Nova: The Un-Animated Series

By Jack Bronson

Episode 6: Proper Footing

Scene 1: Kent Morning Special

Falling again.

Not from battle. Not from an explosion. Just falling.

Through the atmosphere, through layers of burning sky and thinning air. No panic. No urgency. Just speed. Terminal velocity with no resistance—because nothing could resist.

Wind screamed. Heat folded around his frame. Light warped at the edges of his silhouette. But Nova’s face didn’t change. He didn’t brace. Didn’t correct.

He watched the world come into view—slowly, steadily—as though gravity were only a suggestion.

The Mother Box blinked to life at his wrist.

PING.

Nova tilted his head slightly, eyes scanning the projection. Then, with no visible effort, he stopped.

Not slowed.

Stopped.

Midair.

The sky shuddered as a sonic bloom rippled outward—an invisible ring distorting the clouds. The sound echoed like the sky cracking sideways. Then, quiet.

Nova hung there, perfectly still. Not floating—suspended. Like the world had hit pause.

Below, the early light of Metropolis crept over rooftops and steel. The city was waking. Lights flickered in windows. Trains hummed. Distant cars crawled like insects waking in the dark.

He looked down. The waterfront shimmered in the soft gold of dawn.

“That’s where I met her.”

His gaze shifted eastward. He couldn’t see Smallville from here—not with human eyes—but he knew she was there. Getting ready for school, probably. Kara.

He stared, his expression unreadable. Somewhere between thought and memory.

Then—lower.

His gaze dropped, instinctively.

A weight settled in his chest. Cold. Familiar.

He didn’t know what it was.

PING.

“I am fine.”

PING. PING.

Nova exhaled slowly through his nose.

“I will not regret seeing her.”

PING. PING.

“Why would I—”

PING! PING! PING!

A voice cut through the air, cheerful and steady.

“Hey!”

Nova looked up.

Superman hovered a few yards away, grinning with the lazy ease of someone born to the sky. Cape stirring. Hair tousled by wind he never noticed.

“Glad you could make it,” Clark said. “Ready for our morning patrol?”

Nova gave a small nod.

Clark floated over and clapped a hand on Nova’s shoulder. Friendly. Casual.

Except it wasn’t light. Clark didn’t hit Bruce that hard.

Nova didn’t move. Not an inch.

Clark chuckled. Even now, he wasn’t used to that.

“You’re a brick wall, you know that?” Clark said, gesturing toward the skyline.

“Race you to the tallest building. Avoid crashing. Please.”

In a burst of red and blue, he was gone—streaking across the sky like a rocket.

PING. PING.

Nova looked down again.

A Boom Tube spiraled open beneath his boots—soft light folding space like fabric through a needle.

He drifted into the Boom Tube—no streak, no flare.

Just a quiet descent.

Almost to himself he said, “It is still travel.”

Then he was gone.

—

Clark reached the rooftop first, boots landing with a soft thud against the concrete ledge. His cape fluttered once in the breeze before settling behind him. He scanned the sky, shading his eyes out of habit more than need.

No Nova.

He squinted upward, scanning for any trace of motion. Nothing. Not even a glint.

He sighed and muttered to himself, arms folding across his chest.

“Where is he?”

Behind him, Nova answered—calmly.

“A Boom Tube is instant.”

Clark turned—not startled, just exasperated.

“It’s also cheating.”

Nova tilted his head. “Cheating?”

“Yeah. It means bending the rules to win. It was a race, Nova—we were both supposed to fly.”

Nova’s expression dimmed, not with anger—but something quieter. Withdrawn. His glow flared at his collarbone, subtle but warm. He looked down, then dropped to one knee.

“I did not understand,” he said softly. “I have brought shame upon myself.”

Clark blinked. “Wait—hey, no. No kneeling. You're not a soldier. You're not a servant.”

Clark stepped forward, hand extended—not as a command, but an offer.

“You’re Nova.”

Nova looked up. After a moment’s hesitation, he took the offered hand. Clark pulled him to his feet.

“I should’ve explained,” Clark said gently. “That’s on me.”

Nova nodded, but his gaze was distant. His voice, when it came, was softer now.

“I saw my mother.”

Clark stilled.

“…Your mother?”

Nova nodded again. “Her name was Jezebelle of the Fiery Eyes.”

He looked toward the city, something flickering in the space between memory and wonder.

“She was… beautiful.”

Clark didn’t speak right away. There wasn’t anything to say that didn’t feel small.

Nova broke the silence.

“I never had the opportunity to know her.”

Clark’s hand found his shoulder, steady and firm.

“I’m so sorry, Nova.”

Nova shook his head, voice low.

“Apokolips took more than I knew I had.”

Clark’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t press. Instead, he stepped back, floated into the air, and said 

“Wait here.”

Then he vanished into the skyline—a red streak riding the wind.

Nova stared after him, then looked to the device at his wrist.

“Revert to base form.”

With a hum, the Mother Box detached—unfolding, reshaping midair.

It hovered beside him—silent, alive.

Seconds later, Clark descended—cardboard tray in one hand, two steaming cups, and a crumpled brown bag that smelled faintly of cinnamon and grease.

He landed and settled at the rooftop’s edge, boots swinging over the side.

“Come on,” he said, nodding to the spot beside him.

Nova sat without a word.

Clark handed him a cup.

Nova held it carefully, brought it to his nose. The scent was rich. Bitter. Strange.

Clark pulled a cinnamon bun from the bag and handed it over.

“Take a bite,” he said. “And a sip.”

Nova did. The coffee hit first—hot, bitter, grounding. Then the bun—the sugar, the softness, the spice. They clashed and fused on his tongue.

Nova blinked, surprised.

“That is… pleasant.”

Clark smiled. “Yeah. It’s a Kent morning special. My folks—Martha and Jonathan—they raised me. Adopted me. Krypton was gone by the time I ever opened my eyes.”

Nova glanced over.

“We are alike in that regard.”

Clark nodded slowly. “We are. And like me, you carry your mother with you—every day, in some way. She’s still there. Don’t forget that, Nova.”

Nova looked at the coffee again, then nodded.

They sipped together.

The silence wasn’t awkward. Just full.

Then—

Nova turned, brow furrowed.

“What does it mean when someone presses their lips to yours?”

Clark choked mid-sip, coughing as he pounded his chest.

“Y-you mean… kissing?”

Nova nodded once. “Yes. My Mother Box defined it that way. What is kissing?”

Clark tried to recover. Failed. Looked down at his coffee like it might offer backup.

“It’s, uh… it’s a way people show affection. Usually romantic, sometimes not. Depends.”

Nova frowned. “Affection?”

“Yeah,” Clark said, steadier now. “Affection’s when you feel close. You care. Touch helps show that—hand-holding, hugging, kissing. It’s a connection.”

Nova absorbed that in silence. “So it is an Earth custom.”

Clark scratched the back of his neck. “Not just Earth. Kryptonians do it. Tamaraneans. Thanagarians… honestly, a lot of cultures in the galaxy have some version of it.”

Nova tilted his head.

“The lips are soft. Sensitive. Is that why?”

Clark blinked. “Yeah. That’s part of it. It’s… intimate. Personal. It says, ‘I trust you.’ Sometimes it’s huge. Sometimes it’s just a moment. Depends on the people.”

A long pause.

Nova looked down at his coffee, then back at Clark.

“So when Kara pressed her lips to mine—”

Clark almost dropped his coffee.

“Wait—Kara?!”

Nova nodded slowly. “Yes. Her lips were incredibly—”

Clark threw up a hand. “Whoa. Nova, I—uh…”

He sighed hard and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Right. Okay.”

Nova blinked at him. “Have I said something wrong?”

“No,” Clark said, trying not to smile—and failing.

“Just… not what I expected to hear over coffee and cinnamon rolls.”

Nova’s glow flickered once, then dimmed—pulling tight to his skin like a reflex.

PING.

The Mother Box rose, unfolding midair—its surface warping with liquid motion. Tendrils of light and metal reached from its core—silent, precise.

They touched his bare torso gently—then began to weave.

Thin filaments of living metal traced his shoulders, spiraling down his arms in patterns more elegant than mechanical. They didn’t wrap—they grew, threading across him with the patience of something alive. The plating shimmered with faint energy, syncing with the rhythm of his breath, every line adjusting subtly with the shift of his muscles.

It wasn’t armor. Not yet.

It was a frame. A conduit. An interface waiting to become more.

By the time it finished, his arms gleamed with smooth, silver-black plating. His chest was still exposed—shimmering, raw—but no longer vulnerable. Just… incomplete.

“I did not expect it,” Nova said. “We were sparring. I had her in my grasp. I told her to use her strength to escape.”

A pause.

“Perhaps I should have been more clear.”

Clark let out a noise—half laugh, half groan. “Yeah. That’d catch anyone off guard.”

Nova studied him carefully, his expression neutral but intent.

“It was not unpleasant,” he added. “But I was unprepared.”

Clark nodded, a bit too fast. “I don’t think she meant to confuse you. Kara’s… impulsive. Heart-first, every time.”

Nova tilted his head in thought. “Yes. She is expressive. I believe that is part of what draws others to her.”

Clark chuckled under his breath. “And possibly throws them across a field.”

Nova blinked. “She did throw me.”

Clark gave him a sideways glance. “Yeah. I figured.”

The silence wasn’t easy—but it was honest.

Nova’s glow flickered—not in power, but in feeling.

“This act—kissing,” he said. “Is it exclusive? Is it a promise of more?”

Clark took a moment before answering, visibly sorting through what to say—and what not to say.

“Not always,” he said. “It depends. Sometimes it’s affection. Sometimes curiosity. Sometimes it leads to more… sometimes not.”

Nova nodded, absorbing every word like instruction.

“Then I must ask her.”

Clark blinked. “You… yeah. Yeah, that’d be the best move.”

Nova glanced down at his still-forming armor. “I do not wish to assume intention. She smiled afterward. I believe that is positive.”

Clark made a face—part smile, part wince. “Yeah, it’s probably a good sign. Just… don’t assume it means everything.”

Nova turned to him—calm, steady.

“You are uncertain.”

Clark exhaled and looked out toward the city, now fully bathed in gold.

“I’m always uncertain when it comes to Kara,” he admitted. “She’s figuring things out. That’s what being young is.”

A moment passed—quiet, but not empty.

Then Nova said softly, “You are not angry?”

Clark shook his head. “No. I’m not angry. Just a little… thrown. But I trust you. And I trust her.”

He looked over.

“You’re asking questions. That matters. You’re not reacting—you’re thinking. That means something.”

Nova stared ahead, the soft pulse at his chest dimming into stillness. Then, after a pause:

“Thank you, Kal-El.”

Clark blinked—caught off guard by the formality.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do,” Nova said. “You listened. You did not mock. You offered clarity when I was uncertain.”

Clark smiled, genuine and quiet. Then held up a hand.

“Just—please don’t describe her lips to me.”

Nova blinked. “But they were—”

Clark raised both hands. “Nope. That’s enough. We’re good. I get the picture.”

Nova paused.

Then nodded once. “Understood.”

They finished their coffee in silence.

The last sip burned less than the first. The cinnamon bun was long gone—its sticky remnants wiped clean on concrete and plated thighs.

Clark crumpled the bag and stood, his shoulders cracking softly as he stretched. Nova mirrored the motion, rising without a sound.

Clark smiled and dusted his hands off. “Alright! Ready for the morning patrol?”

Nova nodded, calm and ready.

Clark pointed toward the skyline. “Good. Just watch me today. You need to get a sense of how we go about our work.”

His gaze dropped to the living metal curled over Nova’s torso—the gold beneath it still pulsing faintly.

“Does that… change forms or anything?” he asked. “Might be a good idea to conceal your identity. It helps.”

Nova blinked once.

The Mother Box shimmered in response, rising slightly over his shoulder. With a fluid gesture, it unfolded again—threads of light and alloy spinning in concentric lines around his head.

A helmet assembled itself in a single smooth motion—sleek, seamless, featureless. The faceplate was black and glossy, expressionless but elegant. Not a mask, but a mirror.

Clark raised his eyebrows.

“Okay,” he said, nodding. “That was pretty cool.”

He floated back, stepping into the sky like he’d done it every day of his life—which, more or less, he had.

“Let’s go!”

Then he dropped from the rooftop, trailing light and confidence.

Nova followed a beat later—a streak of dark chrome and gold cutting through the morning sun.

Metropolis stirred beneath them.

The day began.

Scene 2: Stamp Of Approval

By midday, the sun had shifted just enough to pour a sheet of gold across the checkered floor, catching the chrome barstools like they’d just been buffed for a magazine shoot. The scent of sawdust clung to the corners, mixing with bacon grease and fryer oil in a way that made the air feel like memory.

Delish Diner wasn’t open yet.

The new signage hadn’t gone up yet. A ceiling tile sagged above the counter, loose wiring poking out like a curious eyebrow. Booths stayed half-wrapped in plastic. The jukebox still wore its dust sheet like a ghost in mourning. But the kitchen hummed. The milkshake machine rumbled to life. And the girls had already staked their claim.

