Nova: The Un-Animated Series

By Jack Bronson

Episode 5: Exploits

Scene 1: Watchtower Medbay

The hum of the Watchtower’s medbay was steady and low, an artificial silence that somehow made everything feel more real. Nova sat on the edge of a reinforced bed, the upper half of his body bare. The thick bandages wrapped tightly around his torso did little to conceal the glow beneath—soft rays of golden light leaking through the fabric like cracks in armor. 

Kara sat beside him, arms crossed over her chest, legs swinging slightly from the medbed. Her Supergirl uniform—the white midriff tee and blue skirt—was streaked with crater dust, her cape in tatters, gloves scraped to the seams. She didn’t slouch, didn’t wince. Just sat there, scowling at the floor. She didn’t speak. Just stared at the floor, fists clenched, the tatters of her cape dragging like she'd lost more than a fight.

Nova turned, voice low. “Why did you stay?”

Kara’s eyes snapped to him, sharp and defensive. “Who was that?”

He looked down at the cold, metallic floor. “Her name is Grail. She is the daughter of the ruler of Apokolips. Darkseid.”

Kara’s voice tightened, almost offended. “I know who that is.”

Nova paused, then asked again—the question he really wanted answered. “Why did you stay?”

She looked away, her jaw clenched. “You helped me with that big Kaiju thing, so now we’re even.”

He turned slightly toward her, his tone edged with something unspoken. “Kar—”

The doors to the medbay hissed open. The quiet was broken by the arrival of Superman and Wonder Woman. Clark’s presence carried weight, even when his cape stood still. Diana walked at his side with her usual quiet grace, her expression unreadable.

Kara straightened immediately, her voice rising with defensive speed. “It’s not my fault this time.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Kara…”

She didn’t slow down. “She came out of nowhere while Nova and I were doing chores, and—”

“Kara,” Clark said, more firmly now.

She stopped, blinking in irritation.

Clark’s expression softened. “You did well.”

Her reaction was instant. Eyes wide, brows lifted. “Wha—?”

“Someone dangerous appeared, and you responded,” Clark continued. “You kept the damage minimal. Ma and Pa are safe. You pulled the fight away from town.”

There was a pause, then Kara blinked—then sat up straighter, like the praise had rewired her spine.

“Yes! Just like we planned. The minute she showed up, Nova and I jumped into action and—”

Clark gave her a look, calm but dry. “Kara, do you mind if I talk to Nova?”

She stood up, brushing off her skirt as though the soot didn’t matter now. “Oh, sure thing. I was just thinking I should probably tell J’onn to give me teleporter access.”

With that, She strode out like she’d just saved the multiverse. The door hissed shut behind her.

Diana moved closer to Nova, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. “I am sorry we were not able to assist.”

Nova shook his head. “I should apologize. I should have known to stay away from domestic areas.”

Clark stepped forward, his tone shifting into something heavier. “No. At first, I thought maybe taking you down to Smallville before we knew if Apokolips was still after you was too risky… but the three of us here know what Grail showing up means.”

Nova nodded slowly. “We can rest assured that Apokolips will still be watching.”

Diana rested her hand again on Nova’s shoulder. “Nova… if what our scans and what Scott Free told us is true—you’re not the only one.”

Clark crossed his arms, his voice low and steady. “Growing up, I believed I was from Earth. When I learned I wasn’t, I had so many questions. Don’t you want to know where you really come from?”

Nova’s jaw tightened. He didn’t respond right away. “It is difficult to accept all I have known to be untrue. To say that I know Apokolips to be an honest place would be a lie, but… What would they gain… from lying about this? From hiding it?”

“To control you,” Clark answered without hesitation. “Nova, your power is an incredible asset to anyone you side with. Apokolips took you for a reason.”

Diana’s voice softened. “We believe it would help to learn where you truly come from. Perhaps you can learn why you were taken. Do you remember Scott?”

“I do,” Nova said.

“We would like you to meet with him. Discuss your home. Learn about your history.”

Nova didn’t speak. His fingers found the edge of the bandages, tracing them like they held answers. Then, slowly, he stood. The light beneath the wrappings flickered like an ember clinging to life.

“I will.”

He adjusted his posture, trying to ignore the discomfort that radiated through his body. “Is the rest of my armor intact?”

Clark nodded toward the corridor. “Well, what’s left of it is in your quarters. We don’t have anything to fix it. It seems to be organic in some way.”

Nova exhaled. “It is. It was a gift from one of my combat instructors. I was the last one standing, so I had earned my own armor.”

Clark didn’t reply. He just stood there, arms crossed, eyes heavy with something unspoken.

Diana gently gestured toward the hall. “Don’t worry. There are some clothes in your quarters. Not armored—but stylish.”

Nova gave a quiet nod—nothing grand, just enough to carry thanks and began walking out of the medbay.

“Meet us in the conference room when you’re done!” Clark called after him.

Nova didn’t turn around, but the soft golden glow that trailed faintly behind him seemed to pulse with quiet acknowledgment.

Nova drifted through the steel-gray corridor, his body hovering inches above the Watchtower’s polished floor. Each movement left behind the faintest shimmer of light, a trail of energy dimmed by bandages and exhaustion. The wound no longer bled, but the glow hadn’t dimmed. Neither had the ache beneath it—dull, steady, almost thoughtful.

As he turned the corner near the common lounge, he paused mid-float.

Inside, through the curved glass of the entryway, he saw Kara seated on the low edge of a circular couch. Her cape, tattered and draped behind her, looked like it had fallen off a war banner. She was laughing softly. Speaking with someone.

Nova floated forward and stepped into the room.

Kara looked up first. Her expression lit up as soon as she saw him.

"Hey! What did Clark want?"

Nova moved closer, hovering just above the floor with practiced ease. His voice was calm, neutral, but not unkind. “I am to meet with Scott to discuss what I am.”

Kara leaned back slightly, frowning in thought. “You think he means Scott Free?”

Before Nova could answer, the other figure beside her turned to face him.

She had already been looking. But now—she saw.

“By the moons of Tamaran,” she breathed. “He is… most gloriously constructed.”

Koriand’r—Starfire—rose smoothly from her seat, her boots never quite touching the ground. She was tall, radiant, and unmistakably alien. Her orange skin glowed softly under the Watchtower's artificial lighting, casting reflections off the chrome and glass around her. Her hair shimmered like strands of magenta fire, falling well past her waist in a perfect, gravity-defying sheet.

Her outfit—sleek, purple, lined with silver armor at the shoulders and wrists—hugged her figure with elegance and strength. There was nothing delicate about her. She was regal, otherworldly, and powerful, but as she approached, there was only warmth in her expression.

Then she slowed.

Her flight faltered.

Her brow furrowed—not with pain, but with the overwhelm of feeling too much, too fast. As her fingers brushed gently against Nova’s forehead, her body stiffened.

And then she gasped.

What hit her wasn’t a surface thought. It was a tidal wave.

It was heat without warmth—the suffocating inferno of Apokolips. 

A child, alone in fire, without comfort.

Friends turned enemies. He was made to kill them.

Victory became a leash. Praise, a punishment in disguise.

The ache of being shaped into a weapon—not to protect, but to destroy. 

And beneath it all: that silent, terrifying belief.

That peace wasn’t for him. It wasn’t allowed.

Kori’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyes flooded. Tears, unashamed, welled and spilled freely as she moved forward and wrapped her arms around him.

A full embrace. No restraint. No apology.

Her cheek pressed to his chest, just above the slow pulse of golden light that still burned beneath the bandages. Her tears soaked into the wrappings, not that she noticed.

“I am so sorry,” she whispered. “No one should have made you feel such things. You did not deserve that life.”

Nova stood frozen, confused. His arms stayed at his sides. No one had ever touched him like this—not without expectation. Not without command.

But Kori didn’t pull away.

“You are not broken.”

His eyes flicked to Kara, searching, uncertain.

But Kara looked away.

No malice—just something quieter. Sharper.

Jealousy, maybe. Maybe not. Whatever it was… it didn’t belong on her face. Or simply discomfort at someone else seeing something in Nova that even she hadn’t touched yet.

Starfire finally pulled back. Her hands lingered on his arms for a moment before letting go. She looked up at him with those bright, pupil-less green eyes, wide and sincere.

“You carry great sorrow, Nova of Apokolips,” she said, her voice full of quiet grace. “But you also carry the light. I can feel it. If you ever wish to speak, or simply to feel the kindness, I will be most available.”

She began to float back, hovering gracefully, her composure regained. She tilted her head, her lips curling into a gentle, mischievous smile.

“And also… you are still very much the gorgeous.”

Nova blinked.

With a soft flutter of wind from her departure, Starfire floated toward the door. As she passed Kara, she gave a small nod and a brief smile—not smug, not mocking. Just… kind.

Then she was gone.

And for a moment, the room was quiet again, but the atmosphere had shifted—not broken, just stirred. Like gravity had just adjusted around a new star.

Nova didn’t say anything. Neither did Kara.

But something Something new sat between them now. Quiet. Unnamed. But real.

Kara stood up.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t frown. Didn’t say anything more than what was absolutely required.

As she passed him, her voice came flat, almost mechanical—a thin layer of composure painted over something sharper beneath.

“Gotta get home. School’s in the morning.”

She didn’t wait for a response.

The doors hissed open again, and this time, it was Kara who disappeared into the corridor—leaving Nova alone in the quiet, the glow of his wound still pulsing beneath the bandages like a heartbeat out of rhythm.

Scene 2: Watchtower Conference Room

The Watchtower's conference room was quiet, but not still. Four figures sat around its circular table, the soft glow of holographic displays casting pale reflections off polished surfaces. Clark stood near the console at the head of the room, one hand resting on its edge. Diana sat to his right, composed and attentive. Bruce sat back in the shadows, fingers steepled, watching everything without blinking. Across from him sat Scott Free—Mr. Miracle—relaxed but focused, eyes narrowed as he watched the data scroll across the display.

Clark tapped a button on the control panel. A new file opened—schematics, biometric readings, satellite footage.

“Whatever Luthor is up to involves the gigafauna,” Clark said. “Supergirl said she followed LexCorp scientists to the waterfront during the first encounter.”

He pressed again. The image changed—data from the second Kaiju filled the screen.

“The second creature had a biochemical reaction to our atmosphere.”

Diana leaned forward slightly. “Why would Luthor need these beasts?”

Scott tilted his head. “It doesn’t look like a boom tube. They adjust size.”

Clark nodded. “Yeah—boom tube tech would’ve resized the creature.”

From his end of the table, Bruce glanced toward Diana. “Didn’t you say Intergang was making moves towards Metropolis last week?”

Scott’s voice came again, sharp and knowing. “Think Mannheim’s involved?”

Diana responded to both of them, her voice steady. “There was a cargo ship near Themyscira carrying weapons. The manifest revealed it was heading toward Metropolis.”

Before anyone could reply, the door to the conference room slid open with a quiet hiss.

Nova entered, hovering inches above the floor. No armor now—just a black T-shirt, plain but clinging faintly to the light still leaking from the wound beneath. His expression was unreadable. He floated toward one of the empty chairs near the end of the table and gently settled into it. His eyes met Batman’s, then Scott’s, and he nodded to both.

Scott grinned. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Popular. First Kanto, then Grail—what’s next? Kalibak and Granny tag-teaming you and Zatanna?”

Nova answered without hesitation, his voice level. “I already bested Kalibak in combat.”

Scott blinked. “No kidding…”

Clark cleared his throat. “We’ll be ready next time.”

Scott leaned back. “I’ll say. I knew Granny hated losing her favorites, but to ask Grail for help? Sheesh. Talk about desperate.”

Bruce finally spoke, his voice low. “She was toying with him.”

