head, flashing all her teeth. “You’re just so… demure. Like, pretending to be shy and mysterious. It’s giving vintage. Full-on 90s wallflower.” 

Dani leaned forward slightly. “Why don’t you go meet another football player in the parking lot?” 

Sadie’s smile thinned. 

June cut in, voice low and sharp. “Yeah—says the girl who got kicked out of the girls’ wrestling team for juicing.” Maddie laughed. 

“Seriously, Dani, your arms could bench press a tractor. I bet every guy in school’s terrified you’d snap their neck if they said the wrong thing.” June snorted. 

“Do you guys even smell yourselves after 4H? It’s like walking past a petting zoo.” Maddie fake-gagged, waving her hand in front of her nose. “Ugh, I knew I smelled something in the hall. That was you two?” 

Kara frowned. “What are you talking about? We smell fine.” 

Sadie turned, mock-gasped. “No, totally. I mean—if I smelled pigshit all day, I guess my own BO would be aromatherapy by comparison.” 

Kara’s fingers clenched at her side, hidden in the folds of her gym shirt. Dani stood. Just stood. And that was enough. Sadie’s smile held, but her eyes flicked toward the gym floor. “Let’s go,” she said. “The air’s getting… earthy.” June muttered something. 

Maddie giggled. 

As they descended the bleachers, Sadie tossed one last over-the-shoulder shot. “Later, Shrek.” 

Dani exhaled through her nose. 

Quiet. 

Contained. 

Then she sat back down beside Kara like nothing had happened. Kara didn’t look at her. 

“Still going to 4H Club?” Dani asked, twisting the cap back on her water bottle like nothing happened. 

Kara nodded once. “Let’s give them more reasons to smell pigshit.” 

Dani snorted. “But Kara,” she gasped, mock-dramatic, “The boys! What will they do if we have doo doo on our hands?” 

Kara rolled her eyes, the smallest smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. A whistle blew across the gym. 

“Alright, everyone,” Coach Ferguson barked, voice echoing. “Hit the showers!” 

Kara and Dani stood, slinging gym bags over their shoulders. As they walked toward the locker room, Kara felt her hand relax again. She hadn’t even realized how tight her fist had been.

Scene Seven: “The Window”

Watchtower – Containment Level Gamma 

The lights hummed in quiet harmony. 

Nova stirred. He blinked slowly, gold-flecked eyes adjusting to the sterile glow of a room too clean to be real. The ceiling was smooth, untouched by soot or corrosion. The walls didn’t crack with heat. The silence wasn’t the kind that warned of violence—it was the kind that let things rest. 

He sat up. 

The platform hissed beneath him, adjusting to his weight. The containment field flickered as his boots touched the floor. Light pulsed faintly under his skin—residual energy caught between fading adrenaline and something quieter. Something he didn’t yet recognize. 

Peace. 

His gaze swept across the chamber. It was symmetrical. Controlled. Almost elegant. He didn’t know places like this existed. There was no pit. No shadows lurking behind flames. No scent of ash. No blood. And then he saw it. 

A window. 

On the far wall, behind reinforced glass, seven figures stood in silence. 

Watching. 

They didn’t leer. They didn’t shout. They didn’t draw weapons. They waited. 

He moved toward the glass. One of them stood at the center—tall, broad, framed in red and blue. The golden symbol on his chest burned brighter than the light in the room. A crest. A banner. A memory. Nova stared. His voice, when it came, was barely audible—just a whisper, almost reverent. 

“T’lorah.” 

On the other side of the glass, Superman stiffened. His brows drew together, eyes narrowing with recognition. “That’s Kryptonian,” he said quietly. 

Mister Miracle blinked. “Did he just say ‘hope’?” 

Nova’s gaze dropped to the crest, then lifted again. 

He spoke louder this time, not as a question, but a declaration. “My name is Nova. I hail from Apokolips. I do not wish to cause harm… but if harm is brought to me, I will not hesitate.” 