“…and I’m just sayin’,” Dani declared, jabbing her straw like a gavel, “if your date shows up in cargo shorts, that’s your bad—not his.”

Kara snorted into her drink. Bubbles fizzed up the straw. She coughed once, then grinned. “It’s the county fair, not a state dinner.”

Alice twirled her straw, lounging against the squeaky vinyl. “There’s a middle ground, though. He can wear denim like a respectable citizen.”

They were crammed into one of the corner booths—half-plastic, half-chaos. Dani’s shoes squeaked every time she shifted. Kara had kicked off one sneaker and tucked her foot under her thigh, her socked toes curling against the cool vinyl. Alice kept her legs crossed pretzel-style, despite the limited space.

From the kitchen, a voice called out: “Coming in hot!”

Colleen breezed through the swinging door in a hot pink tracksuit, a tray of milkshakes balanced effortlessly in her hands.

“Alright, ladies! Mr. Delis thinks he cracked the recipe with this one.”

She set the tray down like it was crown jewels.

One glass in front of each girl.

Three perfect peaks of pink, cold enough to fog the glasses, topped with whipped cream that curled like it had rehearsed.

All three took a sip at the same time.

A beat—silent, expectant.

“Mmm,” they sighed in unison, eyes rolling like synchronized swimmers.

Dani sighed first. “I think I’m in love.”

Colleen grinned, clearly delighted. Kara leaned back in her seat.

“I’m never drinking anything else again.”

Alice added, “And it’s pink?!”

Colleen chuckled as she turned to leave. “Mr. Delis’ll be thrilled. Big ol’ tray of apps coming soon—don’t spoil your appetite on curly fries.”

As soon as she vanished behind the kitchen door, Dani leaned in.

“So,” she said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I asked Hallie if she wanted to go to the fair tonight.”

Alice jolted upright like someone goosed her. “Well?! C’mon, girl! What’d she say?!”

Dani gave them a slow, triumphant smile. “Ya girl’s got a date.”

Alice squealed—hands flying to her face like she physically couldn’t contain the serotonin.

“She’s so pretty! Y’all are gonna be disgustingly cute together.”

Dani nodded, satisfied. Kara reached over and nudged her playfully. “That’s awesome. I was worried it might get weird since Nico’s tagging along.”

Dani waved her off. “You already know I’m dying for another look at him.”

Before Kara could reply, the kitchen door swung open again.

Colleen returned, arms full—carrying a tray stacked with wings, onion rings, jalapeño poppers, and enough dipping sauces to paint a mural.

“Here we go, girls. Careful, that cheese sauce is nuclear.”

Alice's eyes widened. “Oh my god, I can smell the spice.”

Colleen set the tray down. “Sounds like y’all were talkin’ about someone cute—boy, girl, alien, I ain’t judgin’.”

Alice barely hesitated. “Dani saw Kara’s new beau and won’t shut up about how she bagged herself a man’s man.”

Colleen turned to Kara, eyebrows raised. “Alright, scale it for me—one to ten?”

Dani beat her to it. “Ten. So much ten.”

Kara flushed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear without looking up. Colleen gave her a gentle slap on the arm. “Don’t you go shrinking on us now. Tall, dark, and handsome?”

Kara muttered, “Kinda. But it’s not about looks.”

Everyone burst out laughing.

Dani grinned. “Well, duh. But it doesn’t hurt.”

Alice piped up. “Ugh, I just wanna jump into the future and meet him already.”

Dani turned, curious. “Have you met anyone yet?”

Colleen’s eyes slid toward her daughter with the practiced ease of a lifelong mom-scout.

Alice bit her lower lip, then pulled out her phone like it owed her an explanation.

“Okay, so—Thursday after school? I walked into the wrong room…”

Kara and Dani leaned in.

“…and I may have stumbled into the boys’ varsity wrestling team.”

Dani’s jaw dropped. “Girl?! That’s not a crush, that’s a power move.”

Alice snorted, then turned the phone around.

The guy in the photo looked like a soap opera character dropped into a high school hallway. Shaggy brown hair that defied physics, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and a look that said I know without having to say anything. Half in his letterman jacket, half in his wrestling singlet, he stood like he’d just won something.

Kara squinted. “Wait—that’s Crash?”

Dani pulled the phone closer. “Yup. Charlie Crash Valentine. Such. A. Hottie.”

Alice sighed dreamily. “He’s picking me up later.”

The girls howled.

Colleen’s eyes drifted upward, the way people look at memory more than ceiling tiles.

“Oh honey,” she said, voice sweetened with nostalgia, “y’all keep me young. When Mr. Delis first asked me out, he took me to a rodeo. I watched that man get launched clean off a bull like he was fixin’ to lasso the moon.”

The girls leaned in, half-laughing already.

“Flew through the air—hat gone, boots flailin’—and right ‘fore he hit the muddy ol’ trough, that fool winked at me.”

Kara blinked. Dani’s jaw dropped.

“I knew right then I was gonna marry that man.”

Dani, chewing on the edge of her straw, grinned. “How long’d he stay on?”

Colleen gave her a look, all sugar and steel. “Sugar, not even a full second.”

The booth cracked up.

“But it didn’t make no nevermind. He dusted himself off, traded that saddle for a spatula, and ain’t looked back since.”

She turned to Kara, softening.

“Now listen here—if that boy’s worth his mustard, looks don’t mean a thang. You’re young, pretty, and blonde. Gorgeous men are a dime a dozen. But if he treats you right? If y’all are havin’ fun? That’s the good stuff.”

Kara smiled faintly, eyes low, milkshake straw turning slowly in her hand.

Colleen turned toward the kitchen and called out like it wasn’t even a question, just a cue.

“Jack! C’mon out here and show these girls how you earned my love!”

The kitchen doors swung open with a soft creak, and Jack Delis made his entrance like he’d been summoned a thousand times before.

Tall, broad, and built like a man who still grilled shirtless in late spring. Apron grease-stained, sleeves rolled neat. His limp had rhythm, the kind that came with age and a story nobody minded hearing twice.

“By takin’ a horn to the ribs?” he asked with a smirk. “Or quittin’ while I still had teeth?”

Colleen slid her hand into his like it belonged there. “By walkin’ away from eight seconds of glory… and walkin’ into forever with me.”

The girls let out a chorus that was part groan, part swoon.

“Awwwwww.”

Jack gave a sideways grin, looked toward the booth. “Poppers any good?”

Dani reached for one, dunked it deep in cheese, took a bite. Gave him a thumbs up with the other hand. “You got the Mexican seal of approval, Mr. Delis.”

Jack beamed, real proud. “Now that’s what I like to hear. If y’all got ideas for the menu, don’t be shy. I’m always lookin’ to add some local flavor—makes the townfolk feel like it’s theirs.”

He gave his wife’s hand a quick squeeze before heading back to the kitchen, humming something old and country under his breath.

Colleen paused as she passed Kara, leaned in just enough to be conspiratorial.

“They’re right ‘bout the cargo shorts, hon. Sometimes a man needs a gentler touch.”

“Ha! You better hope Nico knows!” Dani called after her, grinning like the cat that stole the whole pantry.

Alice gave a dreamy sigh. “If he looks like y’all say, he’d look good in anything.”

Kara blinked, caught between bashful and defensive. “Didn’t we just agree that looks don’t matter?”

Colleen, halfway through the swinging door, waved a hand like she was swatting gossip.

Behind her, Dani popped another jalapeño and Alice leaned in, still smiling.

“I guess we’ll see.”

Scene 3: Crisp & Clean

The lab beneath LexCorp Tower wasn’t built to impress.

It was built to disappear.

Carved deep into the bedrock of Metropolis, the facility stretched in brutal geometry. Corridors like arteries. Matte-black security doors. Flickering amber lights that hummed with the rhythm of old, patient machines. The air was stale and sharp, laced with ozone and the cold sting of synthetic coolant.

This wasn’t public R&D.

This was something else.

On the central floor, sleek consoles formed a half-moon around a towering monitor wall. Rows of reinforced terminals blinked with data feeds—interdimensional coordinate chains, spectral energy curves, atmospheric disruption logs. Color-coded chaos, always shifting. Always wrong.

In the silence, Bruno Mannheim stood still.

Arms crossed. Shoulders locked. His eyes locked on one corner of the screen—a grainy, frozen frame pulled from some overhead drone footage. A boy of light stood amidst a crater of scorched concrete and ruptured asphalt, the remains of some unrecognizable thing curling in on itself at his feet.

The waterfront. The aftermath.

The scale made his chest tighten.

Behind him, Lex Luthor’s voice cut through the static like a snapped cable.

“I didn’t authorize a delay.”

Dr. Emerson didn’t flinch. He’d learned that early.

“We’re not ready to fire again, sir. The last aperture took eighteen hours to stabilize. We’re still tracking the side-effects from Shizuoka.”

Lex didn’t stop moving. He moved between consoles like a grandmaster tired of waiting for the board to catch up.

“The breach in Shizuoka is irrelevant. It failed on entry.”

“It combusted on entry,” Emerson said cautiously. “Its biology reacted violently to our atmosphere. That should’ve been a red flag. And the incident at the bay—”

“Neutralized,” Lex said, snapping the word shut. “Efficiently.”

“We still don’t know how it was neutralized,” Emerson pressed, motioning toward the screen. “That beam—no known classification. No match in any of the twenty databases we ran.”

Lex turned, slow and deliberate.

“And?”

Emerson met his gaze. “It’s not from here. Whatever he is, he’s using technology—or power—we don’t understand. And every time we fire that cannon, we risk pulling more of those things through.”

The word cannon seemed to throb in the silence.

That’s when Mannheim spoke.

His voice low. Measured. Sharp around the edges like the cut of a blade still in its sheath.

“Then maybe we stop aiming blind and calling it strategy.”

Lex glanced over, but his tone didn’t shift.

“We’re not in the dark. Every test tightens the aperture—narrower bursts, cleaner entries.”

Mannheim’s hand lifted—one finger, pointed. Not at Lex.

At the frozen frame.

“At what cost?” he muttered. “That thing made landfall. He erased it.”

Lex stepped closer, quieter now. Almost… pleased.

“And now we know he can.”

Mannheim didn’t answer. His eyes stayed on the boy on the screen. On the glow. On the wreckage.

His jaw worked silently, once. Then stopped.

The room settled into its hum again—machines clicking gently to themselves, cooling fans spinning like whispers. Beneath them, the chamber that housed the cannon waited in perfect, lethal silence.

It was sleeping.

But not for long.

Lex motioned for Mannheim to follow, slipping through a steel-reinforced door tucked between consoles like a seam only he could open.

The difference on the other side was immediate.

The lab's clinical hum gave way to warmth—lamplight instead of fluorescents, soft shadows instead of stark edges. Modern art dotted the walls, expressionless and expensive. A minibar at the far end gleamed—polished chrome, obsidian glass, untouched but not uninviting.

Mannheim didn’t speak. He just sank into a low leather chair, elbows on his knees, jaw in hand. His gaze drifted downward, heavy and slow. Something sat behind his eyes. It wasn’t leaving.

Lex moved with the same practiced precision he applied to everything—whiskey poured in two crystal tumblers, two fingers each, no ice. He didn’t ask.

He handed one to Mannheim, who took it without looking. One breath. Gone.

“You’re brooding,” Lex said lightly, taking his own seat. “That means your friends still haven’t responded.”

Mannheim set the glass down, harder than he needed to. “Worse,” he muttered. “They got the message. They’re stayin’ quiet.”

Lex nodded once. “Silent treatment from the Fourth World. How charming.”

A soft chime interrupted him. Lex turned, fingers flicking toward the embedded panel behind his desk. Telemetry bloomed from the dark glass—energy lines, vector paths, signature scans. His eyes narrowed.

“There. Southside Metropolis.”

He leaned in slightly, reading it aloud to himself.

“Energy spike just hit. Off the charts.”

Mannheim looked up, posture shifting. “Another portal?”

Lex shook his head once. “No. Not this time.”

He swiped through layers of data, frown deepening as the graphs flatlined.

“It’s the boy. Same signature as the waterfront incident. The spike’s already fading—he’s not staying put.”

Mannheim’s fingers tapped once on the empty glass. “So he’s not hangin’ ‘round.”

“No,” Lex murmured. “But he’s close.”

He stood still for a moment, just watching the telemetry fold and cycle.

“I’ve tracked the residuals. He leaves a fingerprint—light distortion, minor gravitic pulls, destabilized particle cohesion. Everywhere he steps… the ground remembers.”

Mannheim didn’t speak, but his frown deepened.

Lex turned to face him fully.

“These readings? They started before our first successful shot. The waterfront? That was ours. Whatever killed the anomaly wasn’t in the model. He wasn’t on any list. He wasn’t even supposed to exist.”

He paused.

“But he showed up. Responded. Interfered.”

Mannheim’s voice was low. “You still think he’s one of them?”

Lex didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he crossed the room in a few quiet steps and poured himself another measure.

“He’s someone who doesn’t want doors opened if they don’t close.”

He turned back, glass in hand.

“And that makes him either an asset…”

His eyes landed on Mannheim.

“…or a problem.”

Mannheim looked away again, jaw tightening like he was chewing on something he didn’t like the taste of.