Clark responded quickly. “Well, Nova put up a fight. He got her away from Smallville.”

Bruce’s reply came without pause. “Let’s not pretend—Nova’s one of the strongest beings we’ve got. What little data we were able to record from the fight shows us that Nova could stand toe-to-toe with you, Superman. But he lost. Grail wasn’t out to kill him. At least, not at first.”

Diana turned to Nova, her voice calm but firm. “Tell us what happened, Nova.”

Nova looked down at the table for a moment before answering. “Kara and I had completed her duties on the farm. I offered to assess her combat prowess to determine how well she fought. During the assessment, Grail snuck up on us. Batman is correct. Grail was summoned by Granny and Desaad. She had other reasons. She sought to recruit me. Her plan is to kill Darkseid. I refused to join her. She tried to kill me, and would have succeeded had Kara not arrived and pulled me towards the light of your sun.”

At the mention of the sun, Batman tilted his head ever so slightly.

Clark spoke next, direct. “Why the light of the sun?”

“Sunlight accelerates my healing.”

Scott looked to Nova. “Did she tell you anything about her plans?”

Nova shook his head. “But she told me something. About me. She said I am blessed by the Source.”

Scott froze for a moment. Then his eyes widened.

“Oh. Well, that explains her interest in you. Okay, so—to not bore you with the cosmic sermon—being ‘Blessed of the Source’ means you’re more than just a New God. You’re… aligned. Tuned to the current that flows behind everything. You’re not a prophet. Not a puppet. You’re a question the Source wants answered.”

Nova sat silently as Scott’s words filtered through the space between them. Blessed of the Source. Aligned. Tuned. Chosen.

It should have meant something. Maybe it did.

But all Nova felt was the hum—low, steady, crawling in his chest—not just the dull ache of his wound, but something older, deeper. The sound of Apokolips never truly left him. Even now, miles above Earth, in a tower surrounded by gods and icons, he could still hear the furnaces — still feel the shadow of fire and lies clinging to his bones.

He lowered his gaze.

Scott kept talking, voice light and affable, but Nova only half-heard him. He drifted in memory. The walls of Apokolips closing in. The sting of a whip. The cheerless faces of other hunger dogs who didn’t live long enough to earn names. Everything he had ever been told about himself… was a lie. Every order, every lesson, every accolade—all shaped by deception. Molded to make him a weapon, to keep him facing the wrong direction.

Every new truth cracked the floor beneath him. There was no foundation anymore. Just this endless cold—no bottom, no end.

Scott didn’t notice the spiral. Or maybe he did—and just chose a softer way to respond.

“Why don’t you come over?” he said cheerfully. “My wife and I could probably help fill in some blanks. It would give her a chance to try some of her more domestic hobbies, too!”

Nova nodded, grateful for the invitation even if the weight in his chest hadn’t budged. He looked toward the others—Bruce, Diana, and Clark—steady pillars in the fog.

“May I venture down to the surface?” he asked.

Clark smiled, the kind of smile meant to soften the world a little.

“Nova, you don’t have to ask us for permission. All we ask is that you take care—and if anyone from Apokolips or like Grail shows up, get back here.”

Nova gave a single, solemn nod and stood. “Are we to leave now? If it is possible, I’d like to visit the farm… and offer an apology to Martha and Jonathan.”

Clark stepped forward, placing a hand on Nova’s shoulder—firm and warm.

“I’m afraid it’s the dead of night over there.”

Scott stood abruptly. “Yeah, humans have to sleep. Actually, we should probably postpone this chat for a few hours. I’m supposed to be on a date right now. Get my address from Bruce!”

As he spoke, a circular shimmer of energy bloomed beneath his feet. The familiar whuuum of a Boom Tube echoed softly through the chamber, and in a flash of light, Scott was gone.

Bruce rose from his seat with a fluid motion. “I’ll send it to the screen in your quarters.”

Clark lingered.

He watched Nova for a beat longer, something like concern behind his eyes. “Before I go… are you okay?”

Nova didn’t answer right away. Diana had already left. But somehow, her presence lingered—like something ancient that didn’t need to speak to be felt.

Clark continued, quieter now. “A lot’s happened to you in such a short time. You seem to be taking it all really well, considering.”

Nova looked down again, voice even. “I was trained to endure. To be a weapon that never breaks.”

Clark let out a quiet chuckle. Not mocking. Just… soft. Familiar. Like a dad who’s seen the worst and still hopes for the best. “You’re more than that, Nova. You were smart enough to move the fight away from my parents. You protected Kara.”

Nova stayed still. But something behind his eyes dimmed. “Grail was after me. Your family would have been safe had I never been there.”

Clark stepped a bit closer. “And that’s why I don’t regret taking you there. You knew that. You considered it, and you acted. Thank you, Nova. I mean it.”

He held out his hand.

This time, Nova didn’t hesitate. He took the gesture, his fingers wrapping around Clark’s, returning the handshake with quiet strength.

Clark gave a nod, then turned and left the room, cape fluttering in his wake.

Nova lingered at the table’s edge, the silence stretching around him like fabric. Then he slowly sat back down. His shoulders slumped just a little.

And he sighed.

Scene 3: Watchtower Observation Deck — 12 Hours Later

Nova hadn’t moved in twelve hours. He stood at the wide viewport of the Watchtower, arms crossed behind his back, watching Earth turn. To others, it was a planet—clouds drifting, lights twinkling, continents turning in silence. To him, it was a song he couldn’t stop hearing. He didn’t know the hour, didn’t need to. Time, as Earthlings used it, still meant little. But the waiting... that he understood. Behind him, a soft hum—the whum-whum of a Boom Tube opening.

Nova didn’t turn.

“Hey, kid!” came a voice—light, fast, too casual to belong to anyone but Scott Free. “Sorry about the random intrusion. I totally spaced about our lunch plans! I’m picking up some food now, so come on through!”

Nova allowed himself the barest smile. It didn’t reach his eyes, not yet. But it was something.

He turned, rose gently from the floor, and floated into the golden circular energy of the Boom Tube. As his body passed through the dimensional corridor, he felt the familiar pull—like being stretched thin across existence.

For a moment, he imagined something sacred. A place of ritual and flare—Earth’s chaotic beauty turned to nourishment. Surely a marketplace of color and abundance, filled with the unique flare of Earth’s chaotic harmony.

But instead of ancient stalls or celestial markets, he was met with a sudden white light.

The light slammed into him. Nova flinched, shielding his eyes as it dimmed. When he opened them, he found himself standing on tile—slick with waxy shine and dotted with scuff marks.

The ceiling above was a grid of buzzing fluorescent tubes.

Brightly colored signs hung over tall shelves lined with cereal, detergent, and baked goods sealed in plastic. A child cried in the distance. Someone’s shoe squeaked in a turn.

Then, from the unseen intercom above, a cheerful, automated voice rang out:

“Attention Super Savers! Metro Mart is having a sale on 12 packs of Soder Cola—buy one, get one free! Limit one per purchase. Thank you and have a Super-Day!”

Nova blinked.

No banners. No ceremony.

Just waxed tile, discount soda, and aisles.

He was still blinking when Scott reappeared, rolling a half-filled shopping cart around the corner with a bag of marshmallows under one arm and a pre-cooked rotisserie chicken in the other.

Scott beamed. “Welcome to the glory of mid-tier suburbia!”

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Scott navigated the cart through another aisle, humming a tune Nova didn’t recognize—something casual, rhythmically offbeat. He stopped near the snack section, eyes scanning the shelves with the intensity of a man making high-stakes decisions. He grabbed two boxes of ThinWheats, held one in each hand, and muttered, “Reduced sodium, or low sodium… hm.”

Nova stood motionless, watching the strange ballet unfold—shoppers grabbing, glancing, drifting past like ghosts on routines he didn’t understand. People walked by, each performing a small ritual—grabbing items, glancing at lists, checking labels. A woman passed close, a basket hooked on the bend of her elbow. She grabbed a box of soda crackers and moved on without a word. A young man in a vest refilled boxes of MilkMate cookies nearby, humming under his breath. Somewhere behind the cereal aisle, children screamed—sharp, chaotic bursts ricocheting off metal shelves like warning sirens.

Nova stiffened.

“Children are screaming,” he said aloud, instinctively alert.

Scott didn’t even look up from the ThinWheats. “Yeah… they do that.”

Nova blinked. “Why are they being punished?”

Scott squinted at the labels. “No real difference. Low sodium and reduced sodium.’Low’ sounds dignified.”

He plopped the chosen box into the cart.

“They’re not being punished, kid. They’re playing.”

Nova frowned, unconvinced.

Scott pushed the cart around the corner into the produce section. He moved with efficiency, grabbing a heavy bag of charcoal briquettes from a stack in the corner and casually tossing it into the basket like it weighed nothing. Then he passed a small crate of green grapes, plucked one loose, and tossed it over his shoulder without turning.

“Here,” he said.

Nova caught the grape carefully. It felt soft and delicate in his fingers—barely more than a drop of tension.

“That’s a grape. An Earth fruit. Taste it.”

Scott continued down the aisle, snatching vegetables and fruits with broad, unceremonious sweeps of his arms. Carrots. Tomatoes. A cucumber. A lumpy brown root Nova didn’t recognize. Then, without missing a beat, Scott reached into the bag of charcoal, grabbed a fist-sized lump of coal, and tossed that to Nova, too.

Nova caught it mid-air, eyes narrowing. “Yes,” he said. “I know what this is.”

Scott glanced back. “See that? You didn’t know what a fruit was. But you know what coal is.”

“I am still new t—”

“Not what I mean, kid,” Scott cut him off.

He stopped to grab a jar of artisanal grape jelly, turning the label to inspect it like it might hold secrets. “Nova, Apokolips taught you to be coal—burn hot, burn fast, then be gone.”

He dropped the jelly into the child seat of the cart and pointed at the grape.

“But with grapes? WSomething soft. Something fragile. But if you give it time and you get—” he pointed at the jelly “—a tasty spread.” Then a quick gesture to a nearby six-pack of grape soda. “A fizzy drink.” He rounded the endcap and grabbed a bottle of red wine from a small specialty rack. “Or, one of the finest beverages known to the universe: Hollow Crest Vineyard Malbec. 2022. Good year!”

Nova looked at the wine, then at Scott, his brows slightly furrowed, trying to grasp the full metaphor that hung between coal and grapes.

Scott caught the expression and sighed, softening. “You won’t get Earth in a day. You’ve gotta let it show you who it is—then decide who you want to be.”

Nova nodded slowly, still watching Scott like he was deciphering an ancient code.

They made their way to the meat department. Scott grabbed three foam trays—steaks, something marbled, something that needed cooking knowledge—and dropped them in the cart with a little bounce.

“Have you eaten Earth food yet?” he asked.

Nova opened his mouth to answer, but Scott waved it off.

“Don’t worry—my wife’s cooking is more of an interdimensional art project than cuisine. You’ll survive.”

Nova nodded again.

Scott narrowed his eyes slightly, catching the repetition. “Sheesh. Lighten up, kid. That was meant to be funny.”

Nova replied, tone unchanging, “I find the stillness of this planet to be maddening.”

Scott exhaled through his nose. “Yeah… it gets that way sometimes for me, too.”

They turned the final corner. “Life here is slow. But it’s nice once you get used to it. Also, you’ll get used to that feeling of time. You’re moving slower.”

Nova tilted his head. “How?”

Scott pushed the cart past two other shoppers and into the checkout lanes.

“On Fourth World, we’re not just big—we’re cosmically big. Bigger than scale, bigger than language. We’re tuned to a frequency this universe was never built for.”

He grabbed two loaves of bread and dropped them into the cart as he kept talking.