Clark stepped forward, shifting fluidly into Kryptonian. “I am Kal-El. How do you know our language?” 

Nova’s stance remained alert, but his tone softened. “In Apokolips, I was raised by Granny Goodness. In her orphanage. We were taught languages—many. To conquer. To infiltrate. Kryptonian was one. Later, forbidden. But I remembered.” 

Scott folded his arms, frowning thoughtfully. “He knows Kryptonian? That’s not normal.” 

Nova’s eyes moved, scanning the faces beyond the glass. “I understand I’m no longer on Apokolips. Where is this—if I may ask?” 

“You’re on the Watchtower,” Superman said. “In orbit above Earth. First things first—what are your intentions?” 

Nova paused. 

The light beneath his skin dimmed slightly. “I do not know. This is my first time… anywhere else. I do not wish to return.” 

Clark nodded slowly, glancing at the others. “You came through a Boom Tube. We tracked the energy signature. How did it open?” 

“I was in the war pits,” Nova replied. “Granny punished me for refusing to kill. Sent monsters. One after another. I fought. I survived. Then something struck me—a force. I never saw it. I was thrown into a Boom Tube. There was light. Nothing else. I think… it was meant to help me. Or someone tried.” 

Clark studied him, then switched languages again. “Can you still understand me?” he asked—in English. 

Nova nodded once. 

Scott stepped closer to the glass, hands in his pockets, his voice light with sarcasm. “So, kid. Apokolips. Still a sweltering hellhole?” 

Nova’s eyes flicked to him. “Yes.” 

“Granny doing good?” 

Nova’s tone was flat. “She smiled the last time I saw her. I had just killed a beast the size of a transport ship.” 

Scott exhaled. “So… unfortunately, yeah.” He turned to the League. “Look—he’s not hostile. He’s out. He’s alone. I don’t think we need to keep treating him like a live grenade.” 

Batman didn’t move. “Containment protocols are in place for a reason.” 

“He’s not a weapon,” Scott said. “He’s a kid. Just one that could bench-press a city block.” 

After a beat, Batman tapped a key on the console. The containment door hissed open. Nova watched it carefully, then stepped out. Not afraid. Not reckless. Just ready. He took in the room. The figures standing before him. The one in red and blue. The one in shadow. The one in armor. The woman with a warrior’s bearing. The green man with calm eyes. A red blur flickering like static. And the man who smiled like someone who had survived the same fire. 

J’onn stepped forward, hand raised gently. “May I?” 

Nova nodded. 

The Martian’s fingers touched his temple. There was a flicker of white in his eyes. 

Silence. 

Then J’onn pulled back. “He is not a threat,” he said. “There is confusion. Pain. But no hostility. He is misplaced. Disoriented. And deeply… relieved.” 

Clark stepped forward and offered his hand. “Welcome, Nova.” 

Nova looked at the gesture, then glanced at Mister Miracle. Scott mimed the motion—palm out, clasp, shake. Nova nodded and repeated it. A little stiff. But steady. 

Hal cleared his throat. “Cool. So… look. About earlier. I didn’t know you were one of the New Gods when we fought.” 

Nova turned toward him, brow furrowed. “New God?” 

Hal blinked. “Wait… you don’t…?” 

Nova frowned. “I was told I was born in the mines of Apokolips.” 

Scott stepped forward. His face shifted—sharpened with something between realization and regret. Diana’s arms dropped slightly. Clark’s jaw tightened. 

“We scanned your energy signature,” Scott said. “You’re not fully Apokoliptian. Your core doesn’t match. You’re from New Genesis.” Nova’s face was unreadable. He stood still. Eyes searching.

Scene Eight: “Son of Light and Fire”

Watchtower – Central Briefing Chamber 

They had moved to a side chamber just off the observation floor—round, minimal, glass-paneled. The Earth floated beyond the window, slow and vast and blue. No fire pits. No iron skies. Just oceans and clouds and quiet. Nova sat in one of the chairs around the central table. He didn't lean back. He didn’t slouch. He sat upright, like the wrong posture might trigger an alarm. 