Lex stepped in closer—his voice casual now, smoothed to velvet.

“If your reputable friends are done ghosting you… maybe it’s time we try someone less subtle.”

Mannheim’s eyes flicked up—just once.

Lex’s smirk was faint but deliberate.

“Yes. I know what he is. And I know what he can do.”

He lifted his glass in a slow, quiet toast.

“Even blunt instruments have their uses.”

He drank.

And for a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath.

Scene 4: Y’all Come Back Now!

The screen door clacked shut behind them, and the scent of fry grease followed Kara and Dani out into the warm, late-afternoon air.

“Y’all bring your families next time, you hear?” Colleen called after them, waving a dish towel like a victory flag.

“We will!” Kara laughed, just before Colleen reeled them both in for a quick, flour-dusted hug.

Dani gave a muffled “Mmhm!” around the last bite of a jalapeño popper, chewing like she was trying to savor it forever.

“Dinner’s on us,” came Jack’s voice from somewhere behind the swinging kitchen doors. “Tell your folks the Delises don’t skimp.”

They hit the sidewalk with the kind of aimless stride only a perfect afternoon allows. The sun stretched long across the sleepy streets of Smallville, brushing the rooftops in gold.

Dani nudged her shoulder gently. “I better get home. Gotta figure out what I’m wearin’. If I’m gonna see Crash, I gotta look dangerously cute.”

Kara smiled, but it faltered just a touch—only enough to feel, not see. That quiet buzz stirred in her chest again. Not nerves. Guilt. The kind with no name—just weight.

Dani didn’t know.

She couldn’t.

Kara reached out without thinking, lacing her fingers into Dani’s and stopping them both in the middle of the walk.

Dani blinked. “You good?”

Kara pulled her into a hug. Quick. Tight. Real.

Dani didn’t question it—just hugged her back, arms looping easily. “What’s this for?”

Kara stepped back, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Just glad I’ve got you.”

Dani tilted her head, all raised eyebrow and knowing smirk. “Girl, hush. We ain’t just friends.”

Kara tried to laugh, but it came out small.

“We’re sisters,” Dani said, poking her gently in the side. “Born in different barns, but sisters just the same.”

That one caught her off guard—landed right in the part of her she kept wrapped in armor. She nodded once, too full to speak.

They reached Dani’s truck a few blocks later. It started on the second try, coughing to life like it needed a minute. The radio kicked in mid-song—some slow country ballad about blue jeans, backroads, and broken hearts.

The ride was short. Familiar. Kara stared out the passenger window, quiet, eyes on nothing.

When they pulled up the Kent driveway, Dani didn’t turn off the engine. She just shifted in her seat and looked sideways.

“Alright. Spill it. What ain’t you tellin’ me?”

Kara hesitated, then exhaled sharply.

“We kissed.”

Dani blinked. “What?!”

“Well—I kissed him,” Kara said quickly, her face already red, voice half-buried in her seatbelt.

Dani leaned back grinning—wide enough to crack the windshield. “Shoot, I don’t blame ya. That boy was lookin’ at you like you were the last slice of pie at the church potluck.”

Kara groaned, unbuckling. “Okay! I’m going now!”

They both cracked up, and before she could open the door, Dani tugged her into one more hug, right there in the truck.

“You better tell me everything later,” she whispered like it was sacred.

Kara nodded, slipped out, and gave a quick wave as Dani backed down the gravel path, the truck kicking up little clouds of dust behind her.

As soon as it faded, Kara dropped her bag by the porch, walked around the side of the barn—

—and shot into the sky, a streak of gold cutting clean through the Kansas blue.

—

The teleporter pad shimmered beneath Kara’s boots as she arrived with a soft ping. The sound still sent a ripple of excitement through her chest. She stepped off like it was no big deal, but her grin gave her away.

“That was so freaking cool,” she whispered, brushing invisible dust off her jeans like she’d just stepped out of a spaceship onto a movie set.

It wasn’t her first time using the Watchtower’s transport system—but it was her first time alone. No Clark at her shoulder. No practice run. No mission debrief.

She had access now.

Trusted.

Backpack slung tight, she drifted forward at a low hover, feet just above the polished floor, the lights of the corridor warping beneath her like a lazy river of chrome.

The Watchtower always felt like it was holding its breath. Clean. Quiet. Sacred.

She banked around a corner near the crew quarters, just as a familiar silhouette stepped into view.

Diana.

Poised as ever, the Amazon offered a nod and a subtle half-smile. "Hey, Kara."

“Hey!” Kara replied, a bit too brightly.

Diana slowed to a stop. “Were you given access to the teleporter?”

“Yeah,” Kara said, casually confident. “J’onn said I might need it from now on. Not sure why though.”

Diana smiled, easy and knowing. “It’s good that Clark’s finally recognizing your strength.”

Kara crossed her arms, letting a bit of bravado rise in her voice. “Yeah, well. I’m deciding whether I need the Justice League… or if I’m gonna go solo.”

Diana chuckled at that, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Word is, you’ve been training with the New God. Nova.”

Kara tilted her head, playing it cool. “What about them?”

Diana stepped a bit closer. “The last daughter of Krypton, alone for hours with the only New God sculpted like one of my mother’s statues?”

Kara froze. Then gave a thin, nervous laugh. “Right. Great chat!”

She hovered away at a brisk pace.

Nova’s quarters weren’t far. She knocked once, then pressed the panel.

The door whooshed open.

“Nova, you didn’t tell any—” she started—

And stopped.

Mid-sentence. Mid-step.

Nova stood in a T-pose, facing away. His black suit pooled at his ankles like spilled oil. Every inch of him, exposed.

Her brain blue-screened.

“N-Nova, you’re naked!”

Nova glanced back over his shoulder. Unbothered. “Kara! How very nice to see you.”

PING!

“Forgive me,” he said.

Kara spun, face buried in her hands. “Oh my god—just put something on!”

The suit reformed itself from the ground up—climbing his body like liquid armor. It shimmered black and silver, pulsing as it rebuilt him piece by piece.

She peeked through her fingers just enough to check his back was covered.

PING!

“Thank you, Mother Box,” he said politely, now fully clad again.

He turned toward her, still weirdly stiff in his posture. “Are we still attending the fair of county?”

“Not yet,” Kara said, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “Did you… tell anyone about our sparring session?”

“Yes. Kal-El.”

Kara groaned and flopped onto the edge of his bed. “Seriously? Clark?”

Nova approached, slow and cautious, and sat beside her.

“He said I should not have shared that with him. I apologize. I had no context. The Mother Box could only provide the term and examples—no meaning.”

Kara looked at him—really looked—and sighed. “It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean to tell literally the last person I wanted knowing.”

“I will not tell the others.”

She smirked faintly. “Thanks.”

A pause. Then:

“So… you’ve never kissed anyone?”

Nova looked away. “No. I have not. I never knew my parents. I only recently learned of my mother. She is gone. If I had a father… he has likely fallen as well.”

Kara’s voice dropped. “Nova… I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“It is not your doing,” he said softly. “It was likely Kanto. He will feel my wrath if I see him again.”

The way he said it made her heart tense. But before she could respond, his expression softened again.

“But that is for another time. Tell me—what is a ‘fair of county’?”

She rolled her eyes, relief breaking through. “It’s county fair, dumbass.”

Nova looked genuinely confused. “I see. And… are we not going now?”

“I just came to check what you were planning to wear. As cool as it is, your armor doesn’t exactly scream ‘casual Earth teen.’”

Nova glanced down at himself. “Shall I deactivate it again?”

PING!

Kara sprang up. “No! No-no-no—that’s not what I meant.”

Nova froze mid-command. PING. The suit stayed on.

“Look,” she said, pacing a bit. “People don’t know I’m Kryptonian. I keep that hidden. I just wanna live normal. Go to school. Eat curly fries. Keep my head down, y’know?”

He nodded.

“When I’m out there, I’m Supergirl. But with Dani, with the others—I’m just Kara Kent. Farm kid. Totally normal.”

“I understand,” Nova said. “So I must also appear... human.”

“Exactly. That means: no glowing, no flying, no fighting—and definitely no surprise nudity.”

“I will be Nico again?”

“Yup. Our cover story’s the same. You’re seventeen, from Europe, still adjusting to life in America. We met through my cousin Clark in Metropolis, and… we’ve been kinda, y’know, seeing each other.”

Nova blinked. “These statements are factual. We did meet in Metropolis. And I am looking at you.”

Kara stared at him a moment too long. His eyes flickered gold, just for a second, before returning to green.

She cleared her throat. “Right. Anyway. A little truth helps the lie.”

Nova stood and opened a drawer near his bed. “I have some Terran garb.”

Kara raised an eyebrow. “Not Justice League standard-issue stuff. We’ll go to my place. Martha’s got some of Clark’s old clothes. We’ll make you look like a proper… Terran.”

Nova turned to his Mother Box. “Would you be so kind?”

PING.

A Boom Tube cracked open in the floor—heat and golden light curling upward like a curtain pulled from the sun.

Nova floated off the ground, offering his hand.

Kara looked at his hand.

Then at his face.

Then took it.

He pulled her gently into the air, and together, they descended into the light.

Scene 5: Bat-Sigh!

The Batcave hummed—low and steady.

Cool, mechanical air stirred faint dust. Light from the monitors shifted across cavern stone—blue, green, cold. Satellite trajectories bled into seismic reads. One screen mapped global anomalies. Another blinked with LexCorp financials—shell companies woven into a quiet web of rot.

Clark touched down without a word, boots settling against concrete with a soft hiss. He leaned against a console, arms folded. Cape settling.

Bruce didn’t look up, fingers dancing across the keys as the Batcomputer cycled through encrypted dossiers.

A beat.

Then Clark spoke—sharp, fast, still mid-thought.

“They barely know each other—and she kissed him?”

Bruce didn’t glance away from the screen. “Nice to see you too.”

Clark started pacing. The cape snapped with every turn—each step louder than it should’ve been. “She’s impulsive, sure—but this? What is she thinking?”

A click echoed through the cavern as Bruce shifted screens. Satellite footage. A still frame: Nova mid-battle with Lobo, frozen in a blur of force and fury above Earth’s orbit.

Bruce’s tone stayed flat. “Lobo wasn’t here by accident.”

Clark slowed.

“When Nova brought him down, he said Lobo killed a human. The name was Hoshino Takashi—former JPEA astronaut. Private sector now. Guess whose name is buried in the shell company that owned the satellite?”

Clark took a step closer, jaw tightening. “Lex.”

Bruce nodded once. “He was doing repairs on a satellite. One that started emitting dimensional spikes. Same energy profile we saw before the waterfront breach.”

Clark folded his arms again. His voice was lower now. “That matches the energy J’onn detected in Shizuoka. Same pattern. But not Boom Tubes.”

“No. Cruder. Messier. Like he’s punching holes through reality and hoping for the best.”

Another series of keystrokes, and Bruce brought up a waveform—the same jagged curve that preceded the last attack. The two men stared at it in silence.

But Clark couldn’t let it lie.

“I trust him. Nova didn’t flinch with Lobo—or Grail. He moved the fight away from the farm. He protected Kara.”

Bruce’s voice was quiet. “I’ve seen it. He’s learning. But empathy isn’t the same as loyalty.”

Clark’s brow furrowed.

“He’s not acting like Apokolips. But we don’t know where he stands when the orders come down.”

Clark ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “That’s what I’m afraid of. Kara… she’s just figuring out who she is. School. Power. Earth. Krypton. She already carries more than most grown adults. And now she’s got him in the mix.”

Bruce didn’t move.

“She kissed him, Bruce.”

That got a pause.

Then Bruce turned, finally, arms folding across his chest. His voice was low. Measured.

“I get it.”

Clark blinked. “You do?”

“I’ve been there,” Bruce said simply.

Clark tilted his head. “With Dick?”

Bruce nodded, slowly. “Tried to shield him. From the world. From every mistake I saw coming. Thought I could run interference, keep him safe. All I did was teach him how to lie to me.”

Clark didn’t speak.

Bruce’s eyes were calm, but his voice held something older—wiser, and tired. “You try to lock the door behind her? All it means is she falls alone.”

Clark exhaled—deep and deliberate, like trying to push the weight off his chest.

Bruce turned back to the monitor and keyed in a new sequence. Surveillance footage flickered: Grail slamming Kara into the ground. Nova reacting—not with fury, but something deeper. Something protective. His power rising with emotion.

Bruce didn’t look at Clark when he said it.

“He’s not the one who kept her safe. She is. He responded because she mattered. That’s not a soldier. That’s a tether.”

Clark stepped forward, watching the screen in silence.

“She’s spent most of her life surviving Krypton’s shadow. Nova doesn’t anchor her to that pain. He reflects it—shows her who she used to be. And maybe—” Bruce paused. “Maybe for once, she’s the one keeping someone else from falling.”

Clark rubbed the back of his neck, tension starting to ease. Just a little.“Since when do you give parenting advice?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Try not to make it a habit.”

Clark smiled—just faintly. “So what—you think it’s a good idea? A New God?”