“So when we Boom Tube to Earth, the Tube doesn’t just move us—it remakes us. Tunes us down. Shrinks the signal. Forces our tempo to match this dimension’s physics.”

He paused as the cart rolled to a stop near the self-checkout.

“You’re not imagining it. You really are moving slower. Because here... you have to.”

Scott stepped to the machine, started scanning each item with practiced swipes.

“You mind baggin’?” he asked.

Nova looked around, watching hands move with ritual precision—sliding, folding, double-knotting without thought. Without speaking, he began bagging the items just as he saw them do, mirroring the behavior, adjusting his strength so nothing tore or crumpled beneath his grip.

Scott slid his credit card, grabbed the now-full bags, and turned toward the exit. Nova followed, carrying his half without struggle.

They walked in silence through the auto-sliding doors and across the vast, dim parking lot, now mostly empty under the low hum of parking lot lights. A warm midday breeze stirred the paper advertisements stapled to the shopping carts, fluttering them lazily under the sun.

Then, in an empty patch of sun-bleached asphalt, the air split open with a golden roar—Boom Tube light tearing reality at the seams.

Scott grinned as he stepped toward it. “Home stretch. I can already taste that wine—and the wife’s gonna pretend it pairs with burnt chicken.”

He vanished into the light.

Nova stepped in after him.

Scene 4: Smallville High, Courtyard

Just past one at Smallville High—sun high, heat lazy, and the air thick with summer’s halfway mark. Kara and Dani sat in the open courtyard behind the west building, where the landscaping hadn’t been touched since the nineties and the statue of Jerrold Shulman—founder of Smallville, according to the plaque—stood proudly in mid-pointing pose.

Both girls held school-issued cameras, chunky, school-issued digitals—faded buttons, scratched screens, more grit than gear. The lenses clicked occasionally as they snapped photos from slightly different angles, pretending to focus on composition rather than the tension that hung quietly between them.

Kara wore a crisp white short-sleeve top under light blue denim overalls, the straps clipped tight over her shoulders. The legs of the overalls were rolled just high enough to show off her sun-kissed legs—bold, confident, and absolutely toeing the line of the school’s dress code. Scuffed red hi-tops—farm-worn, fight-tested—finished the look. Her blonde hair was tied back with a black headband, giving her that impossible blend of “Kansas farmgirl” and “Metropolis rebel.”

Dani looked every bit the rural powerhouse: sun-faded Bluehawk denim shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tucked into a pair of dusty Hightail boot-cut jeans, her Dustridge work boots scuffed and steady. A battered "Keep Kickin’" ballcap shaded her eyes, and a turquoise pendant glinted just beneath her open collar.

Dani lowered her camera and glanced sideways.

“So…?”

Kara sighed.

Dani didn’t budge. “Don’t sigh at me, girl. You shoulda seen the look on Martha and Jonathan’s faces when they saw the smoke.”

Kara kept her gaze fixed on the statue. “They overreacted. It wasn’t a big deal.”

Dani raised an eyebrow. She let the camera fall back around her neck. “Wasn’t a big deal? Kara, that smoke plume looked like a freaking oil rig went up.”

“It was just a shed,” Kara snapped. “It caught fire. Big deal.”

“Uh-huh.” Dani’s voice flattened. “And the way Martha and Jonathan ran off like someone was dying?”

Kara tried a smile—tight and toothy, the kind that looked more like bracing than warmth.

“A fire on a farm is a serious thing.”

Dani wasn’t buying it. Her brow furrowed, her mouth twisting. “I’m not stupid, Kara. You’ve been acting weird for a while now. Smoke on the horizon is the least of it.”

She stood abruptly and began pacing the narrow courtyard walkway, boots thudding against the tile.

“I mean it, Kara. One minute we’re riding trails and sneakin’ Pop-Tarts outta my dad’s hidin’ spot, and the next you’re always leaving. Or gettin’ back late. Or lyin’.”

Kara opened her mouth, but Dani raised a hand to cut her off.

“I ain’t mad. Not really. I just…” Her voice hitched, quiet but sharp. “I keep wondering if I did something. Said something. Made you mad without knowin’. ’Cause it feels like you’re pushing me out.”

Kara looked like she’d been punched. “Dani—No. You didn’t do anything.”

“Then what is it?” Dani pressed, stepping closer. “You say it’s nothing, but you’re never around. You show up looking like you wrestled a bear, and then give me some ‘oh the shed caught fire’ nonsense like I’m too dumb to notice the smoke was coming from the wrong direction.”

Kara swallowed hard. Her fingers twisted in the strap of her camera, knuckles whitening.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“Well, ya did.”

Silence stretched between them—not angry, but aching.

Then, soft. Tentative.

“I… met someone,” Kara said, like the words felt weird in her mouth.

Dani blinked, caught off guard. “You… wait. What?”

Kara gave a tiny shrug, her voice still small. “That’s why I’ve been… off, I guess.”

Dani sat back down beside her, lowering herself slowly, like her brain was still catching up.

“Huh. Okay. Guess that’s one explanation.”

Kara kept her eyes forward. “Look, it’s not that I don’t care. I do. You’re still… You’re my person, Dani. It wasn’t planned. It just… happened. Fast.”

Dani stared for a beat. Then let out a slow breath, heavy with the things she hadn’t said. “I’m still pissed.”

“I know.”

“But…” Dani’s mouth curved—not quite a grin, not quite forgiveness. “You did finally tell me something.”

“I did.”

“We’ll call it progress!” Dani said with a smirk, then fixed Kara with a sideways glare. “Don’t push me out again, Kent. Or I swear, I’ll sneak into your house and dye your conditioner orange.”

Kara smiled—a real one, at last—and said, “Deal!”

Even if the hug didn’t squeeze like Dani thought it did, Kara let it happen anyway.

As they broke apart, Dani kept one arm slung casually over Kara’s shoulder, her body relaxing again as the old ease between them began to creep back in.

“Y’know…” Dani said, voice teasing. “I met someone too.”

“Wait—what?” said Kara.

Dani gave her a crooked smile, head tilted just slightly. “Hallie Winters.”

Kara blinked. “Sadie’s Hallie Winters?”

“Ex-Sadie,” Dani replied, the smirk blooming into full grin. “Turns out once she stopped trying to win popularity points, she got a lot more interesting. And hot. Still so hot.”

Kara let out a low, genuine laugh. “Okay. That explains the extra eyeliner.”

“Shut up,” Dani muttered, shoving her with a mock glare, though her grin betrayed her. “We’re just talking. But it’s... good.”

Kara nudged her. “Progress?”

Dani nodded, eyes warm. “Progress.”

For a moment, everything between them felt solid again. Whole. Shared.

Until the courtyard darkened just slightly.

A shadow cut across the brick-lined benches and overgrown hedges as Owen Ward strolled into view like he was starring in his own music video. Hands stuffed in the pockets of his fitted tactical joggers, the black Sigma Scholar hoodie zipped up despite the heat. His wiry frame moved with practiced looseness—like a guy who’d watched too many action reels and never quite nailed the landing.

His buzzed cut left a sharp line across his temple—too sharp, like someone got carried away doing a favor they shouldn’t have. Above his lip, a mustache tried to be something—Burt Reynolds, maybe—but ended up more like a suggestion left unfinished.

He smiled like he owned the sun and said, “Kara.”

The casual bravado in his tone made the hairs on Dani’s arm stand up.

“Didn’t think I’d catch you out here.”

Kara’s shoulders tensed, spine going stiff.

Dani noticed. She always noticed.

She sat up straighter, suddenly every inch the ranch-trained sentinel she was—tall, broad-shouldered, strong from years of lifting saddles and hay bales. Her dark braid didn’t even sway as she turned to face Owen with a look that could’ve knocked over a lamppost.

“Owen,” Kara said, carefully neutral.

“Hey, yourself.” His smirk didn’t move. Then to Dani, barely sparing a pause, “Can we talk? Alone?”

Kara gave a smile so tight it barely qualified. “I’m kind of busy right now.”

Owen’s grin didn’t falter. “You said we’d talk. Been lookin’ for ya.”

“She’s got company,” Dani said, her tone not sharp, but not friendly either. Steel in denim.

“You can say whatever you need right here.”

Owen gave her a look—half condescending, half amused—and said, “Pretty sure she can speak for herself. Right, Kara?”

Kara opened her mouth, hesitated.

Dani’s arm tightened slightly around Kara’s shoulders. Solid. Grounding. A quiet claim.

Kara looked at her, then back at Owen. “Now’s not a good time.”

Owen’s head tilted just slightly. His smile cracked—just a twitch at the corner.

“It’s just—look, I know our date got a little off-track. You left kinda fast, and I figured maybe you got nervous or something. Totally fine. Sometimes when things feel real, people freak out a little. I get it.”

Dani blinked. “Real?”

Owen ignored her, still watching Kara like she was something owed. “I just thought we could talk it out,” he added. “I’ve been reading some stuff. About relationships. And communication’s key. Sometimes you just gotta step up. That’s what real men do, right?”

Kara didn’t respond right away. Dani’s arm stayed right where it was.

Then Owen cleared his throat. “Not to be rude,” he said, eyeing Dani again, “but sometimes third wheels kind of muddy things. Just saying.”

Dani arched a brow. “Sounds like a whole lotta nothin’, ‘just sayin’.”

The smirk on Owen’s face wavered, but he kept it plastered there, even as it shrank around the edges. “It’s just—relationships work better when people don’t have… distractions or voices in their ear.”

Kara’s voice came sharper this time. “Dani’s not a distraction.”

Owen held up both hands like he was calming a cornered animal. “Sure, sure. Didn’t mean anything by it.”

But the way his eyes lingered a second too long told another story.

He gave Kara a parting nod. It was supposed to be casual. Like a promise. It landed like a warning.

And then he turned and walked off, each step echoing a little too loudly on the concrete, like the courtyard itself didn’t want to keep his footsteps quiet.

As Owen disappeared around the corner, Kara gave a visible shiver, like she’d just stepped into a cold draft.

“Ugh,” she muttered. “It’s like he sweats entitlement.”

Dani wrinkled her nose. “I think that was Axe body spray and insecurity. Real potent mix.”

Kara shook it off, adjusting the strap on her camera. “Thanks. I hate how easy it is for him to show up and just… take space.”

Dani bumped her shoulder. “Anytime. Imagine all the money that boy spends just to creep away like a future podcast host. Or worse—a politician. Somebody’s gotta keep the Russian bride market afloat.”

Kara snorted. “That’s awful.”

“Awfully accurate.”

Scene 5: Free Residence, Connecticut

As Nova stepped out of the Boom Tube, its brightness still fading from his vision, he braced for something alien—celestial, maybe. Something shaped by the mind of a god.

What he found instead was… small.

Not sacred. Not vast. And definitely not Apokolips.

The floor beneath his boots was warm-colored wood, worn to a gentle polish in places where feet had passed often. The scuffs weren’t battle scars—they were lived-in marks. Real ones. The kind that meant time and presence, not war.

The walls were painted in soft earth tones. No control panels. No flickering glyphs of command. No metal supports exposed in sharp architectural lines. Just a space built to hold people, not commands. The air smelled like bread and faint citrus cleaner. Curtains danced slightly with the breeze from a cracked window, filtering sunlight like breath through gauze.

There was no fanfare. No sigils of victory. No shrines to function or fear. Just furniture that sagged gently. A couch with cushions that had given up their fight years ago. A bookshelf stuffed not for show but for reach, lopsided and crowded with novels and dog-eared manuals. A ceiling fan creaked in a lazy circle overhead.

Scott moved ahead, weaving through the living room like this was the most normal thing in the universe.

