….
Stephen raised one finger to where his lips would be beneath the mask, a small gesture. A request.
Please don't mind me.
Max nodded quickly, almost frantically.
He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, adrenaline flooding his system like he had just run a marathon.
The man beside Stephen, which he still wasn't about to identify - leaned in slightly and whispered something that sounded like a complaint.
Something about 'this is why I told you not to come' and 'you are too damn famous' and 'this was meant to happen'.
Stephen's response was too quiet to hear, but it seemed to settle the matter.
For now, at least.
Max turned back to the screen, still reeling.
Stephen Hawking was sitting next to him.
Stephen Hawking.
There was absolutely no way he could focus on the movie now.
No possible way, his brain was too busy screaming, his heart was pounding too hard, every nerve ending was aware that his childhood hero was within arm's reach—
But then.
Something on screen caught his attention.
Just for a second.
Just a single image - a young boy standing in a Kansas wheat field, silhouetted against a sunrise that looked like hope rendered in gold and amber.
And Stephen's voice continuing:
"Not the one I gave life to, but the one I chose to raise."
The image changed.
The boy, older now, underwater, held a school bus above his head while children inside screamed and pressed their faces against the windows.
Max's attention sharpened.
The editing was precise.
The music is subtle but building.
The emotion in Stephen's voiceover pulls him forward into the story.
"The boy who fell from the stars..."
Fire. A spaceship embedded in scorched earth. An infant crying.
"...and became more human than most humans I have known."
Teenage Clark and his father, Jonathan Kent, played by Stephen, standing on a porch.
The golden hour light makes everything feel like memory, like nostalgia, like home.
And Max forgot.
That Stephen Hawking was sitting next to him, that he had come here specifically to see his favorite actor on screen.
Anything except what was unfolding in front of him, didn't matter to him at that point.
The film wasn't just good, it was a pure feast.
Every frame felt purposeful and performance was grounded in truth.
The colors were vivid, not garish or artificial, but alive in a way that reminded him of comic books from his childhood.
The Kansas scenes glowed with golden warmth that made you feel the summer heat. The blue of the sky was the kind of blue that only existed in memory and dreams.
But it wasn't the colors that grabbed him.
It was the story.
And Stephen's performance as Jonathan Kent…
Max felt his throat tighten during the argument scene.
Felt his chest constrict when Jonathan said 'Maybe' and immediately regretted it.
A boy with impossible power, trying to figure out where he belonged.
A father who loved him enough to be terrified of what the world would do if it knew what he was. The weight of secrets kept for protection. The cost of being different.
Max watched young Clark save the school bus, watched the other kids' parents react with fear instead of gratitude, and watched Jonathan Kent explain why secrets were necessary.
He watched teenage Clark argue with his father, the frustration of having all that power and being told never to use it.
And then, the scene that made Max completely forget he was sitting in a theater at all.
The tornado.
Jonathan ran back to save the trapped family while Martha screamed for him to return.
The dog.
Jonathan's leg caught.
The car lifting.
That moment, father and son making eye contact across an impossible distance. Jonathan shaking his head. Don't. Not yet.
Max felt his throat tighten.
On screen, Clark's face showed everything, the rage, the devastation, the helpless fury of having all the power in the world and being forbidden to use it.
Martha pulled him down, both of them screaming as Jonathan disappeared into the storm.
The tears came without permission, sliding down Max's face in the darkness.
He wasn't alone. He could hear sniffles throughout the theater. Someone behind him was openly crying.
But Max wasn't crying because of manipulation or cheap emotional tricks.
He was crying because the film meant something.
Because Jonathan Kent's sacrifice was about a father protecting his son at the cost of his own life, and that felt real and true and devastating.
Superman's first instinct in every fight was to save people, not just defeat enemies, and that felt like actual heroism instead of spectacle.
The film understood that hope wasn't naïve, it was a choice you made despite knowing the cost.
Max realized his hands were gripping the armrests.
When had that happened?
Stephen Hawking's performance…
Max had seen dozens of Hawking performances over the years. Award-winning roles in dramas and thrillers. But this, this was something different.
Every line reading carried layers of meaning. The way Jonathan looked at Clark held twenty years of love and fear and hope.
The film continued, but something fundamental had shifted.
He didn't watch many superhero movies but he could tell... this might be one of a kind.
This was a film about loss, about choice, about the weight of power and the meaning of sacrifice.
He couldn't remember the last time a movie had made him cry.
The Metropolis battle sequence erupted on screen, spectacular destruction, yes, but grounded in human cost.
Superman wasn't just fighting Zod.
He was actively trying to save people while fighting. Pushing buildings away from crowds.
Taking hits he could have avoided to protect civilians.
Every choice had weight.
Max watched the final confrontation, watched Superman make the impossible choice, watched him stand among the ruins realizing what being a hero would actually cost.
The ending played, Clark at Jonathan's grave, reading Martha's letter, Stephen's voice returning one last time with words about pride and choice and becoming who you were meant to be.
The final voiceover - "I am so proud of you, Clark" - landed with such devastating sincerity that Max felt actual tears forming.
"Not because of what you can do, but because of who you chose to be."
The screen faded to black.
Max shifted in his seat as the final credits rolled.
Around him, the theater was emptying - but not all of them were standing, confusing him.
…why aren't they moving?
And that when–
The rolling credits stopped.
The score changed abruptly.
Soft. Melancholic. A piano piece that sounded like goodbye.
That's when he remembered.
The infamous end credit scene from this director his friend had bragged about.
Then—
The music cut out.
Complete silence descended into the hall, making Max sit up straighter.
The screen stayed black for one second. Two. Three.
Then: a sound.
A heartbeat. Human.
Steady. Too steady. Like a metronome pretending to be alive.
A voice came, with a warm and achingly familiar Kansas accent:
"You know what I miss most? The smell of rain on summer dirt. That moment right before the storm breaks."
Max's breath caught.
That voice.
The screen faded in slowly:
A small apartment. Modest. Somewhere urban - metropolis, probably. Evening light through cheap blinds casting everything in amber.
A figure stood at the window, back to camera.
Flannel shirt. The SAME flannel shirt Jonathan had worn in the barn scene. The one Clark had kept.
Max's hands gripped the armrests.
No. No, he died. They saw him die.
The voice continued. "I have been... away. Long time. Too long."
The figure's hand came up, touched the window glass. The gesture was tender. Familiar. Exactly how Jonathan had touched Clark's shoulder in that scene where they talked about fear–
"But I'm back now."
Max's mind raced. Flashback? Vision? Dream sequence? But this didn't feel like any of those. This felt like after. Like now. Like real.
The figure turned.
Someone in the row behind Max gasped.
It was Jonathan Kent - played by Stephen Hawking.
Exactly as they remembered him. Same age. Same face. Same crow's feet around his eyes from years of squinting at Kansas sun. The same slight hunch in his left shoulder from an old tractor accident mentioned in one line of dialogue.
But.
But something was off.
Max couldn't name it. Just a wrongness. The way he moved maybe - like someone doing a perfect imitation without understanding why humans move imperfectly.
He continued. "And I think it's time I visited my son."
He walked across the apartment. Three steps. Each one exactly the same length and rhythm.
.
….
[To be continued...]
★─────⇌•★•⇋─────★
Author Note:
Visit Patreon to instantly access +1 chapter for free, available for Free Members as well.
For additional content please do support me and gain access to +13 more chapters.
--> [email protected]/OrgoWriters