Bruce didn’t answer right away. Then:

“Let her decide. Just make sure the door’s open when she needs to come back.”

Clark rested a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “Thanks, Bruce. For all of it.”

Bruce gave a single nod and turned back to the keys.

Just as Clark began to lift off, Bruce said, “I’ll let you know when I have more on Luthor. Something tells me he’s only just getting started.”

Clark hovered for a second, then disappeared into the dark above.

And the Batcave kept humming.

Scene 6: Something From This Century

The sky cracked open with a low, humming whumph just above the Kent farm—quiet enough to miss if you were not looking, but loud enough to stir the birds from the windmill. A circle of light shimmered just below the clouds, unstable at the edges like heat off pavement.

Two heads poked through.

Kara’s hair whipped in the downdraft as she scanned the fields. Beside her, Nova hovered in black armor, glowing faintly—like a coal still holding heat.

“No one’s around,” Kara whispered.

She grabbed his hand and tugged. The Mother Box had transformed into the default wrist device from before. Black and sleek, with a screen currently black as well.

Nova followed, descending with slow precision—like gravity was still negotiating its authority. Kara yanked a little harder, impatient, and the two of them dipped toward the back pasture, feet touching down in a puff of dust.

Nova took in the scene with a curious tilt of his head. Golden fields rolled out in every direction. The fence was crooked in places. The windmill leaned like it was tired. And near the edge of the yard, half in shadow and fully unimpressed, stood a large brown cow.

Nova narrowed his eyes.

“Kara,” he said, deadly serious, “a large beast stands guard on your farm. Shall I remove it?”

Kara stopped mid-step and followed his gaze.

“That’s Petunia,” Kara groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “She’s a cow, Nova. A very normal one.”

Nova did not move. “Petunia is staring at me.”

“She has a thing for tall guys,” Kara muttered, dragging him by the wrist like an unruly suitcase.

Nova glanced back once more, his golden eyes glowing faintly. “What sort of thing?”

“Come on, glowstick,” she said through a laugh, pulling him up the porch steps.

The screen door creaked open, the kind of sound that never needed oil. Kara called out into the kitchen, “I’m home! Nova is here too!”

The smell of something warm—onions, maybe stew—hung in the air. A ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, pushing around late-summer air and the faint scent of detergent from laundry hung out to dry.

Martha Kent appeared from around the corner, wiping her hands on a dish towel that had seen better days.

“Well, there y’are,” she said with a smile. “Heard a buzz out back—figured it wasn’t the wind.”

She gave Kara a quick once-over, then folded her into a hug. When she looked to Nova, her smile did not change.

“It is nice to see you too, hon.”

Nova straightened slightly, then bowed—not deeply, just enough to suggest habit.

“Thank you again for welcoming me into your home.”

Martha waved him off just as Jonathan entered from the hallway, already moving to hug Kara and clapping Nova on the shoulder.

“Hey, kiddo! Glad to see ya doing well.”

Nova clasped Jonathan’s hand with careful precision—every motion deliberate, like not crushing it took conscious effort.

“The feeling is mutual, Jonathan. I would like to apologize to both of you. On my last visit, I believe I caused damage to your land. It was not my intention to bring my past to this peaceful place.”

Martha smacked him lightly with the dish towel.

“Hon, if we got mad every time an alien skirmish kicked up dirt on our back forty, Clark would not be welcome either.”

Jonathan chuckled. “You came back to apologize. That tells me more than whatever happened out there.”

Nova nodded once—his version of gratitude. Kara jabbed him in the side, and he cleared his throat.

“Thank you. Both of you.”

Kara cut in, already moving toward the stairs. “Ant Martha, we need clothes for Nova. He can’t go to the fair lookin’ like a space cop. You think Clark has anything decent left upstairs?”

Martha pressed a finger to her chin, thinking. “Well now, I reckon there is still a box of his old clothes up in the attic. But fair warnin’—you’ll mostly find worn-out band tees and enough flannel up there to blanket a football field twice over.”

Kara groaned dramatically. “Perfect. Come on.”

The two disappeared up the stairs,Kara’s voice echoed ahead, muttering something about “Clark’s awful taste in boots.”

Nova watched them go, still vaguely suspicious of the ceiling fan. Then Jonathan nudged his shoulder.

“Alright now, Nova—c’mere. Time to learn about somethin’ real important: football. Best dang game there is.”

Nova followed as instructed. They reached the living room, where the television bathed the walls in flickering light. The Metropolis Meteors were deep in a third down against the Gotham Goliaths. Helmets clashed, linemen surged like storm fronts, and the crowd’s roar echoed from invisible speakers.

Nova studied the screen, his posture straight as ever.

“This is a strategic simulation,” he said, studying the screen. “Crude in execution. But layered in intent.”

Jonathan grinned. “Yep. That’s football.”

Nova leaned forward slightly, gaze narrowing as one player launched into a full-body tackle.

“The impacts appear excessive.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan said. “That’s half the fun.”

—

The ladder creaked as Kara climbed into the attic, the warm scent of cedar dust and insulation clinging to the dry air. Martha held the base steady from below, peering up through the hatch with a small smile.

“Careful now, sugar. Don’t go zippin’ off—those beams ain’t felt young in years.”

“Noted,” Kara called back, already brushing past old boxes labeled in Clark’s handwriting. A few rattled with trophies. One definitely had a football helmet inside. She squinted as sunlight slipped through the slats, flicking each box with a quick scan of X-ray vision.

“Jackpot,” she muttered, pulling down two larger containers and sliding them toward the opening.

Martha stepped aside as Kara floated them both down to the bedroom with ease. “Alright,” Kara said as she popped the first lid, “we’re making a ‘yes’ pile, a ‘maybe’ pile, and a ‘no way in Krypton’ pile.”

The second box thudded open. Kara immediately plucked a pink flannel from the top and tossed it to the floor. “Absolutely not.”

“You sure about takin’ that boy to the fair? He’s sweeter’n peach pie, but he ain’t exactly low-profile.”

Kara shrugged, holding up a faded band tee against her frame before wrinkling her nose and tossing it aside. “Yeah, but if he’s really gonna stay, he’s gotta see this stuff. The real stuff. You don’t learn Earth from orbit.”

“Well, you ain’t wrong. Just… you work real hard keepin’ things quiet. If Dani gets curious, that string might unravel quicker’n you think.”

Kara reached for a folded pair of jeans, not looking up. “With the glasses? No one’s ever guessed. Besides, the only real trouble’s been with time... and stuff.”

“Now don’t say ‘and stuff,’ honey. You’re too sharp for that kinda talk.”

Kara chuckled, holding up a flannel and turning it around. “I told her I met someone. Just to explain the disappearing. Didn’t want her thinking I was ditching her all the time.”

“Well, that’s pretty clever—I’ll give ya that.” Then, gently: “But darlin’… just be sure. This whole thing could come back ‘round and hit you like a twister.”

Kara stopped sorting for a second.

“We got to raise Clark, y’know? Taught him how to fit in, how to stay safe. But Nova… that boy ain’t tryin’ to be human. He’s comin’ from somewhere way different.”

Kara leaned back on her heels, thoughtful. “I know. But he’s not like the others. Not like anyone I’ve met from Apokolips. There’s always something… off. Twisted.” She grabbed a black tee and folded it—more carefully now. “Nova’s different. He’s… kind. Honest. Weird, sure. But not cruel.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t reckon you need to explain it.”

Kara looked over. “No?”

“Nope. I can see it plain as day on that pretty face o’ yours.”

Kara narrowed her eyes. “Ant Martha—”

“Oh don’t start with me.You lit up like the courthouse tree on Christmas Eve after trainin’ with him. Looked like you’d flown straight through a storm cloud and came out smilin’.”

Kara grabbed a shirt and lobbed it at her. “You’re embarrassing.”

“Just speakin’ truth, sugar. I ain’t seen you this giddy about the county fair since your first one. And honey—he is a looker. Fall-off-the-tractor handsome.”

Kara rolled her eyes. “Cute? Who, Nova? Hadn’t noticed.”

“Mmhmm. And I’m a Martian on holiday.”

Kara smiled despite herself, picking out a denim jacket and folding it with more care than she meant to.

Below them, football cheers erupted faintly from the living room. Kara paused, listening. Then: “You think he’s bonding with Uncle Jonathan?”

“If that boy’s still awake and Jonathan hasn’t talked his ear clean off about football, I’d call it a miracle.”

Kara laughed, then nodded toward the pile of clothes. “Okay. This’ll work. He might look like Clark from a distance, but at least he won’t glow.”

“You’re doin’ just fine, baby girl. Just keep in mind—fallin’ for someone who don’t quite know who they are yet… it can be the sweetest thing in the world. Or it can crack your heart wide open.”

Kara nodded, more serious now. “Yeah. I know.”

“Alright then,” Martha said, brushing her hands off. “Let’s get that boy outta them space pajamas.”

—

From the living room came Jonathan’s shout, loud and proud:
“Touchdown! See that, Nova? Instead of the quarterback throwin’ to a receiver or handin’ it off, he just said, ‘to heck with it’ and ran that ball straight into the endzone—right into the belly of the beast, like a hero stormin’ the gates.”

Nova, hovering midair with arms behind his back, nodded solemnly. “So the commander sacrificed himself to reach the enemy’s stronghold. The defenders attempted to consume him, yet he prevailed.”

Jonathan chuckled. “Exactly, kid. It’s a team sport, but it’s got a place for every kind of thinker.”

A voice rang out from upstairs—bright, familiar:
“Nova!”

Nova turned at once, like gravity had shifted—drawn by her voice like a compass needle swinging north. He drifted down the hallway and stepped lightly into the master bedroom, where clothes sprawled across the bed in vaguely organized chaos. Jeans, T-shirts, flannel—Clark’s old high school relics, resurrected for a cosmic wardrobe malfunction.

Nova paused at the threshold, gaze sweeping over the unfamiliar textures. “Are these the appropriate Terran garbs?”

Martha, holding a pair of medium-wash jeans like a measuring tape, turned and grinned. “Oh, bless your heart.”

She approached and held the waistband up to his neck, appraising. Nova didn’t flinch. “Looks like these’ll fit just fine. Try ’em on in the washroom, hon.”

She guided him gently toward the bathroom. Kara called from the other room, “Over your armor, Nova!”

A few moments later, the bathroom door creaked open, and Nova emerged—Denim hung stiffly from his hips—slightly too long, but passable. The black sheen of his armor still peeked from underneath, a subtle shimmer just below the surface.

Nova looked down, adjusting the waistband with uncertainty. “Does this suit me? It feels… delicate.”

Martha shook her head, smirking. “You boys always think you’re invincible—’til your britches beg to differ.”

Kara tossed a shirt at him from the bed. “Let’s see if your space suit can play nice with a T-shirt.”

Nova caught the faded tee and held it up like a relic. “‘The Mighty Crabjoys.’ Is that a creature of legend?”

Kara rolled her eyes. “Does everything have to be a beast?”

Nova glanced at his Mother Box. “Can we manipulate the armor without compromising its integrity?”

PING.

The armor responded—subtle, seamless. Its neckline dipped, sleeves shrank, and the black mesh tightened against his frame, disappearing beneath the fabric like it had always belonged.

He pulled the shirt over his head—awkwardly at first—until Martha stepped in, tugging the hem down and straightening the collar like she was fixing a son for his first school dance.

“There. Now you’re lookin’ like a little punk rocker.”

Kara scoffed, grabbing a red-and-black flannel and rolling her eyes, though there was a twitch of a smile behind them.

“Okay, c’mon. Move with me,” she said, stepping beside him.

She slipped one arm through the sleeve, and Nova mirrored her perfectly—no questions, no fumble. His movements matched hers with quiet precision—fluid, automatic, like a duet they’d danced before.

The flannel settled across his shoulders, and Kara rolled up the sleeves, glancing up into his eyes. He was already looking at her.

Martha, watching from the doorway, folded her arms with a fond sigh. “Kara, Dani’ll be here any minute. You best get dressed.”

Kara blinked, as if snapping out of a daze. “Right. Yeah.” She zipped up the stairs in a blur.

By the time Nova made it back to the living room, Kara was descending the steps again, casual as anything—like she hadn’t just spent five seconds moving at mach speed.

Her outfit was simple, but it landed like a thunderclap.

The pastel-striped sweater clung soft and close, cropped just above the waist, its candy-colored fuzz framing her like something from a dream. Faded high-waisted shorts revealed the long lines of her legs, comfortably frayed at the hems. Her sneakers were beat-up in that effortlessly cool way, blue high-tops loose at the ankle. The black headband held her hair in place, and beneath the collar of her sweater, something small and silver glinted briefly beneath the collar—private, personal.

Nova stared.

Martha chuckled. “Well, don’t you two look as normal and human as anyone else.”

She pulled out her phone and waved it. “C’mon, now—let me get a picture.”

Nova tilted his head. “Forgive me, but… what is a picture? I do not believe I have any.”

Kara grabbed his arm and pulled him into a basic pose. “Just look at the shiny rectangle and smile.”

Nova blinked.

“Smile,” Martha said again, raising the camera.