A voice called out from somewhere deeper in the house, warm and sharp in equal measure:
“Scott? Is that you, dear?”

Scott called back, easy as breathing: “Yup, it’s me, hun.”

He gave Nova a nod of the head. “Come on. Kitchen’s this way.”

The same voice called out again, crisp and commanding even through domesticity:
“Groceries on the counter, Scott. Not the table.”

Nova followed.

The kitchen revealed itself in fragments—the checkered tile, the hum of the fridge, the cluttered counter stacked with cereal boxes and fruit bowls not meant for display. Light spilled from the window and landed on her—the shadow he hadn’t noticed until just now.

She was turned away.

But something in his chest braced anyway.

Then Scott spoke. “We got company, baby.”
She turned.

“Barda, Nova. Nova, Barda.”

The room dropped away.

His feet forgot the floor.

His heart slowed—just like it used to, seconds before a strike.

“Gen—”

The rest caught in his throat. Old instinct, unshaken.

Before he could think better of it, Nova dropped to one knee, the grocery bag hitting the tile with a dull thump.

Scott’s eyes widened. “Oh boy…”

She was taller than he remembered.

Or maybe it was just the way memory plays with scale.

General Barda.

The same titan who had once torn through war camps without a pause. Who had stood unflinching in front of Parademons and lieutenants alike. Who had spoken only when it mattered—and made people listen when she did.

Now?

Now she wore a pink apron—frilled, dusted in flour, tied snug around her waist like it had always belonged there.

It was tied snug around her waist, frilled, slightly dusted in flour. Beneath it, the unmistakable silhouette of her old battle gear remained, albeit softened. The helmet that once struck fear into hardened warriors sat on the counter next to a bowl of apples. Her iconic red cape was nowhere in sight. The black straps she used to wear along her limbs were gone, leaving the blue and gold bodysuit more relaxed, almost informal.

Her cuirass still gleamed—a golden breastplate snug against cobalt fabric—but her gauntlets were only halfway secured. One of them still had a bit of batter on the side, like she’d swiped her arm across something mid-recipe.

And yet, despite the frills, the flour, the domestic quiet—

—She was still General Barda. Always had been.

Barda stepped forward, her expression unreadable for a beat. Then something softened behind her eyes.

“On your feet, soldier.” Her voice was quiet—but it left no room for hesitation.

Nova rose slowly. Still watching her like she might vanish. Or strike.

“You don’t kneel here,” Barda said, folding her arms. “That life’s over.”

Nova stood, straighter than usual. Unsure whether to salute, speak, or retreat.

Barda stared at him for another long moment… then reached out and took one of the grocery bags from his hand with effortless strength.

“Scott, tell me you didn’t buy those off-brand grain bricks again.”

Scott reached into one of the grocery bags, pulled out the two loaves of bread, and held them up like they were gold bars.
“Two artisanal loaves,” he declared, “for my artisanal wife.”

Barda arched a brow at him but said nothing. Instead, she turned back to Nova. Her gaze softened slightly.
“I should say I’m surprised,” she said, “but I know you were taught well, Nova.”

Nova dipped his head out of instinct, words starting to form—

Barda stopped him with just a lift of her chin. “Stand up straight, Nova. I am not a general anymore. And you are not on Apokolips.”

Nova met her eyes, uncertain. “Forgive me.”

On the counter, Scott had already retrieved the bottle of Hollow Crest Vineyard Malbec and a timeworn corkscrew. He held the bottle to the light, admiring the color—a deep, unruly red with a hint of sunlight dancing at the edges. “Hey, Nova. C’mere. Look at this swirl.”

Nova stepped forward, eyeing the bottle like it might be a containment device—or a trap.

“People always chase the expensive stuff,” Scott said, turning the glass in his hand, “but this? This is the real deal. $14.99 and it tastes like an evening done right.”

Nova blinked. “Fourteen... ninety-nine?”

Scott paused, cork halfway inserted. “Right. You wouldn’t know about that.” He slid the corkscrew into place, voice going into ‘teacher’ mode. “A dollar is a kind of currency. A system of trade. People here use money to get things—food, clothes, wine, whatever. It means that’s what you trade to take it home.”

Pop. 

The cork eased free with a soft hiss. Scott raised the bottle and took a long, deliberate inhale.

“Ahh,” he sighed, “Earth in a bottle. Little acidic. Little smoky. Kinda stubborn. Just like my dear wife.”

Barda stepped in behind him, her arms circling his waist, and rested her chin lightly atop his head. The movement was practiced, natural—the way they fit together defied gravity better than any Boom Tube ever had.

Nova’s gaze returned to her, not just studying now, but searching. “Forgive me, G—” He caught himself. “Forgive me, but... the last time I saw you, Granny said you were no longer my instructor. How did you get here?”

Barda met his gaze head-on, lifting her chin from Scott’s head. “I grew tired of serving monsters.”

There was no anger in her voice. No heat. Just clarity.

“Before I trained you, Granny assigned me to Scott. Between... his punishments... I was made to shape the promising ones. You were one of them.” Her tone softened, just barely. “Scott and I found something we weren’t supposed to. Each other.”

She stepped closer.

“Because I needed to be more than what they made me. I needed to live up to your mother’s memory.”

Nova’s golden eyes widened—just for a breath, they flickered with light.

“My... mother?”

Scott had already poured two full glasses—and a small splash into a third. He and Barda exchanged a look. A silent, practiced kind of look.

Barda nodded. “Dear boy, I forgot. You were taken as an infant.” She looked toward the stove, then back. “Sit. I’ll finish preparing lunch. And then we’ll talk.”

Just as Nova stepped back toward the dining table, the kitchen lit with a sharp, resonant PING! PING! PING!

All three of them froze.

Barda’s head snapped toward the living room. Her eyes locked on something—something still. Familiar.

A wide-brimmed western hat sat above the fireplace. Faded by sun. Edges curled. Dust clung to it like memory made solid. A single thread dangled from the brim—loose, unmoving.

Then it twitched.

It lifted, caught in an unseen draft—then twisted midair.

With a sudden whir of hidden mechanisms, the hat began to unfold. Panels peeled back. Creases vanished. The brim collapsed inward and rotated. A pulse of golden circuitry shimmered to life, blooming along its surface like sunlight chasing dew.

The fabric was gone—no, transformed—into glowing plating. Folding, twisting, reforming.

A cube. Curved. Gleaming. Alive.

A Mother Box.

PING!

The room hummed. The lights dimmed—not dark, but deeper. As if the world was holding its breath.

PING.

This one didn’t just echo. It resonated.

Low. Beautiful. Certain.

PING!

It drifted toward Nova. The air around it shimmered faintly, the scent of ozone and old fire curling into the kitchen.

Scott and Barda both stepped back, their eyes wide.

Nova didn’t move.

And the Mother Box came to him.

It hovered at chest height, humming softly—not like machinery, but like something breathing.

Nova didn’t move.

The Box tilted forward, brushing gently against him—right where the black fabric clung tight across his core. The hum deepened, harmonic and low, and golden circuitry sparked outward in soft, spiraling threads.

His shirt began to glow. Faint at first—then brighter, where light leaked through the bandages beneath. The fabric fluttered slightly, as though stirred by wind that wasn’t there.

A sharp twitch ran through his side.

The glow intensified.

The bandages—clean, careful, and expertly wrapped around his lower torso—began to tremble. Then they split—not torn, but unwoven. The threads loosened and fluttered to the ground in long, weightless curls.

Light poured from the wound—no longer angry or raw, but pulsing like a newborn star.

He looked down.

Where the blade had pierced him, only smooth, unbroken skin remained. The glow faded from within, replaced by stillness.

Scott exhaled. Just once. “Huh.”

The Mother Box drifted back a few inches, then began to orbit Nova’s shoulder slowly—quiet, like it was listening.

Barda, arms crossed, tilted her head. “Seems like it knows where it belongs.”

Scene Six: Smallville High

Kara and Dani stepped out of the photography classroom in perfect sync. “Thanks, Mr. Langford!” they called over their shoulders. As they strolled down the hall, Kara nudged Dani with her shoulder. “So, study hall or outdoor ‘study hall’?”

“To the football field!” Dani declared, pumping a fist.

The two headed toward the back of the school.The field, still pristine from recent renovations—thanks to Coach Ferguson, former Miami Dolphin and Super Bowl overtime hero—glistened in the afternoon sun. But as they stepped up onto the bleachers, expecting the usual peace and privacy, a sound cut through the stillness—
thump-clap, bass drop, whoosh.

Near the 30-yard line, a hot pink boombox was belting out what could only be described as “cheerleading dubstep”. And moving with it—twirling, flipping, kicking, spinning—was a human whirlwind in a custom-fit pink uniform that practically sparkled.

“Is that the new girl?” Kara asked, squinting.

“Sorry, what? I couldn't hear you over the glitter twister in the field.” Dani deadpanned.

The girl on the field stuck her landing with a cheerleader’s flourish—arms high, back arched—and spotted them. She grinned like she’d just won state, clapped her hands, and cartwheeled toward them—into a flip, then a smooth landing near the bleachers.

“Hi-hi!” she chirped, bouncing to a stop and smacking the pause button on her boombox. “Did y’all see me land that flip? O. M. G. I have been trying to get it down just right. What y’all think? I spent like half the summer up in the air, just flippin’ and flippin’. I wonder if there’s any side effects to that? But it don’t matter now, cuz I did it!”

She hopped in place, literally vibrating with joy.

Kara and Dani looked at each other, then back at the cheer-nado.

“My name is... ALICE!” she declared, striking a full-on cheer pose—one leg up, foot pointed, fist to the sky, other hand locked on her hip.

Dani deadpanned, “Love it. No notes.”

Kara laughed, instantly charmed. “Hi, Alice. I'm Kara and this is Dani.”

Without missing a beat, Alice wrapped her arms around both of them and gave them a joyful squeeze.

“Gosh, first day and I already have two friends! Take that, mean girls!”

Dani gave her a friendly pat. “Oh, who would be mean to you?”

Alice's smile wobbled. Her eyes misted.

“Like, my last squad said I would never make friends in such a small town. But it’s not like I wanted to move. Daddy's opening a new diner in town.”

Kara rubbed her back gently. “It’s okay. When I moved here last year, it was tough. Thanks to Dani, I would've spent the whole year eating lunch alone.”

Alice lit up. “Really? Where’d you move from? 'Cause I came from Texas.”

Dani glanced sideways at Kara. “Come to think of it... where did you move from? I can't believe we've never talked about it.”

Kara gave a sheepish chuckle. “Pfft! We totally did! I, uh… moved here from… Star City.”

“Oh!” Dani perked up. “I got a Tía that lives near there.”

“Yup!” Kara said quickly. “You told me that then too.”

Alice twirled a strand of her ponytail. “So, like, what’s there to do in town?”

Kara and Dani linked arms with her and steered her toward the bleachers.

“Well,” Kara began, “we’ve got the movie theater.”

“Only one screen,” Dani added, “but sometimes they pick something good.”

“There’s a bowling alley,” Kara continued.

“Just don’t hang there past 9 p.m.” Dani warned.

“The roller rink,” Kara offered.

“As long as you’re not a size six—they never have size six,” Dani quipped.

“And you have to come to the county fair,” Kara added brightly.

“Corn maze. Pie-eating contest. Tractor pulls,” Dani listed. “It’s actually kinda fun.”

Alice clapped excitedly. “Gosh, it’s like a Hallmark movie!”

Dani grinned. “Yeah, just don’t wander near the cornfields too long — that’s where the horror subplot kicks in.”

Alice blinked. “Why?”

Dani casually slung an arm around her. “Don’t worry about it. It’s this weekend. We’ll take you.”

Alice’s face lit up like someone had just handed her a puppy.