Across from him, the League gathered—Superman, Wonder Woman, Batman, Martian Manhunter, Flash, Hal Jordan, and Mister Miracle. All eyes were on him. 

Diana was the first to break the silence. “You did not know you were born on New Genesis?” 

Nova shook his head slowly. “I was told I was born beneath Apokolips. In the mines.” 

J’onn’s voice was calm, as always. Measured. “I saw your memories, Nova. Fragmented, but present. You were born on New Genesis. There was light. A name whispered. Hands that held you gently.” His gaze softened. “You were taken as an infant. Given to Granny Goodness. You’ve had a difficult life, Nova. Son of Light and Fire.” 

Nova’s eyes fell. The light beneath his skin dimmed slightly—like it was ashamed of itself. He shifted in his seat, then looked toward Scott. 

“How do you know Granny?” 

Scott didn’t hesitate. “Room 12. Back corner. Rusted bunk. She called me her little escape artist.” 

Nova blinked once. “Then you are New God as well?” 

Scott nodded once. Nova turned, eyes sweeping across the table, across the costumed strangers watching him like a question they hadn’t decided how to answer. “It seems I am at a loss. I do not know what to do with myself.” 

He said it plainly. Not like someone asking for help, but like someone who had never before had the freedom to admit he didn’t know the answer. Clark leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice gentle. 

“Do you need a place to stay?” Nova looked up, cautious. 

“Can I?” 

Diana answered before Clark could. “You are welcome to stay with us, Nova. As long as you don’t start fights. Earth is a peaceful world.” 

Nova nodded. “Understood.” 

Flash, who’d been unusually quiet, shifted in his seat and glanced at Hal. “This kid nearly mopped the floor with you, pal.” 

Hal sneered. “He caught me off guard.” 

“Dude,” Barry said, rewinding footage on his wrist comm, “he tossed you like a paper plane.” 

Hal pointed a thumb toward the center of the table. “You saw the footage. He could probably take on Superman!” 

Nova tilted his head slightly, confused. “Superman?” 

Clark smiled faintly. “Like Scott said, we’re the Justice League. I’m Superman.” He nodded toward the others, naming them in turn. “Wonder Woman. Green Lantern. The Flash. Martian Manhunter. Mister Miracle.” 

Then, his gaze moved to the far end of the table.

 “And that’s Batman.” 

Nova looked to Bruce. Bruce didn’t speak. Just nodded once. Batman’s voice cut through the moment like a scalpel. “We’ll set you up in a room. Somewhere here. On the Watchtower.” 

Diana nodded. “It’s not confinement,” she said carefully, “but we’d like to keep you close. For now. For your safety… and ours.” 

Nova stood. “I graciously accept. Thank you.” 

Diana rose and gestured toward the door. Nova followed her out of the room. Scott leaned back, then stood with a soft sigh.

“Well. I guess my work here is done.” He glanced toward the door Nova had exited.

“Give the kid a chance. There’s something about him. Can’t place it, but…” He trailed off, shrugged.“Anyway. I’ll see you all later.” 

He turned, stepped into the teleporter platform, and vanished in a flash of light. Clark looked at the others. His expression was quiet, thoughtful. 

“When Diana gets back, we need to talk. Figure out what we’re going to do with him moving forward.” 

Hal crossed his arms, still frowning. Barry played back another snippet of the fight footage and let out a low whistle. “That kid’s got some serious juice.” 

Batman didn’t look up from the console. “I’m going to start monitoring him while he’s here.” He flicked a few switches. Fingers moved across the display. Silent. Controlled. Outside the window, Earth turned slowly. And somewhere in the Watchtower’s halls, Nova walked through clean corridors for the first time in his life.

No chains. No collars.

No one yelling his name like a weapon. Just the quiet sound of his own footsteps—echoing forward.