He mimicked Kara’s grin—awkward at first, then a little smirk. The flash went off. For a moment, his eyes flickered gold—then softened to green again.

Kara turned to him, all business. “Okay. Remember: no glowing, no floating, and please don’t tell anyone you’re from a hell dimension. If someone asks where you’re from—just say ‘Europe.’ Got it?”

Nova nodded.

Jonathan stepped in beside them, his voice firm but kind. “Avoid using your full strength.”

“And steer clear of any carnival games that look rigged,” Martha added.

Kara leaned in. “If you get stuck, just ask me. I’ll be… close.”

Jonathan gave Nova’s shoulder a light pat. “And remember, have fun. You deserve it.”

Nova nodded again. “I cannot begin to thank you all.”

Martha waved it off with a smile. “Oh hush. Just promise me you’ll look out for our girl.”

She shot Kara a look, brow raised. “And you keep him outta trouble, young lady.”

A loud HONK-HONK echoed from the driveway.

Jonathan chuckled. “Sounds like Dani finally fixed that horn.”

Kara grabbed Nova’s arm, already pulling him toward the front door. “C’mon.”

She glanced back at the Kents. “Bye!”

The screen door swung open, creaked on its hinge, then slammed shut behind them—leaving behind the scent of dust, denim, and something unspoken—hanging thick in the mid-September air.

A moment passed before Jonathan leaned against the frame, eyes still lingering on the path where Kara and Nova vanished into the late-afternoon light.

He exhaled through his nose and said, “Should we be worried?”

Martha, still holding her phone, glanced sideways at him with a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“No,” she said, folding her arms. “I think he’s tough enough.”

Jonathan raised an eyebrow.

Martha didn’t elaborate.

Scene 7: I’ll Do It Myself

The light buzzed low in the break alcove—the kind of hum you only noticed once everything else stopped. Mannheim sat alone on a cracked leather couch, nursing a half-glass of whiskey. His heel tapped like a metronome. A silent countdown.

Behind the reinforced glass wall, Lex Luthor paced like a storm cloud with a pocket square. He barked orders at a pack of lab-coated scientists, gesturing toward charts, readouts, the portal cannon bolted to the far side of the chamber. They flinched, nodded, scrambled. Behind the glass, Luthor’s fury was reduced to a hiss—still sharp, still certain, like he thought he was steering the whole damn ship.

Mannheim didn’t look up.

The Father Box sat heavy in his palm, matte black and etched with alien filigree — a gift from Desaad, or maybe a leash. It pulsed faintly, the glow twitching like a heartbeat too weak to matter. He stared at it a moment, then rose to his feet.

Across the room, the interdimensional cannon loomed — a barrel of gleaming obsidian and clustered wires, humming with unspent power. Its console blinked slowly, waiting.

To its right, a massive screen tracked satellite surveillance in real-time. The globe rotated in soft blues and grays. Digital overlays swept over coastlines, radar sweeps cross-hatched through cities, forests, oceans. A bold red alert pulsed in the corner: 

SUBJECT NOT FOUND

Mannheim watched the message burn across the screen. He threw back the last of his drink with a wince, then turned to the console. His fingers hovered a second before tapping the command panel.

The telemetry shifted. Code spilled down the screen. He tapped a satellite. Scanned the map. Froze.

A ping. Faint. But real.

Middle America. Quiet. Empty.

Mannheim didn’t hesitate. The cannon’s uplink flickered to life. Mannheim keyed in the coordinates, hands steady now. A prompt blinked:

REMOTE ACCESS — CONFIRM?

SATELLITE: Y-22
TARGET LOCK: ACQUIRED

He hit Enter.

A loading bar crawled across the screen.

0.050%

0.051%

Too slow.

Mannheim set the glass down on the nearest table — not gently. He slipped on his jacket. Tugged it straight. Walked toward the glass partition. Lex was still ranting. Still sure. Still king of the sandbox.

Two knocks.

Lex glanced up, mid-rant.

Mannheim raised two fingers in a lazy salute. He didn’t smile. Didn’t wait.

Then he was gone.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime that didn’t belong in a place like this — too polite for what was coming. Mannheim stepped inside, the light above flickering briefly as the metal cage began its slow ascent.

He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a slim, unmarked phone. Dialed without looking. The line clicked once, then held.

“Top of the tower,” he said, voice smooth as aged bourbon and sharp as broken glass. “Make sure she’s full. Got business in Kansas. Feelin’ overdue.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He pocketed the phone and leaned back, one hand over the Father Box’s pulse in his coat.

Scene 8: Fast & Furious

The road ran long and straight, flanked on either side by oceans of gold and green—fields that reached for the sky. Stalks swayed in the wind, tall and rustling, blurring into a wall of movement as the old pickup rattled along the cracked two-lane blacktop.

The truck hadn’t been new since disco died—rust-red paneling, dull chrome, grit baked into its bolts. It growled more than it purred, suspension squeaking faintly with every bump.

Dani had one hand on the wheel and one elbow out the window. Wind tugged at her curls. She hummed along to the twangy radio station she hadn’t changed in five years. Kara sat shotgun, phone cradled in both hands, thumbs idle on the screen. In the back, Nova sat straight in the flatbed, surrounded by dust and sky, staring out at the expanse like he was seeing a painting up close.

Dani flicked her eyes to the rearview.

Once. Twice. Again.

Something pulled at her, low in her ribs — not fear, not attraction exactly, but something... gravitational. Her gaze kept drifting. She caught a glimpse of him in the mirror: stone still, eyes scanning the fields, green and saturated like glass left in the sun too long.

He turned. Just a little. Looked toward the cab.

She met his eyes in the mirror.

Just a second too long.

And the edges of her vision started to close.

BEEP! BEEP!

The horn blared.

Dani jerked the wheel, tires screeching as the truck swerved back into its lane. Kara snapped up, grabbing the handle by the door.

“Whoa! Dani!”

“Sorry, babe,” Dani said with a breathless laugh, hands tight on the wheel.

“What was that about?”

Dani grinned, sheepish. “Ah, uh... I got no excuse, girl. Your man is fine.”

Kara snorted, pocketing her phone. “Gawk when we get to the fair.”

She turned in her seat and slid open the small rear window. “Hey, Nico? You okay?”

Nova leaned toward the opening. “This is quite the pleasant ride. Are these vehicles also—”

Click. Kara slid the window shut. “You’re right.”

She turned to Dani. “We should hurry up.”

Dani glanced sideways, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Almost there. What was Nico talkin’ about?”

Kara’s pulse jumped. “He’s real excited. Wants to get there faster.”

Dani’s smirk widened. “Well, let’s not keep the man waitin’, then.”

She downshifted, stomped the gas, and the truck kicked up gravel as it surged forward. Kara feigned being jostled, one hand bracing on the roof handle, the other pushing hair from her eyes. She glanced back. Nova hadn’t moved.

Of course he hadn’t.

The road twisted. The engine howled. Dani whooped and took a hard turn around a bend. The fields whipped by in smears of stalks and sun. A Latin track kicked on—loud, fast, infectious—and Dani sang along in bursts, laughing as the old truck fishtailed with each correction.

Kara laughed, too—part thrill, part survival.

Then came the driveway.

Dani cranked the wheel with practiced recklessness, and the pickup skidded sideways just shy of the curb. Dust curled around the tires. The engine hiccuped, then idled, spent and satisfied.

Kara unbuckled. “Remind me not to eat anything weird at the fair if you’re drivin’ us home.”

Dani laughed. “Well, where the hell you goin’?”

Kara slid out of the cab. “I’m gonna sit with my date, so you can sit with yours.”

Dani gave her a look—half eye-roll, half grin.

From the porch, Hallie stepped out like the world owed her attention. She didn’t strut. She didn’t need to. The varsity jacket hung lazy off one shoulder, sleeve dusted with the ghost of old glitter. A black crop top hugged her frame, the faded band logo more vibe than knowledge. Her jeans were torn at the knees, frayed like someone started stitching a story into them, then walked away. Scuffed boots clunked against the steps. Her ponytail swung behind her like punctuation.

She popped her gum. Once. Clean.

The truck thrummed quietly behind her, bass sneaking through the cracked windows.

She didn’t rush.

She didn’t need to.

Hallie opened the passenger door and leaned in with a grin.

“Hope y’all didn’t clean this beast just for me.”

Dani smiled. “This ol’ thing? I mighta topped up the wiper fluid.”

Hallie leaned in and kissed Dani on the cheek. Then, casually, looked through to the back.

Kara had just settled beside Nova in the flatbed, tugging at the hem of her sweater as the truck creaked beneath them.

Hallie slid the window open and called out, “Hey, Kara! Love that sweater!”

Kara looked up, surprised. “Thanks.”

“You gotta show me where you shop,” Hallie said, genuine. “Love your whole style.”

Kara hesitated. Last time Hallie spoke to her... well, it wasn’t like this.

Hallie tilted her head, peering past. “Is this your man?”

Nova looked toward the window. “I am Nico.”

His gaze met hers—calm, unreadable.

And Hallie froze.

Her breath caught—like something stepped into her lungs and made itself at home. Like awe and vertigo, wrapped in flannel and golden eyes. Her voice barely made it past her smile.

“H-hi, N-Nico.”

She spun around and stared at Dani, mouthing Wow.

Dani just smirked and mouthed back, I know.

She dropped the truck into gear.

Tires spun.

Dust kicked.

“Next stop—” Dani hollered over the music, “County Fair!”

Scene 9: Be There!

The truck rumbled into the grass lot with a final purr of satisfaction, tires crunching over gravel and weeds. Vehicles stretched in uneven rows across the field—muddy sedans, weather-beaten pickups, boxy off-road things with flags fluttering from the backs. A couple of dirt bikes leaned against a crooked fence post like they’d been abandoned mid-rebellion.

Dani flicked the wheel and drifted the old pickup into a perfect space, not too far from the fair entrance, not too close to the cluster of smoke where someone was already grilling. The truck rocked once, then settled.

Doors creaked. The cab opened. Dani and Hallie stepped out with practiced ease—a rhythm born from years of these kinds of nights.

In the bed, Kara stood, brushing her hands over her shorts to clear the dust. Nova rose beside her, movement silent and precise, then dropped to the ground on the passenger side with a thud too soft for his size. He straightened slowly, head turning, eyes scanning the crowd with clinical curiosity.

Hallie stopped short.

She hadn’t realized how close she’d stepped until she was looking at him eye-level—or close enough. He felt taller now, somehow—like the air bent around him a little different.

“So... you’re Kara’s date?” she asked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Nico, right?”

Nova turned, met her gaze like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I am.”

It didn’t feel like an answer. It felt like a truth. And Hallie didn’t know what to do with that.

He looked away before she could.

Kara had circled to the driver’s side and joined Dani, who stood squinting at the growing crowd across the fairgrounds. Kara asked, “Is Alice already here?”

Dani shook her head. “She said we’d know.”

Kara sighed. “Not sure if we should be worried or excited.”

Dani snorted. “I’d be more worried about Crash. Alice is gonna combust the second she lays eyes on Mr. Dimes.”

Kara smirked, glancing back at Nova—who stood like he belonged nowhere, and everywhere, all at once, backlit by the neon flicker of the fair’s entrance sign.

“I’m sure Dallas has cute boys,” she said.

Kara stepped around the truck and reached for his hand. Her fingers slid easily into his. Nova blinked—just once—but something inside him shifted. Not visible to anyone else. To him, it was seismic. The warmth of her skin burned like a second sun. He said nothing. He didn’t need to.

Dani and Hallie wandered toward the tailgate, walking slower than they had to. Hallie’s gaze flicked over her shoulder again.

“Where’d Kara find him?” she murmured.

“Metropolis,” Dani replied. “She says they met there.”

Hallie let out a sharp laugh—surprised, almost breathless.

Dani rested her cheek on Hallie’s shoulder, voice soft. “One day…”

Hallie didn’t answer. Not out loud. But her eyes followed Nova a moment longer.

Like a song she couldn’t stop hearing, even after the music stopped.

Nova and Kara stepped through the grass lot, shoes kicking up dry tufts of dust. The sky above was already gold-tinted, catching on the metal archway ahead like foil in sunlight.

78th Annual Smallville County Fair—the lettering curved high and proud, with chipped paint at the corners that made it feel more permanent, not less.

PING.

Nova’s wrist lit briefly. The Mother Box — reduced now to a sleek wristband — had chirped again.

“Perhaps,” Nova said, his eyes on the archway. “Though I have no frame of reference.”

Kara glanced over. “You do realize it’s weird you talk to a ping, right?”

“It is not a ping. She communicates with me. It may sound like a simple chime to your ears,” he said, “but I hear the intention.”

Kara snorted. “Alright, well, can your chime-ghost thing try looking a little less... alien?"

Nova looked down at the device. “Is it possible?”

PING. PING.

The casing shimmered, rippled like water, and settled into a modest black wristwatch—the kind you’d find in a mall kiosk, forgettable by design.

Nova held out his arm. “Is this an adequate appearance?”

Kara gave it a quick glance. “Adequate,” she said. “Super cool… but adequate.”

They reached the ticket stall—a narrow booth under a striped awning. Behind the smudged plexiglass, a bored teenager leaned on one elbow, spinning a blue stamp between two fingers.