“Ladies,” she declared, “I am so happy right now... I gotta flip!”

“Wait—what?” Dani started, but Alice was already mid-air, executing a perfect backflip followed by a high kick that could clear a soccer goal.

Dani turned to Kara, eyes wide and grinning. “I love her energy.”

Kara laughed. “She’s basically a can of MetaRush with legs.”

As the girls sat on the bleachers laughing and chatting, the red double doors of the main building slammed open like they were kicked by destiny itself. Sadie Graves, Maddie Kreel, and June Howell strutted out into the September sun like a glam squad dropped from a CW pilot—slow motion optional but implied.

Sadie led the charge, hips swinging with the kind of self-assurance that made traffic part and teachers flinch. Her dark curls bounced just enough to seem effortless, and her lip gloss gleamed like a blade under cafeteria lights. The tied flannel shirt over her graphic tee was more aesthetic than agricultural, and her boots were designer rugged—worn like armor, but never touched dirt.

Maddie followed like a reflection, a whirlwind of shimmer and selfies, already snapping angles with her phone like she was framing her own reality show. She let out a squeal and a breathless “Yaaas” just from the way the breeze hit her bangs.

And then there was June—always a beat behind, always watching. Her band tee looked like it came from a merch booth and hadn’t been washed since, her cargo pants loaded with more secrets than a CIA agent, and her Nails: glittery black, chipped just enough to scream ‘I don’t care’—while absolutely meaning ‘I care deeply and will judge everything you do.’

Dani glanced over and groaned. “Brace yourselves. The Plan B Brigade has landed.”

Kara followed her gaze and sighed. “Of course they are.”

Alice, meanwhile, lit up like the squad had just strolled in to welcome her to Hollywood. She hopped to her feet and waved both hands. “Hi, ladies!”

Sadie’s eyes locked onto her like a heat-seeking missile in lip gloss and a pageant smile. She sauntered up with arms wide. “Oh! You must be the new girl,” she cooed, sweeping Alice into a tight hug that and somehow still managed to radiate judgment.

“Welcome to Smallville! I’m Sadie—cheer captain—and this is June and Maddie.” She motioned with a wave so sharp it could’ve been a dismissal.

Alice clapped and bounced, practically vibrating. “I’m, like, totally gonna try out later today! I was just practicing when I met my new friends—Kara and Dani!”

Kara and Dani gave a curt wave. Flat. Unimpressed.

Sadie’s nose crinkled like someone had lit a manure-scented candle. “Oh, okay. That’s cute. But maybe be careful with those two. They spend all day rolling around in horse shit.”

Kara rolled her eyes so hard it almost gave her a headache, but Dani was already rising to her feet like a storm front. “You know what, you little slu—”

Kara stepped in fast, a hand on Dani’s shoulder. “Easy. She’s not worth it.”

Alice stumbled back, blinking between them.

June flipped a strand of her blue-dyed hair and chimed in lazily, “Shouldn’t y’all be in study hall or whatever it is cowgirls do during school hours? Only cheerleaders and football players are allowed on the field.”

Sadie smirked and added, “Yeah, we don’t need any manly ranch hands scuffing the new bleachers.”

Before Dani could explode again, Alice raised both hands in the international sign of “can we not.” “Maybe we just go grab some froyo or something? Chill, vibe, not start, like, a turf war?”

Sadie stepped forward and brushed past Kara with zero acknowledgment. As she passed Dani, she turned her head and gave a long, dramatic raspberry—

PPPBBBTTTHHHTT—lips flapping like a bored pony.

Dani stiffened, nostrils flaring—but Kara stepped in, hand to her chest, head shaking.

Sadie glanced back with that trademark smirk—90% sweet, 100% fake, “Good luck at tryouts, Alice!” before sauntering toward the middle row of bleachers like it was a runway.

Kara muttered, “Classy as ever, Sadie.”

Scene Seven: Free Residence

The kitchen table was small, round, and wobbling slightly on one leg—perfectly imperfect, like the rest of the home. In the center, a ceramic pot hissed and smoked, exhaling what could only be described as culinary defiance. Whatever Barda had cooked steamed aggressively, somewhere between volcanic rock and a science experiment gone wrong.

Three plates were piled high, each heaped with the same ominous-looking food. Steam curled upward like it was trying to escape. The smell… raised questions no one dared ask.

Scott and Nova sat at the table, the latter stiff-backed and formal. Despite the foreboding texture and color, both men dug in with quiet resolve—like soldiers honoring an ancient, unspeakable rite

Nova swallowed his first bite with solemn reverence. The Mother Box floated calmly beside him, emitting a soft, steady glow.

He glanced toward it, uncertain. Barda followed his gaze, wiping her hands on her pink apron before sitting down.

“I never thought we would see it activate again,” she said, her voice quieter than before.

Scott took another forkful, chewing with a thoughtful nod. “Do you know what that is, Nova?”

Barda answered before he could. “It’s a Mother Box. Similar to Granny and Desaad’s Father Boxes… but vastly improved.”

Scott leaned back, gesturing to the floating cube with a casual sweep. “They heal. They open Boom Tubes. They feel. They don’t just follow commands—they form bonds. Deep ones.”

Barda took a sip of her wine, her eyes on the Mother Box. “That one belonged to a dear friend of Scott. His name was Serafin. One of the Forever People. He wore his Mother Box as a hat.”

Scott chuckled, warmth breaking through the edges of his usual mischief. “Always did have a great sense of style.”

Barda nodded. “When he died, we expected it to return to the Source. They usually self-destruct when their bonded one passes.”

“But I guess it was waiting,” Scott said. He smiled, lifting his wine glass slightly in salute. “It’s chosen you, kid. Serafin had one last surprise.”

Nova reached out, cautious. His fingers brushed against the Mother Box’s surface—and it PING! softly. A harmonic hum resonated through the room, low and soothing, like a temple bell chiming in his chest.

Scott refilled his glass and lifted the bottle toward Nova with a tilt of his head. “So—New Genesis. You want the scenic tour or just the cliff notes?”

Barda placed her hand over Nova’s gently. Her expression was calm—not heavy, but anchored. “Or would you like to hear about your mother, Nova?”

Nova’s head turned toward her slowly. He gave the smallest nod.

“She was Jezebelle of the Fiery Eyes,” Barda began, her voice losing none of its clarity. “She was... many things to many people. To Granny, she was a disappointment. To Darkseid, a liability. To me…”

She paused, looking down at her plate. For a moment, her war-worn face softened. “She was my sister in arms. We fought together. Trained. Bled. I trusted her like I trusted my own instincts—until the day she left.”

Scott’s voice was quieter now. “She defected to New Genesis. Risked everything.”

Barda nodded. “I called her a traitor. Spat her name like poison. Before I understood what she saw.”

She took a deep, slightly shaky breath. “She saw the rot in Apokolips before I did. She had the courage to walk away from it before I could even admit it was broken.”

Scott reached across the table, placing a hand over hers. His thumb stroked the back of her knuckles in silent solidarity.

“I used to train Furies to serve,” Barda went on. “Not to think. Not to feel. Just to survive. To obey. I trained you the same way. Not because I wanted to make a monster—but on Apokolips, monsters last longer.”

Her voice faltered, just a touch.

“I didn’t know who you were back then. Whose fire lived behind your eyes. In a way... I gave you the only thing I had left to give—the tools to live through that hell. I cannot take pride in it, but I won’t regret it either.”

Scott looked to Nova. “From what I’ve heard? Total firecracker. You should be proud, kid.”

Nova sat in silence. The training—brutal, relentless, dehumanizing—felt heavier now. The places he fought. Bled. Survived. Maybe the same corridors she walked. The same air she breathed. The same pain she carried.

He looked down at his plate, The food’s heat faded, overtaken by the burn in his chest. His core—his very essence—hummed louder.

“I… I do not know what to say.” He looked up slowly, voice low.

He looked at Scott. Then at Barda. Two gods. Two rebels. Two survivors.

“I will need time to... understand this.”

“Of course, kid,” Scott said gently. “You’ll need time to take it all in. I know it feels like we’re built for anything… but even gods get winded.”

Nova nodded. The Mother Box hovered close to his shoulder now, humming like it was singing just for him.

“Thank you. Both of you.”

Barda reached forward, her tone solid and unflinching. No thanks needed. But if you want to honor your mother… live.”

Scott raised his glass, his smile returning. “Speaking of living—this little guy?” Scott gestured with the wine bottle. “It’s your backstage pass to the cosmos. Healing, teleportation, databases of everything… plus it hums just like you.”

He gave Nova a wink.

“Wanna give it a test run?”

The backyard was simple—green lawn, a few worn stepping stones, and a patio table with a striped umbrella that flapped gently in the late afternoon breeze. The scent of whatever Barda had made still lingered faintly in the air, fighting to be forgotten.

Dishes cleared, and wine glasses rinsed, Scott and Barda settled under the umbrella with relaxed postures and half-full glasses. Nova stood alone on the grass. The Mother Box hovered, quiet and gleaming, its hum matching the rhythm in his chest.

Scott leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed at the ankle. “Alright, kid. You have a cosmic Swiss Army knife floating in front of you. Let us start small. It does not need to be fireworks. Just… ask.”

Nova tilted his head slightly, brow drawn. “Ask…?”

“It’s not a machine,” Scott said. “It’s a companion. Think of it like a partner. You don’t bark orders. You make a request. Think with intention. Focus.”

Barda said nothing, arms folded, her eyes fixed on Nova—not critically, but like a sculptor watching a statue shift toward completion.

Nova squared his shoulders and faced the Mother Box directly. He took a steadying breath. The light in his chest pulsed faintly.

“...Show me something… beautiful.”

PING!

The plating on the Mother Box began to shift, unfolding and recombining with mechanical elegance. A shimmer split the air in front of Nova—like light refracted through crystal—and widened into a window.

What emerged was a panorama. A slow, graceful image of New Genesis at dusk. The sky stretched in violets and golds, twin moons just touching the horizon. Vast floating gardens drifted between the clouds, iridescent foliage glowing softly in the twilight. The air within the image seemed to breathe, calm and eternal.

Nova’s lips parted. His golden eyes swept slowly across the image—the curve of the moons, the warm haze of distant spires, the impossible serenity that pulsed from the sky. His voice barely registered as a whisper:

“...Is this real?”

Scott shared a look with Barda—equal parts pride and memory.

“Real enough,” Scott answered. “Memory, maybe. Or a map. The Box remembers things it’s felt.”

“Sometimes,” Barda added, her voice gentle, “it shows you what you need. Not what you asked for.”

Nova stared into the window for a moment longer. Then, without shifting his stance, he turned back to the Box.

“Show me Kara.”

PING!

The hum deepened. The shimmer reformed.

This time, the scene was more immediate.Kara streaked above the Metropolis waterfront, wind-whipped hair trailing like a battle banner, violet ichor splashed across her cheek. A tentacle—thick as a city bus—burst beside her, flinging debris and seawater skyward.

She didn’t flinch.

Her eyes glowed red with heat vision primed, and in a fluid, furious motion, she rocketed forward—her fists slamming down into the monster’s body like thunder cracking through steel. It reared back in agony, and she pressed forward again, a streak of blue, red, and determination.

Nova’s posture eased. His voice was low, reverent—like naming a constellation. “I have never seen someone so beautiful fight with such ferocity.”

Scott chuckled. “Ohhh, buddy. Don’t tell me you fell for the first demigoddess that decked a space squid in front of you. Classic.”

Nova did not answer. But the faintest smile touched his face—something rare, something earned.

Scott reached for Barda’s hand and squeezed it gently. “They grow up so fast, don’t they, hun?”

Nova turned from the projection of Kara and looked toward the open sky above the backyard. The soft breeze tugged at the edges of his shirt. The world here felt impossibly still—like it was waiting to decide what he was. The Mother Box hovered at his side, as steady as breath.

He looked to Scott and Barda. “I wish to open a Boom Tube. Do I name the location directly?”

Scott tilted his wine glass and grinned. “Lookin’ to pay your sweetie a visit?”

Nova’s expression didn’t change. “She said she had school to get to.”

Scott nodded, swirling the wine in his glass. “Well, if I know Clark, Kara probably goes to Smallville High.” He checked the time on a nearby clock. “It’s half past three here. She’ll probably be out of school within the next twenty minutes or so.”

Barda glanced up from her seat and fixed Nova with a thoughtful look. “Perhaps it might be best to Boom Tube above the school. So as not to frighten the mortals.”

Scott gave her hand a squeeze, half-grinning. “People, babe. They get touchy about ‘mortals.’”

He turned back to Nova. “Just tell the Box to open a Tube above Smallville High. Airspace only. Keep it subtle.”

Nova stepped forward onto the lawn, his boots sinking slightly into the soft grass. He raised his chin and spoke clearly to the Mother Box, “Above the school. Not at ground level. High enough to avoid detection.”

PING!

The box pulsed. The earth beneath Nova trembled faintly, and a surge of golden light burst outward in a soft ring—then imploded inward.

KRAKOOM.

A Boom Tube split open before him—a brilliant tunnel carved through space, alive with energy and impossible geometry. The inside shimmered with glowing circuits and shifting lattices. It reached into the distance like a wormhole through creation, spiraling toward a pinhole of light at the far end.

Nova turned back to Scott and Barda.

“I am deeply grateful. If permitted, I would like to return.”

Barda smiled—soft, but firm. “Drop by anytime, Nova. It is very good seeing you again.”

Scott raised his glass. “Remember, take your time.”

Nova stepped closer to the Boom Tube, but just as he lifted his foot toward the threshold, Barda’s voice cut through the hum.

“Oh—Nova.”

Barda stood slowly, her chair creaking beneath her as she rose. Her voice was even, but carried weight.

“You stood. You lived. That means I did my job.”

She met his gaze, steady and unflinching—then took a step forward, just close enough that he’d feel the gravity of it.

“So now do yours—be better than I taught you.”

Nova gave a single, solemn nod.

And then, he stepped through.

The light swallowed him whole, and the Boom Tube roared shut behind him with a cosmic snap, leaving only quiet in its wake.

Scott looked at the space where the tunnel had been and gave a soft whistle. “Nice kid. Really intense.”

Barda rose from her chair and extended her hand toward him.

“Come,” she said, her voice playful but edged with expectation. “Tell me all about how much you loved my meal.”

Scott glanced at her hand, a smirk forming—equal parts affection and culinary trauma. He stood up, took her hand, and let himself be led inside.

Scene Eight: Smallville High

KRAKOOM. 

The sky cracked open in a thunderclap of golden geometry. A Boom Tube flared to life high above Smallville High—a perfect circle of luminous circuitry etched in golden fire against the blue. The light refracted off scattered clouds as Nova stepped through, already hovering, He hovered, held in the air like gravity hadn’t quite made up its mind.

The wind peeled away from him in silent ribbons as his boots hovered against the atmosphere. His cape fluttered behind him, slow and deliberate, like it too understood the gravity of where he was. The Mother Box hovered loyally at his side—steady, silent, as if awaiting further command.

Beneath him, the rooftops of Smallville stretched out like a patchwork—school buildings, sports fields, town streets crisscrossing quiet neighborhoods. Birds traced lazy loops above power lines. No sirens. No screams. No fire. Just... wind and windows

Nova gazed downward, unblinking. The sun was warm against his skin, but it did little to settle the ripple in his chest.

He turned to the Mother Box, voice low. “Perhaps we should disguise you.”

PING! PING!

The Box responded with two quick notes, bright and warm. Then it spun, a graceful arc of shifting plates and rotating panels. With a shimmer of auric light, it collapsed into itself—and reformed as a matte-black cuff around his left wrist. Sleek. Inconspicuous. Its obsidian surface faintly shimmered, circuitry beneath the surface pulsing like starlight caught in shadow.

Nova nodded once.

And then, with the same quiet intent as a falling leaf, he began to descend.

—

Kara, Dani, and Alice lounged on the sun-warmed bleachers, the kind of lazy afternoon stretch that felt like it could last forever. Down the line, Sadie Graves and her orbit sparkled with phone lights and practiced giggles—laughter thin as glass.

Alice glanced toward them and furrowed her brow. “What’s her damage?”

Kara snapped her notebook closed with a sigh. “I don’t know. She just is, I guess.”

Dani leaned back on her elbows, her voice casual but edged. “When Kara first enrolled, Sadie was just some local influencer. Dance trends, pouty selfies, and a Mustang she got before she could even parallel park. But then Kara showed up—all sweet, smart, and hot without even trying.”

Kara gave a soft, embarrassed laugh.

Dani looked over at her and added, “Then we became friends, and suddenly we were both on Sadie’s enemy list.”

Kara nodded. “It got worse after her boyfriend asked me to prom. Like… two days before it.”

Alice’s eyes widened. “Wait, she's a senior?”

“Nope,” Dani said, smirking. “That was when she was a sophomore. The guy was a senior. Dumped her the day after.”

Alice flopped onto her back like a starfish in distress. “Maybe I shouldn’t join the cheer squad after all…”

Kara sat up straighter, suddenly serious. “No way. You’re amazing. They’d be lucky to have you.”

“Yeah, girl,” Dani said. “You’ve got more spirit in your pinky toe than Sadie has in her whole fake clique.”

Alice grinned, swaying her feet in the air. “Then I’d sure love it if my new besties stayed to cheer me on.”

Dani nudged her with a playful slap. “We’re not going anywhere. Right, Kara?”

Kara nodded, but her attention was already drifting upward. A faint pressure, like the echo of a thunderclap, tugged at her senses.

She looked up, squinting into the sunlight.

And there he was.

High above, the sky folded in on itself—a shimmer of gold opening like a second sunrise. From it, Nova descended. Quiet as breath. Light curled around him like the sky was holding him gently.

Kara's breath caught in her throat. Her heartbeat shifted.

“I’ll be right back!” Kara said, already vaulting off the bleachers and jogging toward the far edge of the field.

Alice propped herself up on her elbows, squinting after her. “She looked like she saw a ghost. Or a boy. Or both!”

Dani waved her off with a smirk. “Told her not to eat the fruit cup.”

—

Nova descended, slow and steady, until the world below came into crisp detail—parking lot lines, scuffed end zones, the sharp geometry of mortal routine. The Mother Box hovered near, disguised now as a sleek obsidian cuff, its faint glow pulsing beneath the surface like a heartbeat.

The hum of teenage voices drifted up to meet him—backpacks dangling, phones raised, laughter spiking and dipping like static. He wasn’t ready. Not entirely.

That weight again—uncertainty. Like his first day on the training deck, fists shaking, bones ringing with every strike. Barda’s corrections sharp. Her silences sharper. No comfort. Just expectation. A wall you broke against until you broke through.

Then another memory:

Sunlight in her hair. Fists flying. Kara pulling him out of moon-shadow like she was born for it—bright, blinding, impossible to look away from.

He stopped midair.

“Am I making a mistake?” Nova asked aloud.

PING.

He tilted his head, catching something steady in the note. Reassurance. Resolve.

“You are right,” he said softly, smirking as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Kalibak never made me feel this way.”

PING. PING.

Nova let out a quiet laugh. “That is true.”

The Box chirped, its circuitry flaring softly across the obsidian band. Below—students, bleachers, backpacks like scattered beetles across the field.

And Kara—slipping behind the home-side bleachers, fast and purposeful. Nova’s heart lifted. He followed. He descended like a falling star—fast, but light, the grass barely whispering beneath the glow. Kara turned at the sound. She startled.

“Kara.”

She flinched. “What are you doing here?” she hissed.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed.

Nova tilted his head. “I—”

“Can you not glow right now?” she cut in, scanning the area. “And what’s that thing on your wrist? Why are you flying around my school? Are you trying to out me?”

The glow around him faded instantly, like someone turning down the sun.

“My apologies. That was not my intent. I only wished to see you again.”

Kara hesitated. The steadiness in his voice stopped her.

“You… wanted to see me?”

He nodded. “Kara, I—”

“Kara?”

Dani’s voice. Close.

Kara’s eyes snapped wide. “Follow my lead.”

Nova gave a short nod, pivoting just as Dani rounded the corner.

She stopped cold.

Her stance shifted. Shoulders squaring. Guard rising.

He wasn’t glowing, not visibly. But there was something about him—like the air bent differently around him. A stillness too complete.

It pressed against her chest before she could name it.

“…Hi,” Dani said, too soft to match her usual swagger.

“Hello,” Nova said, even as marble.

Kara jumped in, words awkward. “Dani, this is... N—Nico!”

Nova turned just slightly, eyebrow lifting. Kara’s eyes went wide—code for play along or crash the mission.

“Nico, this is Dani. My best friend.”

Nova studied Dani for a moment, then nodded. “It is nice to meet you.”

Dani blinked, but didn’t miss a beat. “Nice to meet ya, Nico.”

Her tone was friendly… but it carried a question she hadn’t asked yet.

Kara, eager to shift the moment, jumped in. “Did you need something?”

“Nope! Just letting you know cheer’s kicking off.”

Kara threw up a quick thumbs-up. “On my way.”

Dani hesitated. “Nice meeting you, Nico.”

Nova gave a shallow bow.

Kara waited until Dani had rounded the bleachers before exhaling.

“Nico?” Nova echoed.

Kara shrugged. “You don’t like it?”

“My name is Nova.”

“Yeah, and it sounds like you’re here to vaporize the planet.”

Nova tilted his head. “But that is my name.”

Kara grinned. “Exactly why you need a nickname. Blend in a little. Try being normal.”

Nova considered that. “Normal... is difficult. Especially with assassins.”

She nudged his shoulder, eyes soft. “Relax. It was a joke.”

He looked up at her. The wind picked up a bit, and a few strands of her hair brushed her cheek. She didn’t move them.

“You still owe me a training session,” she said, stepping in close. “We never finished my assessment.”

“You hold back too much,” Nova said.

Kara’s brows rose. “Excuse me?”

“You were holding back. I could tell.”

“Pinned’s pinned,” she said, smirking. “Sounds like an excuse.”

“I did not wish to harm you.”

“Ohhh,” she said. “So that’s the excuse now?”

He chuckled. She caught it—and smiled back, softer this time.

“Was that a laugh? I didn’t think you had it in you,” she teased.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Roughly on par with your combat skills.”

Kara laughed. “Alright, shiny boots—you’re in for it. Same spot. Tonight. We’re finishing what we started.”

She backed away slowly, pointing at him. “And don’t you dare just fly out of here in full god mode.”

Nova gave her a small grin.

“Mother Box,” he said, turning toward the open sky. “Take me to my quarters.”

PING!

A Boom Tube roared open behind him—golden light swirling like a living wound in the sky.

Nova looked back once more.

“Seeing you again… was very good. I will be ready tonight.”

And then, with one final bow, he stepped into the light and vanished. Kara shielded her eyes from the flare. When it faded, she dropped her hand—and grinned like she’d just won something. She turned back toward the field. From the other end of the bleachers, Coach Suarez blew her whistle and yelled, “Alright ladies, butts on the bleachers!”

Kara jogged around the corner and spotted Dani waiting near the top row. Dani raised an eyebrow and smirked.

“You said you met someone—not Magic Mike.”