Red shirt. Black block letters: Smallville County Fair Attendant.

“Owen,” Kara muttered.

Owen’s gaze flicked up. “Hey, Kara!” His voice cracked halfway through her name.

Then he saw Nova. And Nova’s hand in hers.

The stamp slowed. Then stopped cold, balanced between two fingers.

“Two?” Owen asked, his tone suddenly… clipped.

“Uh, yeah,” Kara said, fishing into her back pocket. She pulled out a few bills and handed them over.

“You’re paying?” he said, eyebrows arching.

Kara raised hers right back—no words, just silence and stare.

Owen shrugged. “Hey, I get it.” He looked at Nova. “Must be nice lettin’ a woman pay for you.”

Nova tilted his head, eyes meeting Owen’s. The booth got quieter. The lights buzzed softer. The world’s volume dropped — not all at once, but like someone was dialing it down.

Owen swallowed. Then leaned back. A small breath caught in his throat.

Kara tapped the counter. “Hello? Earth to Owen?”

He flinched, blinked like he’d just surfaced from a dream. “Sorry. He, uh… looks like someone I know. Hands, please.”

Kara slapped her palm down on the counter. Owen took it—a second longer than needed—then pressed the stamp on, soft and slow.

Kara pulled back and gestured toward Nova.

Nova followed the cue, laying his hand flat on the surface. Owen pressed the stamp like he expected resistance. There was none. Just a soft, hollow press—rubber on skin, and nothing else.

He stared at it, then said without looking up, “You think about our date yet?”

Kara’s jaw tensed. “Owen, stop. I’m not interested.”

Owen scoffed, shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Whatever. Have fun with pretty boy. Let’s see how long that lasts.”

Nova stepped forward.

His shadow stretched—longer than it should’ve, as if the light backed away.

His voice dropped low, each syllable weighted like stone.

“You are fortunate I have been asked to show restraint,” he said. “Were it my decision alone… your voice would never again be used to shame her.”

Owen’s hand shook. His fingers went cold. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to disappear.

Kara tugged Nova’s sleeve. “Let’s go.”

They moved past the booth. Kara’s pace didn’t slow until they were swallowed by the color and noise of the fair.

Nova looked sideways at her. “I see not all humans are peaceful.”

Kara blew out a breath. “He’s just a creep. Thanks for making him crap himself, but maybe don’t threaten people next time? You might not’ve noticed, but people act weird around you.”

Nova nodded. “I understand.”

A breeze carried something new between them — warm and buttery, sweet and sharp. Nova inhaled, pausing.

“The air here… it is very…”

“Saturated?” Kara offered. “It’s the food. We’ll get to that. First, we get ride tickets and wait for Alice.”

Nova looked around. Lights flickered. Music warbled from distant speakers. Laughter burst in uneven rhythms across the park.

“Kara, forgive me, but… what is the purpose of this gathering?”

Kara smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear. “It’s a community thing. Rides, food, music, games… sometimes pig races.”

Nova blinked. “I have many questions.”

She bumped his arm gently. “Take your time, Nico. Easier to experience it than explain. Oh—and if you see people laughing or throwing their hands up on rides? Try doing the same. Standing there like a statue freaks people out.”

She stopped. Frowned. “Your collar’s all crooked—c’mere.”

He stepped closer. Kara reached up, fingers brushing the edge of his shirt, smoothing the fabric, fixing the line. She was still adjusting the back when—

“¡Suéltalo, desgraciada!”

Kara flinched. “Dani!” she snapped, cheeks blazing. “You know I hate when you yell that in public!”

Nova blinked. “What does it mean?”

Kara muttered, “It means ‘Let him go, you shameless girl.’ It’s… a thing.”

Dani approached, grinning wide and swinging Hallie’s hand like they were skipping school. “Why’s Owen look like he saw God and pissed himself?”

Kara shrugged.

Nova looked at her, then mirrored the shrug with perfect mimicry.

Dani cackled. Kara buried her face in her hand. Hallie laughed too, leaning on Dani’s shoulder as the group melted into the blur of lights and music.

And above it all, the fair’s giant Ferris wheel creaked slowly to life—casting a turning glow over the field as dusk began to fall.

The fairground crowd swelled behind them, but the four teens lingered by the edge—near enough to smell funnel cake, far enough to breathe.

Hallie leaned into Dani, fingers laced, soft grins passing between them like a secret too good to say out loud.

Kara cocked an eyebrow. “Sooo… when did this happen?”

Hallie blushed and glanced up at Dani like she was asking for permission. Dani shrugged, grinning.

“We hit it off in the locker room,” Hallie said with a shrug.

Kara tilted her head, slowly. “Was this…?”

“Yeah,” Dani cut in. “That Monday. You bailed on 4-H, I came back for my binder, and… there she was.”

Kara raised her eyebrows. “Skipping 4-H’s never felt so risky.”

Hallie laughed, and Dani snorted, squeezing her hand.

A shriek sliced through the crowd—high, sharp, joyous.

“EEEEEEEEEEK!”

Kara turned just in time to catch the neon-pink blur barreling toward them.

It wasn’t running. It was sparkling at high velocity.

Alice.

She shot forward in full cheerleader sprint, limbs flailing like excited confetti. Her cropped satin jacket gleamed under every fair light, sequins on the back catching fire with movement—a heart with wings, glittering like a promise. Beneath that, her sky-blue tank top beamed with a cartoon Ferris wheel mid-wink. Her shorts were patched and painted like a craft store dared her, patched and painted and punk-soft. Socks slouched. Sneakers blinked. Her crossbody bag jingled with charms—pom-poms, a disco ball, a donut, and something that might’ve been a duck.

Her hair bounced in pastel-streaked space buns, pigtails fluttering behind her like celebratory ribbons.

She shrieked again and launched into a flying tackle, crashing into Dani and Hallie like a human glitter bomb.

“You both look so CUTE!” she squealed. “Hallie, I LOVE your jacket!”

Before Kara could duck, Alice spun and locked her into a hug. “Rainbow sweater crop top! Tell me where you got it! AHHH! This is the best day! I gotta flip—!”

And flip she did—a backflip so clean it made nearby kids stop mid-bite. She landed like she’d done it a hundred times. Arms up. One leg lifted. Grinning.

“C’mon Crash! Come meet my besties!”

From around the corner came a different kind of entrance.

Crash.

He rounded the corner with the kind of casual defiance that made adults lock their doors and teenagers blush. About six feet, maybe more with the boots. Black t-shirt snug across a chest built for barn fights, jeans faded in all the right places, denim jacket with the sleeves shoved up like it owed him something. A cut on his jaw. Grease on his thumb. Eyes half-lidded, unreadable—like a wolf too bored to decide if you were prey.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to.

He walked like he meant to.

Alice beamed and threw her arms around him. “Crash, meet Kara, Dani, Dani’s date Hallie, and—”

She stopped.

Her mouth hung open slightly as her eyes landed on Nova.

Something shifted. The fair sounds warped—music twisted into molasses, lights pulsed too slow. She stared, caught like a ribbon in a wind tunnel.

“Y-you okay?” Crash asked, nudging her gently.

Alice blinked. Red flushed her cheeks. “W-wow…”

Crash followed her gaze.

Nova just stood there. Still, quiet, arms at his side. Crash felt it—like standing too close to a bonfire you couldn’t see, heat you didn’t earn. The guy looked mythic—like a statue that decided to walk.

Kara cleared her throat. “Uh, guys… meet Nico.”

Nova stepped forward.

“It is good to meet Kara’s friends. I hope this evening is... enjoyable.”

Kara reached out and squeezed his hand. He held it back.

Alice finally exhaled, then threw her arms around Nova. The hug was full-body and unfiltered—until her breath hitched. Her fingers trembled. The feeling hit like a ripple through her chest—deep, dizzying, impossible to name.

She pulled back, blinking fast. “N-nice to meet ya!”

Nova offered a nod, then turned to Crash and extended a hand. “I am Nico. Kara’s date.”

Crash stared at it. Then gripped it.

No give. Like grabbing a statue that chose not to crush you.

Crash didn’t flinch. But he didn’t joke, either. “Crash. Alice’s.”

Alice slipped between them and waved. “I’m Alice!”

Kara smiled at her but before she could say anything else—

“Bathroom?” Alice blurted.

Dani raised her brows. “Now?”

“Yes,” Alice nodded rapidly. “Now. Ladies?”

Without waiting, she grabbed Dani’s hand, and Hallie followed. Kara lingered.

Alice spun. “Kara! C’mon!”

Kara touched his arm. ‘I’ll be back. Try not to scare anyone.

Nova nodded once.

And she was gone — trailing after them into the crowd of lights and laughter, leaving Nova and Crash behind in the flicker.

The fair stretched wide before him, glowing brighter as the sun dipped behind the tree line. Booth lights flickered on — red, green, warm gold — casting long shadows across the grass. Somewhere to the left, the small roller coaster clattered to life, its steel frame rattling like a toy just waking up.

Children shrieked with delight. A balloon slipped free and floated upward. Nova watched it drift.

His eyes tracked a family — father, mother, son, daughter. The little girl bounced on her toes, dress swishing as she reached up. The father crouched, handed her an ice cream cone. Her smile split her face like sunlight through storm clouds.

Nova felt something catch in his chest.

Not pain. Not quite. But deeper. Curling low in the gut — shapeless, unnamed.

A sharp slap landed against his arm.

“Hey, pretty boy,” Crash said, stepping up beside him.

Nova turned slightly.

Crash lit a cigarette with a flick, blew smoke upward, and squinted at the lights.

“What’d you say your name was?”

“Nico.”

Crash nodded once, slow. “Where you from?”

Nova didn’t answer right away.

“Europe,” he said at last.

Crash turned to look at him fully now, smoke drifting between them.

“Where in Europe?”

—

The bathroom smelled like bleach and old tile — clean, but not convincingly. The floors were still damp in spots. The overhead light buzzed once, flickered, then held steady.

Alice stormed in first.

“Kara, what the actual fudge?!”

Kara froze like a raccoon caught in headlights.

“What?”

Alice spun, with Dani and Hallie flanking her like backup dancers.

“You have to tell me where he’s from so I can move there!”

Kara smirked and rolled her eyes.

Hallie pushed past Alice with wide eyes. “I looked at him and it felt like I was the only person alive.”

Dani slung an arm around Hallie’s shoulder. “Girl, yes! That’s exactly what it feels like!”

Alice clutched her heart like she’d been personally victimized. “That boy is illegal. Like, emotionally.”

Kara tried to laugh it off. “Crash is cute too.”

Kara smirked. “I think Crash would object.”

Hallie tilted her head. “Where’s he from? He talks funny.”

Kara shrugged. “Not sure exactly. Some tiny country in Europe.”

Dani nodded. “Yeah, that tracks. Europeans always got that whole polished vibe. Better manners. Real grown.”

Alice leaned toward the mirror, inspecting her lip gloss. “My ’rents took me to Paris last year—it’s true. Guys over there are so sweet. Italian dudes are pushy, though. Momma just called it passion.”

Dani barked a laugh. “They probably got real passionate when they saw you.”

Kara leaned against the sink. “I heard Greek guys are hot too.”

Hallie grinned, sliding up beside Alice. “It’s the food. And like—aren’t Amazons basically Greek?”

Dani tossed her ponytail. “If there’s a god, he’d drop me dead center in Themys-whatever.”

Alice spun around. “Gateway City has a huge Greek population. Maybe we should all try to get into Gateway U.”

Dani looked at Kara. “Weren’t we already talking about GCU?”

Kara nodded. “Yeah. My ant wants me in-state, but she’s cool with Gateway.”

Alice clapped, nearly bouncing on her toes. ““YES. All of us in one dorm—Hallie decorates, Dani’s on tunes, I bring glitter, and Kara shows up with Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Sculpted.”

Kara checked a buzz on her phone, then slid it back into her pocket. “C’mon. Before someone steals our dates.”

Dani threw her arm around Hallie. “Let ‘em try.”

They pushed out together, the door creaking shut behind them.

Alice looped her arm through Kara’s. “If he’s got a brother, I call dibs.”

Kara raised an eyebrow. “What about Crash?”

Alice rolled her eyes. “Two minutes in his truck and five exes texted. I’m not tryna be a footnote.”

Kara laughed. “I don’t think Nico has a brother… but I’ll ask.”

As soon as they stepped into open air, Kara’s eyes scanned the crowd—and found him.

Nova.

She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t explain.

She just made a beeline across the fairground, like a magnet to its true north.

Scene 10: Objectives & Oreos

The fair had shifted.

The sky bled into a softer purple now, strung with cottony clouds and streaks of gold. Lights blinked to life one by one, glowing warm against the dusk. Somewhere, a country song nobody really liked hummed over the speakers, and the air thickened with the smell of fried sugar and hay.

Time passed. Laughter blurred into cheers, the clang of metal against metal, barkers hollering half-hearted pitches to passing teens. Kara, Dani, Alice, and Hallie returned with strips of glossy ride tickets in hand, the kind that looked like Monopoly money but somehow cost twenty bucks.