Kara ducked her head, biting back a smile she couldn’t quite hide. “Shut up,” she mumbled, brushing past Dani like the breeze might carry away the pink rising in her cheeks. No denial. No explanation. Just a fast walk and red ears.

A soft click. Alice snapped her compact shut and stuffed it into her glitter-pink duffel. She bounced to her feet like a spring-loaded firecracker. “Wish me luck, girls!” she chirped, clutching her poms like they were rosary beads. Then she gasped. “What if I don’t get in?”

Dani scoffed. “They’ll beg you to join.”

Alice squealed and threw her arms around Dani, pressing her cheek in with wild affection.
“You guys are the best!”

Kara smiled up at her. “Go get ’em, girl.”

Alice let out a long, triumphant “WOOOOO!” and clapped once before sprinting down the bleachers with show-stealing grace. She reached Coach Suarez with a cartwheel that flipped so close it made the coach jump backward with a startled yell.

Dani and Kara burst into laughter. Kara said between giggles, “I’ve never met someone who was born to be a cheerleader.”

Dani nodded. “Bet she was built in a secret NFL lab.”

The cheer squad clustered on one end of the field. Alice stood dead center in her glitter-pink uniform, sparkling like the halftime show just started early. She stood poised, every inch of her screaming confidence and performance.

Coach Suarez leaned in, had a quick word, then stepped back and clicked the button on a small remote.

“Toxic” by Britney Spears erupted from the field speakers.

Alice lowered her head, poms crossed at her knees, like a popstar warrior ready for battle. The wind caught her pigtails just so.

And then the beat dropped.

Alice snapped her head up with a grin that could launch a brand. Twirl. Pose. Wink. Her body caught the beat like muscle memory—sharp, charged, undeniable.

She launched into the first chorus like she'd been summoned to it—tight punches left and right, feet moving like she was cutting glass, poms flaring with just the right touch of flirt and fire. Her shoulders popped in rhythm, each move practiced, deliberate, and dangerous.

Kara didn’t move. Her brows hitched, mouth parting slightly. Dani beside her whooped. “Let’s GO, Alice!”

A perfect toe-touch split the air like a firework. Legs wide, form locked. Glitter trailing like afterburn. Kara blinked.

Alice didn’t miss a beat. Back handspring—flawless. Landing—sharp. Poms up—dagger-straight.

The synth line buzzed through the speakers, and she answered with a ripple down her arms, hips, then poms again—twist, twist, shimmy. Every inch of her moved like it had its own pulse—sharp, alive, impossible to ignore.

Then came her chant, cutting through the chorus like a rally cry. Southern, sweet, and just sharp enough to slice.

Off to the side, Sadie Graves didn’t move. Not overtly. But her jaw tightened. Her arms folded across her chest, nails digging into her forearms. Beside her, Maddie and June were stone-still, watching their entire hierarchy quiver.

Alice dropped into a one-leg scorpion. Her back arched like a bow drawn to the limit—then snapped into a split without breaking pace. No hesitation. No effort wasted. She rolled out of it, cartwheeled back into frame, and ended the set with twin finger guns and a wink, dusted in glitter, that would’ve broken TikTok in half.

The final chorus slammed down.

Alice surged forward—hair flip, body roll, high kick, twirl—each beat turning her into a pink storm. Her boots barely kissed the turf between moves. Her final jump was a cascade of backflips ending in a gravity-defying spin and toe-touch. She dropped to one knee, one hand pressed to her chest. Head bowed.

Silence.

Then—

The cheer squad lost it.

They rushed her like fans at a pop concert—arms out, voices high, practically vibrating with praise.

Kara and Dani strolled down the bleachers, laughing like they’d just watched a miracle on turf.

“She’s a walking energy drink,” Kara said.

“No,” Dani said. “She’s a weaponized mood.”

Coach Suarez, visibly rattled but absolutely charmed, gave Alice a thumbs up and said something they couldn't hear. But her voice carried:

“I’m gonna do a flip!”

And she did. A joy-born, glitter-trailing, sunshine-fueled flip.

Kara clapped along with the squad. 

“She’s gonna own this school by Monday,” Dani muttered, mostly to herself.

—

Inside Nova’s quarters, silence held the room like breath just before a name is spoken.

The Boom Tube had long since closed behind him, its afterglow faded into nothing. Only stillness remained—cool, electric, watchful.

Nova stood at the center, unmoving. Then slowly, he lowered himself to the floor. Legs crossed. Spine tall. Hands resting lightly on his knees, palms up.

He looked to his wrist.

The Mother Box waited there, quiet. Its obsidian surface pulsed faintly—dim veins of gold flickering beneath, like a heartbeat beneath skin.

He lifted his hand. “The facade is no longer required.”

PING.

The cuff responded with a subtle click. It uncoiled in midair—panels folding outward, surfaces shifting like origami until the cube hovered before him once more, suspended in slow rotation. Gold circuitry shimmered across its angles, casting soft ripples of light across the floor.

He stared at it.

Barda.
New Genesis.
Jezebelle.

Each name moved through him not like memory, but hunger—an emptiness only now understood by the shape it left behind.

He drew in a breath. Held it. Let it go.

Then, quietly, like a question he wasn’t sure how to ask:

“Show me my mother. Jezebelle of the Fiery Eyes.”

PING.

The box didn’t move. Its glow dimmed. A pause stretched long across the room—heavier than silence.

Then:

PING.

Nova’s voice didn’t waver. “I am certain.”

Light unfurled from the cube—slow at first, curling outward in golden threads that stitched themselves into the air. A shimmer. A breath. A shape.

A woman stepped from the light.

She didn’t walk. Didn’t glide. She was. Present. Formed mid-motion, then stilled—as if time paused to let him see her fully.

Her skin glowed with a soft silver-blue hue, like metal kissed by moonlight. Her armor was sleek, ceremonial, edged with function but sculpted like memory. Not Fury standard. Something personal. Claimed.

Her shoulders were broad, framed by high warcloth folded with care. Her boots were scuffed, not polished—traveled. Earned. Her hair, the color of flame licked by iron, rose and coiled in smooth rings of metal and gravity.

But it was her eyes that stopped him.

Red-gold. Fierce, but kind.

They didn’t command—they welcomed. Heat without fire. Strength without cruelty. In them, he saw recognition.

Her lips moved faintly. The beginning of a smile.

He stood.

He reached for her.

His fingers passed through light.

Just projection. Just memory.

Still, he stayed there—hand suspended mid-air. Closer than he’d ever been. Farther than he could bear.

Then his knees folded. Not with grace. Not ceremony.

Just gravity.

His palms met the floor. His head lowered.

The breath in his chest hitched. Broke.

His shoulders trembled once. Then again.

A sound escaped him—not a cry, not a word. Just something real. Something that had never been trained out of him.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his brow, as though the motion might hold the moment in place—might keep him from unraveling.

No blade had cut this deep. No enemy had ever left him so exposed.

The image of Jezebelle held its shape, lit from within.

The Mother Box hovered nearby. Quiet. Listening.

The light did not vanish.

Not yet.

Scene Nine: Sunset in Smallville

The golden hour stretched long across the Kansas sky, painting Kara’s bedroom in strokes of amber and blush. She stood in front of her mirror, adjusting the hem of her fitted blue skirt and smoothing the crisp fold of her cropped white top. The red and gold ‘S’ caught the light, and Kara shifted slightly, as if trying to decide whether to hide it—or stand straighter beneath it.

Her cape hung weightless behind her, tugged by the breeze from her open window.

On her desk, her phone buzzed, on speaker, a three-way call in full swing.

“What’s he like?! Tell me everything, Dani. Is he cute?”
Alice’s voice crackled with excitement, as loud and sparkly as her personality.

Kara rolled her eyes and smirked, tugging the gloves onto her hands. The cotton snapped softly against her wrists.

Dani let out a slow, dramatic sigh. “Cute? Girl. Cute is prom court. This guy looked like a young Latin Bruce Wayne.”

“Dani—” Kara warned, half-laughing.

“I’m not lyin’, Kara. The man had the kinda face that makes you forget your morals. Like this presence. Real cologne commercial energy. He bowed and everything.”

From the phone, Alice gasped.
“Oh my gawwwd, Kara, you didn’t say he was a man-man. What was his name again? Nico?”

Kara adjusted her headband and cleared her throat.
“Uh, Yeah... I think his family is European.”

Dani’s laugh was a low ripple through the line.
“At least it explains why you’ve been weird lately. How’d you guys meet?”

Kara hesitated. Her hand paused mid-adjustment. “I was visiting Metropolis,” she said, careful. “Clark introduced us.”

“Ugh, I can’t wait to find myself a man,” Alice groaned, flopping dramatically.

Dani chuckled.
“Yes, we need to find you a date for the county fair.”

“The football team’s got some cute guys,” Kara offered, reaching for her boots.

“Ugh, no, thank you. I’ve had my fill of football players. All meat and no brains.”

“My girl’s got facts!” Dani added, voice full of approval.

Kara grabbed her phone, slinging her duffel bag over one shoulder.

“Okay, well I gotta go.”

“Are we still meeting up at lunch tomorrow? I cannot eat alone,” Alice said quickly.

“Not having lunch with the cheer squad?” Dani teased.

Alice scoffed. “They’ll see me at practice. I wanna eat with my new besties.”

“Yeah, we’ll wave to you in the cafeteria. Gotta go, bye girls!” Kara said, smiling as she clicked the call off.

She jogged down the stairs, her cape fluttering behind her like a banner. Jonathan and Martha sat on the couch, warm in the soft glow of the television. Kara slowed her pace just enough to strike a half-serious pose in the doorway.

“Okay, Nova’s coming. How do I look?”

Martha turned. Her eyes widened just slightly.

“And where do you think you’re going dressed like that, young lady?”

Kara groaned, dropping the stance and shaking her head. “Nowhere, Aunt Martha. Nova is coming here. He wants to give me a few fighting pointers.”

Jonathan looked over his shoulder. “Are you sure you want him here?”

Kara crossed the room and dropped into the armchair beside them. Her gloves squeaked faintly against the fabric.

“I know I’ve been... a lot lately,” she said, rubbing her glove against her knee. “But you two? You never made me feel like I didn’t belong. Not even once. I was terrified when I got here. And you didn’t try to fix it—you just made space for me until I could breathe again.”

She looked down at her gloves for a second, gathering herself.

“Nova doesn’t have a couch like this. Or people who leave the porch light on. He’s... just floating out there. And I remember what that felt like. If inviting him over to teach me some moves helps him feel better, then I think it’s worth it. Plus, you guys should have seen him fight that crazy lady. He knows what he’s doing.”

Jonathan nodded with a soft smile, pride hidden beneath the brim of his warmth. Martha exchanged a glance with him, then turned back to Kara.

“Are you sure that’s the only reason, hun?” she asked, voice playful but not unkind.

Kara raised an eyebrow. “It’s not a thing—it’s just trade. I help him pass for normal, he teaches me how not to get clocked.”

“You should’ve seen the way he was looking at you yesterday,” Martha added, nudging Jonathan with her elbow. “Like you were Miss America.”

Kara felt the heat climb up her neck like a betrayal. “He’s literally a New God, Aunt Martha. He probably looks at us like squirrels.”

Jonathan chuckled. “God or not, that boy had big eyes for you.”

Kara’s face flushed. She stood abruptly. “Anyway! I’ll be outside. Not thinking about any of this.”

The screen door shut behind her before they could respond. Jonathan chuckled again. Martha leaned in against his shoulder, sighing softly. They turned back toward the TV. But both wore that small, knowing smile—the kind you save for watching a girl grow up faster than you'd like.

Outside, Kara stood barefoot in the grass, arms crossed against the breeze, her skirt catching the last rays of the day. The cape tugged slightly at her back. Somewhere above, the wind shifted, and the sky darkened from peach to violet.