Kara broke off from the group and made her way back to Nova. She pressed half the tickets into his palm, folding his fingers around them, gentle like they’d vanish.

“When we go to a ride,” she said, “you give the person at the front one of these. It’s how you get on.”

Nova looked down at the flimsy stubs, his expression unreadable. “Va’rei selah,” he said quietly.

The words rolled off his tongue—perfect Kryptonese, like it belonged there. Kara blinked. Her breath hitched.

“That’s still kinda weird,” she said, half-smiling. “Hearing you speak it.”

Nova tilted his head, studying her. “Would you prefer I don’t speak it?”

She hesitated, really thinking about it. Something flickered in her chest. She looked at him again and offered a shrug with a soft, “Telai.”

Maybe.

Nova smirked, a flicker of understanding lighting behind his eyes. “What is our first objective?”

Before she could answer, Dani and Alice shouted in tandem, “Hey guys!”

Kara called back, “We’re coming!”

She took his hand without thinking. Not just contact—something anchoring.

“Objective: have fun, keep our secrets, and see if you can handle a fried Oreo.”

Nova’s gaze drifted as Kara pulled him along. He slowed for half a breath when he spotted a couple crossing the fairground path—the man’s arm draped over the woman’s shoulders, her head tilting toward him in quiet laughter. No words. Just ease.

Kara’s hand shifted slightly in his, her thumb brushing his knuckles as she tugged him forward. Nova glanced down at her, then back at the couple.

He didn’t say anything.

But he held the tickets tighter.

And he didn’t let go of her hand.

The group huddled near the fair’s main strip, string lights flickering off polished surfaces. Crash leaned against the booth, arms crossed, eyes locked on Nova—like a bull sizing up another in the pen. Alice leaned in, but her gaze kept flicking to the guy holding Kara’s hand.

Dani slapped her hands together. “Alright, what’s the vibe? Supercoaster or Cyclotron?”

Hallie wrinkled her nose. “If we’re doing Cyclotron, he’s doing it before we eat. I am not holding his hair back.”

Alice whipped around. “I did not spend an hour and a half getting this hair to look like a Lisa Frank daydream just to throw up on it.”

Dani pointed at her. “So that’s a no.”

She turned to Kara. “Supercoaster?”

Kara shrugged, all casual. “Sure.”

She looked at Nova, still holding his hand. “You ready?”

He nodded once. “Yes.”

They started walking.

A massive red-and-yellow S loomed over the ride entrance, neon and proud. Crash let out a low whistle.

“They got fairs like this where you’re from?” Crash asked, feigning casual. “What was it—Malta?”

Kara stopped. Her heart thudded hard. Her palm went damp in Nova’s.

Nova didn’t hesitate. “Yes. I am Maltese.” He tilted his head slightly. “But no, we do not have such events.”

Crash nodded slowly, chewing on it.

“Buckle up. Supercoaster’s got a drop that'll make you meet your ancestors.”

Kara laughed—too fast. “He lives in Metropolis now. He’s seen bigger.”

The moment the words left her mouth, she wanted to snatch them back. Too fast. Too much.

Dani blinked. “Wait—you came all the way from Metropolis for this little ink-smudge town?”

Kara opened her mouth—then—

Alice cut in, bubbly and oblivious. “That is soooo sweet! That’s like, what, a bajillion miles? Girl, I wish someone would do that for me.”

Crash snorted.

Dani and Hallie turned to Kara, grinning.

“Goals,” they said in unison.

The coaster loomed—red and yellow steel curling into the twilight sky. It didn’t loop, but it twisted high and dropped hard—an old-school terror built on speed and sudden turns. The crown jewel of the fair, its first drop had a reputation: sharp, steep, and loud enough to make half the county scream in unison.

The six teens filed into their cars—Hallie and Dani in front, then Alice and Crash, Kara and Nova taking the last row. The harness clicked down. Kara leaned in. “Malta?”

Nova leaned back, voice low in her ear. “Mother Box’s idea.”

Kara bumped her shoulder into his. “Nice.”

The coaster hissed, then jolted forward. Up the first hill, chains clanked under them like the slow tick of a countdown. Kara glanced at Nova—rigid, posture perfect, barely moved by the rumbling beneath them. Her hand found his, and she gave it a small squeeze. He looked at her, then ahead, just as the drop hit.

The cart plunged.

Wind whipped, shrieks tore the air. Nova didn’t scream—he calculated. He looked ahead, then to the side, caught Crash leaning with the curves, gripping the bar, a half-smile twisted with adrenaline.

Nova mimicked.

Subtle at first. A grip here. A lean there. Then a perfectly timed yell, matched to the cart’s dive through a corkscrew. Just enough to vanish into the chaos.

As the ride screeched to a halt, Kara leaned in again. “Lookin’ real human there, Mister New God.”

Nova allowed a small smile to form. He unbuckled and stepped out, offering his hand to Kara like it was second nature. She took it, graceful and practiced, her other hand brushing windblown hair from her face.

By now, the lights had claimed the night. The warm pulse of bulbs lit up booths and signs, while the stage crackled to life behind them. A local band fiddled with amps and mics, the lead singer testing a mic with a cough and a drawled, “Check-check.”

Kara, Dani, and Alice bunched together for a selfie. Kara’s arm stretched high to frame them all. Hallie flopped down on a bench nearby, catching her breath, hair wind-wrecked but smiling anyway.

Crash had wandered, arms folded, eyeing the rows of carnival games like they were daring him to try. His gaze landed on the milk bottle toss—three glass bottles in a pyramid, red line a few feet away.

Alice sidled up beside him. “Whatcha lookin’ at?”

Crash didn’t answer. His eyes drifted back to Nova, who was scanning the area with quiet curiosity.

Then, turning back toward the bottles, Crash called out, “Hey, pretty boy. Wanna try a carnival game?”

Kara’s ears perked up as Crash’s voice called out across the midway. She turned just in time to see Nova already nodding.

She hustled over, brow raised. "What? What game?"

“Crash has challenged me to a game of Carnival,” Nova said evenly.

Dani appeared mid-bite. “Carnival games are the kind, Nico. Which one’s he dragging you to?”

They looked back—Crash was standing by the Milk Bottle Toss, waving Nova over. "C’mon, big guy!"

Alice zipped over like her name just got called on stage. She leaned into Crash, her voice syrupy. "You gonna win me a prize?"

Crash nodded, cocky. "Start pickin’ one out now, babe. I’m feelin’ it."

Dani peeled off to check on Hallie, who was still a little green around the gills after the coaster. Kara grabbed Nova’s hand, gently tugging him aside.

"Okay, I should’ve seen this coming. Just... please don’t vaporize the game. Pretend you’ve got bones, yeah?"

Nova looked down at her, face calm. "Kara, I do not wish you to spend our date in worry. I can mimic human movement, as you and Kal-El do. But if it eases your mind—I will gladly surrender."

She tried to stifle a laugh, but Crash called out again, “Nico, we playin’ or what?”

Crash hurled the first ball.

Clang.

The bottles didn’t flinch.

Crash muttered, "Shit," then turned back. "I got you covered. Take your shot."

Nova stepped to the booth. The attendant—a round man with a voice like burned toast—grunted, “Three throws. Clear ‘em all, big prize. Three bottles for medium. Two gets you small.”

Nova nodded, eyes tracking Crash’s next throw.

Crash knocked down two. Not bad.

Nova mirrored Crash’s stance exactly—and tossed.

Clatter.

All six bottles dropped. Four cracked. Two rolled like fugitives fleeing judgment.

The carnie whistled low. “Big toss for the big guy.”

Crash shot him a glare.

He lined up his final ball, stepped back, wound up, and launched.

Clink. One bottle.

"Three bottles total," the carnie barked. "Time for prizes, gentlemen!"

Alice squealed, skipping to Crash’s side. “Ooh! The Supergirl! She’s adorable!”

Crash grabbed the medium-sized plush and handed it over. Alice batted her lashes. "Thanks, Crash," she said, giving him a peck on the cheek.

The carnie turned to Nova. "Big winner gets first pick."

Nova scanned the top shelf. His gaze stopped on a towering green alien—plush, ridiculous, glorious.

He looked at Kara.

She smirked. "Gimme that big green one."

The carnie climbed the stepladder and wrestled it loose. Nova turned, prize in hand, and presented it like a knight with a sacred relic.

Kara beamed, hugging the absurd creature. They leaned in—barely—and then—

“Bottle Toss! Step right up—win big, impress your date, earn eternal bragging rights!” the carnie bellowed.

Kara broke the spell with a laugh, stepping back. Dani’s voice came from behind. "Let’s grab a bite, y’all. I think Hallie needs a break after the coaster."

Hallie was clinging to Dani like her shoes had betrayed her. "Ugh, that corkscrew wrecked me."

"We’re getting you water, girl," Alice declared, already pulling her toward the food stands. Crash followed, tossing one last glance at the prize Nova had handed over.

Kara hung back with Nova, clutching the green alien to her chest. "Thanks for my prize."

"I must apologize," Nova said. "I did not intend to win."

Kara gave him a light shove. "Don’t apologize. No one’s ever won me anything before. It’s sweet."

Nova looked down at the plush. "Is this creature alive?"

She snorted. "No! It’s just a toy."

“This world is… strange.”

Kara nodded. “Yeah, tell me about it. Krypton made sense. Earth? Still doesn’t.”

Nova walked beside her, eyeing the way she held the plush—tight, protective, almost fond.

“Krypton was advanced—far beyond Earth. But both were mapped, analyzed, broken down for weakness. That made them easier to… engage with. Apokolips never cared about understanding. Only conquest.”

Kara blinked. “You studied Krypton… on Apokolips?”

“Granny and Desaad thought it was essential. Kryptonians are a known threat to Apokolips. I was trained in your history, language… biology.”

"Just Krypton?" Kara asked.

"Thanagar. Tamaran. Rann. Oa."

She whistled. "So when you said they made you a weapon—"

“Infiltrate. Dismantle. All using your own tactics.”

Kara smirked. “And now you’re in flannel, winning plushies, asking for forgiveness.”

Nova’s smile was barely there. “If Granny could see me now.”

They both laughed, the sound folding into the hum of the fair as they made their way to the others.

Scene 11: Ferris Wheel!

Paper trays littered the table, greasy and stacked with fair food casualties. A ketchup bottle rolled near an empty Twinkie wrapper. Bent milkshake straws poked out like antennae. Someone—probably Alice—had tried stacking three corn dog sticks into a tripod before it collapsed into Hallie’s nachos.

Dani wiped powdered sugar from her fingers, leaned back, and eyed Nova with a grin. “So, how we feelin’ 'bout Smallville’s delicacies, Nico?”

Nova finished chewing, then dabbed his lips with a napkin like he’d seen Clark do once. “It is… indulgent. Synthetic. Yet comforting.” He held up the remains of a fried Oreo like it might whisper its secrets to him.

Alice raised her milkshake like a toast. “So much better than Dallas fair foods. There, it's just gas station snacks on paper plates.”

Crash hadn’t said much, but he kept sneaking glances at Nova between bites of chili dog.

Finally, he cracked. “You hit the gym, Nico?”

Nova blinked. “Pardon?”

Crash wiped his hands on his jeans. “You lift or something?”

Nova glanced at Kara. She opened her mouth, but before she could answer, Hallie beat her to it.

“Look at ‘im, Crash. He could probably take on the Crow’s entire D-line.”

A soft ping chimed in Nova’s head. He nodded. “Yes. I train often, though not in a gymnasium. My regimen is… unconventional.”

Kara jumped in, smile a little too wide. “Y’know Europeans—soccer, calisthenics, no bench press.”

Dani snorted into her soda. “Jealous, Crash?”

Crash rolled his eyes and grabbed a fry. “I’m Kansas state wrestling champ. I just wanna know if he’s doing something special. Like… special-special.”

Nova tilted his head, curious. Beside him, Kara was already cataloging every way this could go sideways.

Alice suddenly gasped like she’d cracked a cold case. “Ferris wheel!”

Everyone jumped.

“You guys,” she squealed, “we have to go on the Ferris wheel!”

Dani blinked mid-sip. “Uh, okay? Hallie, you good?”

Hallie rubbed her stomach, face still a little green. “I guess... just don’t rock the carriage.”

Dani stood, brushing powdered sugar off her jeans. “C’mon,” she said, reaching out to steady Hallie as they shuffled up.

Alice grabbed Crash’s arm and bounced. “Let’s go! I need pics!”

Crash stood with a grunt, crooked grin creeping in. “Alright, alright. Don’t rip my arm off.”

Kara tilted her head. “You ready?”

Nova rose, already offering his hand like it was second nature.

Kara smiled and took it without hesitation.

“Y’know,” she said, “you’re real proper for someone from Apokolips.”

“I was actually born on New Genesis,” Nova said, soft but matter-of-fact.

Kara’s smile tugged wider. “That explains it.”

Nova tilted his head. “Explains what?”

She stepped backward, still holding his hand. “It’s weird. Being around you makes me feel... powered up.”

They began walking, the fair glowing around them as the sun dipped low. Lights blinked to life. The Ferris wheel spun slow and deliberate, creaking like an old song.

“I radiate energy similar to this system’s sun,” Nova said.

Kara stopped. “Wait—seriously?”

Nova nodded. “I can access the full stellar spectrum. But my natural aura is golden.”

Kara squinted at him, half amused, half floored. “So… I actually am stronger around you?”

Nova looked at her. “Yes.”

She nudged his shoulder. “That’s kind of amazing. Is that why your eyes flash gold?”

“Yes,” he said. “Within me is a stellar core.”

Kara blinked. “You mean like a—wait. That’s not a metaphor?”

Nova shook his head. “Most have hearts. I have... this.”

He guided her hand gently to his chest. “Try.”

Kara hesitated—but only for a second. She leaned in and rested her head against him.

There it was. Not a heartbeat—a hum. Deep, constant. Like a star murmuring under his skin. The warmth wasn’t just heat. It was radiant. Steady. Alive.

She blinked, stunned. She’d always felt it. But now she was really listening.

“Kara! Nico!” Dani’s voice sliced through the air. “C’mon, line’s short!”

Kara jerked back like she’d touched something too hot. Her cheeks flushed pink as she looked anywhere but at Nova.

They joined the others at the queue just in time. But before Hallie could climb into the next carriage, she hunched over slightly, holding her stomach.

“Ooh—okay, no Ferris wheel for me,” she groaned. “Sorry, I need to sit.”

“You can go without me,” she added quickly to Dani.

Dani was already taking her hand. “Not happening.”

Kara looked over. “Want some help?”

Dani shook her head. “No, go on the ride. I got this.”

Kara hesitated a second, then turned back to Nova. She grinned and tugged his hand. “Let’s go.”

They climbed into their carriage and settled in beside each other. The wheel groaned, then jerked to life, slowly lifting them above the fair.

Below, everything looked small. Lights and movement and color. Music and voices blurred into ambient noise. Above them, the sky turned navy blue.

Kara leaned back with a sigh. “So. First official outing on Earth. What do you think?”

Nova didn’t answer right away. Then, softly—he exhaled.

“I still find myself without proper footing.”

Kara glanced at him but said nothing. Just listened.

He looked ahead, watching the lights below. “Among the few moments in my life where I have known true fear... this is one. Not due to danger. But due to hope. And it is... fragile. As if the ground might open and return me to Apokolips at any moment.”

He paused. “And if not... what if this place is not home either?”

Kara opened her mouth, but Nova shook his head and said, “Everyone has been kind. Clark. Diana. Even Batman, in his own way. But the Lantern... he watches me as though I were a ticking bomb.”

Kara rested her hand on his again.

“It’ll take time,” she said softly.

He nodded. “I know. It’s just… Apokolips had routine. Horrible, brutal routine, but I knew my role. Now I am surrounded by freedom and possibility, yet nothing tells me where I am meant to stand.”

He turned toward her.

“Except for one constant.”

His voice dropped.

“You.”

Kara blinked.

“I admire you, Kara. You lost your world, but you didn’t retreat. You adapted. You found a way to live. Laugh. Connect. To watch you among your friends—” he paused, searching. “It is beautiful. And I cannot begin to express how much this day has meant to me.”

The carriage reached the top.

They both looked out. The fair stretched below in lights and music and swirling color. The wind was soft. The moment, quiet.

Kara turned to face him. So close now.

Nova’s eyes flickered gold.

She leaned in.

So did he. 

Their eyes fluttered shut.

They met—

BOOM!

A sound like the sky tearing itself in half. 

The Ferris wheel shuddered—metal groaning beneath them.

Scene 12: Just like Metropolis

The Ferris wheel groaned.

Bolts snapped. Steel screamed. The whole structure lurched like it was trying to tear free from Earth.

Screams erupted around them.

Kara’s head snapped toward the sound—

Rotors. Fast. Faint. Closing in from beyond the cornfield.

Then came the glow—

Sickly green light tore the air apart by the fair’s main entrance, warping grass and sky like a film reel left in fire.

A portal. Massive. Cracking at the seams.

Kara turned to Nova, eyes wide. “Another portal. Like Metropolis.”

She vanished in a red-blue streak.

A heartbeat later, she hovered in front of the carriage in her Supergirl suit. “Well? You coming?”

Nova lifted his arm. “Mother Box—face mask.”

His wristwatch unraveled—smooth as silk folding backward. Gold-veined black metal climbed his arm, wrapped his jaw, and sealed into an angular mask.

He vanished in a streak of gold.

They hovered above the Ferris wheel.

Screams echoed below—people trapped in carriages, coasters mid-climb, game stalls frozen mid-play.

“We need to get these people off the rides,” Kara said, already scanning. “Keep them away from the portal.”

Nova nodded once—and shot off.

Together, red and gold blurred across the fairgrounds. They plucked children from high swings, unlatched coaster belts mid-loop, and flew people—two, three at a time—to the parking lot.

A little girl bolted from a porta-potty, shrieking for her mom.

The woman sprinted toward her—arm outstretched, terror etched across her face.

Nova surged forward—

Just as the Ferris wheel buckled and came crashing down.

He scooped the girl, wrapped an arm around her mother’s waist, and launched skyward—just as the Ferris wheel slammed into the grass, carving trenches into the dirt.

Nova touched down gently—and looked back.

The portal split wide.

Something stepped through.

A massive green claw slammed down—then another.

The creature rose. Hunched. And kept rising.

Forty feet. Sixty. One hundred.

No—more.

Four hundred feet tall. Reptilian. Grotesque.

Iridescent green crystals burst from its spine and shoulders—jagged spires pulsing with sick light.

Then it roared.

A bass-drum quake that rattled car windows—

and launched a hot dog cart skyward.

Kara streaked forward like a comet—

and drove her shoulder straight into its gut.

The beast staggered—

then whipped its tail and brought down a claw. One swipe slammed her into the dirt like a fly.

Nova launched. Golden light ignited in his palms.

“HEY!”

Twin beams of gold lanced into the Kaiju’s face.

It reeled—but one claw shot out, faster than he anticipated.

It snatched him mid-air.

His ribs compressed—a soundless crunch.

He gritted his teeth and pried the claw open—barely.

Heat vision tore in from the left—

Kara, blazing and furious.

The creature shrieked—

and hurled Nova straight at her.

They collided mid-air like meteors—slamming together, spiraling through the night sky.

They hit the car park hard—flipping a row of sedans end over end.

Smoke rose. Lights flickered. The air thrummed with fear.

And still—the monster came.

Nova landed atop her.

Instinct took over. His arms locked around her—bracing—

and his golden aura flared.

A pulse burst from his chest.

Kara seized—breath caught, eyes wide.

Warmth flooded her. Like a tidal wave. Every nerve lit up.

She gasped.

Power crackled across her skin. Her fingers curled, instinctive.

Then—no hesitation—she grabbed Nova, lifted him, and shot into the sky.

A sonic boom ripped through the air.

Kara slammed into the monster’s snout—its head whipped sideways with a crunch. Green crystal shattered from its jaw like glass off a windshield.

Before it recovered, she was on its head—fists glowing, eyes lit. She drew back—

and a crystal spike burst from its skull like a sprung trap.

She twisted mid-air—just missing the spike.

The creature snarled and brought up a claw.

WHAM.

It swatted her like a bug. She spiraled downward—

—but Nova caught her.

No pause. Just redirection.

Kara launched off his hands like a slingshot—slamming into the creature’s neck.

It dropped, shaking the fairgrounds like an earthquake.

It writhed.

Then, snarling, it twisted—planting all fours into the dirt like a grotesque lizard.

Its crystal spine arched, glowing with violent light.

It turned—crawling straight for the town.

Kara’s eyes flared. “Nova! It’s going for the town!”

Nova surged forward—a blur of gold—landing yards ahead of its churning claws.

He hovered. Unmoving.

The Kaiju stared.

It hissed—low and wet—then shrieked. Windows shattered.

Nova didn’t flinch.

PING. PING. PING.

Voices in his mind. Warning. Analysis. Tactics.

He answered aloud, soft but firm. “Yes… but this is what I was made for.”

He shot forward.

His fist pulled back—golden light coiling around it—then—he struck.

BOOM!

The shockwave flattened a row of abandoned food trucks.

The Kaiju’s head jerked back—

But before Nova could follow up, its mouth opened.

SPLAT.

A long, wet tongue shot out—too fast to dodge. It snapped around Nova midair and yanked him back like a snared bird.

“Nova!” Kara screamed.

GULP.

The creature swallowed him whole.

A tremor rippled down its throat.

It stood taller.

Brighter.

Smiling.

Kara became a red streak in the sky.

She slammed into the Kaiju’s skull—again. Again. Again.

Each strike cracked the sky like thunder, shockwaves ripping through the fairgrounds. The creature howled, staggering back as carnival tents blew apart like paper.

She gritted her teeth, blood in her throat, fury in her fists.

“You just had to ruin our night, didn’t you?!”

She seized one of the massive green crystal spikes jutting from its skull—and ripped.

The Kaiju screeched, a sound like steel tearing underwater. 

The spike tore loose in a shower of green light and blood-slick roots.

Then it glowed.

Bright.

Kara blinked. Staggered.

Then—whiteout. Her vision flooded, and her limbs buckled.

She dropped from the beast’s head like dead weight.

The Kaiju caught her mid-fall.

SLAM.

The ground cratered beneath her.

Kara gasped—blood splattered from her lips.

It roared, jaws unhinged, and brought both forelimbs down to crush her.

Kara rolled, barely evading.

The claws struck where she’d been—leaving a crater.

It reared back to strike again—

But Kara was already crouched low, hands braced to the dirt, straining as the claws ground her into the earth.

Her feet slid.

She was sinking.

Face tight with pain, Kara growled, “You ate my date!”

Her fist shot up—CRACK—shattering the beast’s wrist.

Then: heat vision. A red-hot blast straight into its eyes.

The Kaiju shrieked.

Kara launched upward—shoulder first—slamming into its neck and lifting it off its forelimbs.

Then—BAM!—a clean uppercut to its snout.

The monster reeled.

But it didn’t fall.

Its claws twisted—elongating into jagged crystal talons, branching like poisoned thorns.

WHACK!

One strike.

Kara spiraled—flung like a comet into the shattered coils of the Supercoaster. 

She blasted through a metal loop, skidding across asphalt, carving a long trench in her wake.

She groaned. Pushed to her knees.

The beast turned back toward Smallville.

Then—

A golden light bloomed—slow and hot—in the center of its chest.

Like a star igniting behind its ribs.

The Kaiju staggered.

Claws flailed—desperate, clumsy—as it pawed at its own chest.

The glow intensified.

Its body twitched. Then convulsed. It slammed its head against the ground—once, twice, again—howling in agony.

Its flesh sizzled.

Hairline fractures of golden light spidered through its hide.

BOOM.

A blinding pillar of golden fire tore skyward from its gut.

Nova burst through the gaping wound—incandescent, radiant—soaring like a newborn sun.

His entire form was engulfed in golden flame.

Kara shielded her eyes as the Kaiju convulsed—then seized still, limbs outstretched in a grotesque sprawl.

Nova dropped from the sky like a spear of sunlight, trailing brilliance in his wake.

CRUNCH. 

His fist bored through the Kaiju’s skull.

The monster collapsed.

One final shudder—then silence.

Twitches like a dying engine.

Nova hovered for a breath.

Then he lifted it.

All 400 feet of it.

He rose—higher and higher—his glow casting long shadows across the fairgrounds.

Until the clouds took him.

A second sun, swallowed by the sky.

Then—

A flash broke through the clouds.

A golden arc streaked across the sky—

and flung the beast into orbit.

Kara watched the arc fade—burning west, toward the sun.

She exhaled slowly.

Her eyes stayed on the sky.

Scene 12: The End

Kara shielded her eyes as the golden light in the sky shrank. Nova descended slow, his glow dimming to a quiet shimmer. No longer a beacon—just a boy coming home from war.

She exhaled.

The fairgrounds were wrecked. Craters tore through the grass. Booths flattened. Signs burned. The Ferris wheel lay in pieces, half-buried in a smoking crater. What was once noise and neon now slumped under dim lights and drifting ash. Green fluid slicked the rubble, bubbling between broken prizes and busted pavement.

Kara turned toward the parking lot—mostly untouched.

Cars peeled out, headlights slicing through the haze.

The crowd was already gone.

She flew low, her body cutting clean through the drifting smoke, and landed behind a collapsed tent where she'd stashed her backpack. She knelt beside it, pulled the zipper down. Inside, her rainbow crop sweater waited for her—soft, familiar. Safe. She reached in and wrapped her fingers around the fabric.

“Kara?”

The voice hit like a gut punch.

She turned.

Dani stood a few yards away—staring.

Eyes wide. Arms slack. Silent.

Kara looked down.

The suit. Dust-caked boots. Loose hair.

Glasses in one hand. Sweater in the other.

She wasn’t even touching the ground.

Dani’s gaze dropped—S symbol, glasses, sweater.

Her jaw twitched. No words came.

Just the crackle of something still burning.

Then—A step forward. 

Her voice cut the air like glass.

“What the fuck?!”