She looked up, telling herself it was just about training.

—

Within the Boom Tube, time bent like light through a prism. The corridor shimmered around Nova—red crystal stretched into infinity, walls of silent velocity lined with glowing white circuitry. They pulsed in sync with something ancient. Something alive. A hum that wasn’t just mechanical, but spiritual. It moved with him. Matched his breath. Matched his heartbeat.

He drifted forward, body weightless, suspended in a force built by gods and moved by thought. Beneath him, the circuit-grid twisted and rippled like a sea of doors not yet opened—each flicker a different outcome, a different possibility.

But his thoughts didn’t stay on Barda. Or war. Or the endless next. They drifted—to her.

Kara.

The way her hand had rested briefly on his shoulder. The way her lips curved when she smiled without meaning to. The tilt in her voice when she said his name. “Nova,” like it belonged to him more when she said it.

Whatever this feeling was—it hit like a landing. Like gravity finding him before his feet did. It pulled at him. Refused to let go. He didn’t know the word for it—this constant buzz in his chest, this loop of thought—but it made his fingers twitch.

He found himself wondering: if she smiled when she saw him, what would he say? And if she didn’t—what would that mean?

The Boom Tube peeled open.

The golden circuitry spiraled apart, unspooling into the open sky over the Kent farm, just as the sun’s last breath kissed the horizon. A warm lavender dusk spilled out, quiet and slow.

Nova stepped through.

And everything he’d been preparing to say disappeared.

Because she was already there.

Kara stood on the grass outside the house, framed by golden hour, her hair caught the breeze like light on water—impossible to hold, impossible not to follow. Her cape swayed at her back, and the red-and-gold emblem across her chest shimmered with reflected fire. The skirt, the gloves, the impossible calm—she didn’t look real. She looked remembered.

She didn’t speak. Not right away. Just looked at him.

And something shifted. Small. Barely a breath. But the corners of her lips tugged, a smirk trying not to be. Then—pressed flat, as if she caught the smile halfway.

She stepped in close and tapped her fist to his arm—light, casual, like she hadn’t just rewired his entire nervous system. Nova stared at the spot like it had spoken.

“…Are we starting now?” he asked, tone dry but without edge.

Kara giggled, the sound bubbling out before she could help it. “No, that’s a casual greeting. Boy, you have a lot to learn.”

Her gaze drifted past his shoulder, catching the subtle shimmer of metal behind him.

“Uh, Nova? What’s that?”

He followed her eyes to the hovering device. The Mother Box.

“It is my Mother Box,” he said plainly. “It enables Boom Tube traversal... among other functions.”

The Box PINGed, floating toward Kara with an almost curious energy.

She blinked and stepped back slightly. “It talks?”

“In a way,” Nova said. “Not in words. It speaks through intent. Feeling. I... understand it.”

Kara folded her arms across her chest. “Okay. So, what did it just say?”

Nova blinked. The faintest pause. His voice dropped lower, uncertain.

“…It said you are beautiful.”

Kara burst out in another soft laugh, clearly delighted. She stepped closer, playful confidence in her step now.

“You know what I think?” she asked.

Nova swallowed. “Yes?”

But his voice betrayed him. It wasn’t confidence—it was pure, stunned vulnerability.

She closed the space between them slowly, like someone easing into warm water. The last line of sunset broke across her shoulder, igniting her cape, brushing her cheek in gold. Her eyes stayed locked on his.

He didn’t move.

Her breath grazed the base of his throat. Her fingers hovered near his collarbone, like she wasn’t sure if touching him would startle him—or burn her. The moment felt suspended. One tilt of her chin, and they wouldn’t be talking anymore.

And still—Nova didn’t move. He couldn’t. His arms stayed frozen at his sides, like the air between them had hardened. His thoughts sparked uselessly. He only knew this: she was close.

Kara’s pulse kicked up. She looked up through her lashes—measuring him—and then the smirk slid back into place.

“You trying to mess with my head?” she asked, soft and teasing. “Because it’s not gonna work.”

Nova blinked. “I am not making any such attempts, Kara.”

She didn’t move. Her eyes searched his—quiet, steady. In his irises, something flickered. Not heat vision. Not power. Just… light. Old. Wondering.

Kara smiled.

Then—abruptly—she spun on her heel, cape flaring behind her, and began walking toward the edge of the farm road.

“Let’s go,” she said, voice over her shoulder. “We can walk. Aunt Martha would have a cow if she saw us flying.”

Nova lingered in place, stunned.

Then he blinked again, and followed. The Mother Box glided behind him, content and unaware.

“…What is a cow?” he asked, catching up.

Kara laughed—sharp, bright, and full of sun. It spilled down the road like it was leading the way.

And Nova smiled, just slightly, as he followed her into twilight.

The sun dipped low behind the Kansas horizon, bleeding its last streaks of orange across the sky as Kara and Nova walked along the dirt path that cut behind the Kent farmhouse. The grass swayed gently in the warm dusk breeze, brushing at Kara’s bare legs as she led them toward the crater-stained earth where they'd fought the day before.

She kept stealing glances at him—curious ones. Thoughtful ones.

“So,” she said at last, hands tucked behind her back, “mind if I tell you a secret?”

Nova looked at her with patient attentiveness and gave a small nod.

Kara shifted her stride slightly, toeing a pebble down the trail. “You know I’m Supergirl,” she said, not looking at him.

“I thought you were Kara,” Nova said quietly.

She smiled at that.“I am. But in this?”—she flicked the hem of her skirt—“I’m Supergirl.”

She exhaled, gaze drifting up toward the darkening sky. “Clark wants me to lay low. Be normal, blend in. And he’s not wrong. People don’t cheer for weapons.”

Nova nodded slowly, his brow faintly furrowed. “I understand.”

Kara stopped at a fence post and turned, her ponytail catching on the breeze. Her smirk was gone.

“Because Dani—the one you met—she’s starting to put things together. I didn’t know what to do, so I told her I’d met someone.”

Nova’s expression didn’t change. He listened, every detail noted.

“She thinks that someone is you.”

“I see,” he said. “We did meet recently. Technically true.”

Kara let out a groan and looked away. “You’re really not helping.”

“That is not my intent. But… I do not understand what this is.”

Kara sighed again, a little heavier this time. “Okay, look. Around here, when a girl says she ‘met someone,’ that usually means… she’s interested. Romantically.”

Nova stopped walking.

Kara kept going.

“I wasn’t planning to say anything,” she continued, “but Dani was practically building a conspiracy board in her head. She’s been trying to set me up with someone for weeks, so I figured… if I dropped a name, she’d drop it.”

Nova nodded, thoughtful. “Does this Dani pose a threat to you?”

Kara blinked and tilted her head. “What? No! She’s my best friend.”

“If she is a danger, I could—”

“She’s not a danger!” Kara snapped, half-laughing in disbelief. 

There was a beat. Kara inhaled, slowed her step. “So… the fair’s this weekend. Dani and Alice are going with dates, and I sorta told them I had one too.” She glanced up at him. “Thought maybe you’d come. Just for a few hours. Be ‘Nico.’ Eat junk food. Act normal. It could be fun.”

Nova considered this carefully. “Kara, I have questions. What is a county fair? What is Saturday? Is a date… some kind of offering?”

Kara dragged her hands down her face. “Why do I open my mouth,” she muttered.

Nova blinked. “I do not understand.”

She threw her hands up. “Okay, lesson time. A county fair is a big outdoor thing—games, rides, music, fried food that’ll kill you, but in a good way.”

“I would very much like to see this ‘fair of county.’”

“Yup. Not unpacking that,” she muttered. “Saturday is one of the seven days of the week. Today is Tuesday, then comes Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and then... Saturday.”

He furrowed his brow. “How does anyone remember all of this?”

“It’s basic stuff, Nova. Keep up.”

“And a date?”

Kara paused. Her voice caught for just a beat. “A date’s when you go somewhere with someone you like. Like-like. It’s kinda your way of saying, ‘Hey, I think you’re cool—wanna hang out and pretend we’re normal?’”

Nova looked at her, entirely earnest. “Then… am I your date right now?”

The question hit her like a surprise note in a familiar song. Her face flushed instantly.

She looked away fast. “More like a tutor,” she said, voice a little too fast. “But… I guess. If you want.”

They reached the far edge of the field, the scorched dirt still marked from where Grail had slammed her into the ground the day before. The crater hadn’t faded. It loomed like a scar beneath the twilight.

Kara rolled her shoulders and began stretching. “So, are we doing another assessment?”

Nova nodded once. With a soft PING, the Mother Box slid from the air back into its cuff form and clamped onto his wrist.

“From what I’ve seen, your strength is not in question,” he said. “What concerns me is that you hold back.”

Kara gave him a crooked smirk. “You sure you can handle it?”

The grass shivered as golden energy bloomed off Nova in radiant waves. The air shimmered around him, heat rising like sunlight off chrome. His black shirt disintegrated in an instant, curling to ash that vanished in the light.

And the skin beneath?

Unmarked. Perfect. The injury—gone.

Kara blinked, caught somewhere between impressed and annoyed. “Seriously? You couldn’t just flex like a normal guy?”

In the next instant, he was gone.

Gone from her sight.

She spun—too late.

Nova was behind her, arms wrapped tight around her body, pinning hers to her sides. A bear hug made of pure force.

“Hey!” she shouted, startled. “What the—”

Nova tightened his hold. Not enough to hurt. But enough that she felt it in her spine.

“Get out of this hold,” he said calmly. “Use all your strength—but do not let yourself become angry.”

Kara gritted her teeth and launched into the air, taking him with her. They slammed back down into the crater in a cloud of dust. Nova’s grip never faltered.

She twisted hard, enough to turn them chest-to-chest—but his arms stayed locked.

“At least you turned,” he said. “Now what?”

She slammed her forehead toward his—but he caught the motion, turned his head just enough to let it glance off harmlessly. Then his arms constricted again.

PING! PING! PING!

Kara grunted, wriggling an arm free, and punched him across the face.

His head snapped slightly—but he didn’t flinch.

“Good,” he said. Calm. Unshaken. “Now—find the opening. Exploit it.”

She hit him again. And again. Harder now. A flicker of frustration bloomed beneath her ribs—not at him, but at herself. At holding back.

She hit him again. And again. Harder now.

He didn’t budge. Not even a sway.

Then she felt it—that flicker. A looseness in his hold. She seized it, twisted—but he was faster. He swept her into another hold, this time locking her arms down completely.

Breath hot against his collarbone, she muttered, “Okay... too strong.”

He didn’t respond.

Then—her breath stilled. A different idea lit behind her eyes.

She stopped fighting.

Went still.

Looked up.

Her gaze met his, steady and searching. Their noses nearly touched.

And without warning—she leaned in.

Her lips pressed into his.

It was soft—intentional. Warm, with the faintest tremble at the edges.

Not long. But enough.

And when she pulled away, his arms had slackened.

His hands had moved to her hips.

His lips parted, stunned—like he’d forgotten what words were for.

Kara’s eyes met his.

And then—

She grabbed his wrist, dropped her weight, and flipped him straight over her shoulder.

The earth took him fast and rough.

She was on him before the dust settled, fists flashing like sparks. A clean hit to the temple knocked his balance loose. Before he could regroup, her legs coiled around his neck—tight, unyielding.

He reached up, fingers brushing her leg, but—

TAP. TAP.

Nova surrendered.

Kara let go.

They lay there, breath tangled, the wind the only thing not stunned.

She looked at him, hair tangled, cheeks flushed.

He looked at her.

No words. Just the silence between a girl who played her heart like a feint—and a god who never saw it coming.