Metropolis woke beneath a bruised sky, its steel arteries already pulsing with life. The rising sun caught the glass of skyscrapers, throwing long shadows across streets that throbbed like Times Square on overdrive. Horns blared, a symphony of impatience against the city's restless hum—sharp, metallic honks slicing through the air like jagged knives. Vendors shouted over steaming coffee carts, their voices rough and gravelly, swallowed by the concrete canyons, where the rich, bitter aroma of dark roast mingled with the greasy sizzle of breakfast sausages from nearby food trucks. Commuters surged through crosswalks, earbuds in, eyes down, lost in their own worlds, each one a tiny cog in the city's relentless machine, their hurried footsteps echoing off the pavement in a chaotic rhythm.
Billboards screamed LexCorp's latest tech, the neon glow flickering with a harsh electric buzz. Digital screens looped MNN headlines:
"SUPERMAN: SAVIOR OR MENACE?"
The words flickered, bold and accusatory, above the relentless tide of humanity, the screens' synthetic glow casting eerie blue hues on the faces below.
Down a narrow alley in Hob's Bay, brick walls bore the scars of a thousand whispered battles, the rough texture gritty under fingertips, damp with lingering morning dew. Graffiti—Superman's shield, some crowned with halos of spray paint that still carried the faint chemical tang of fresh aerosol, others slashed with defiant red X's—told a story of divided loyalties. A tattered newspaper, snagged on a rusty fire escape, skittered in the wind with a dry, papery rustle, its headline still legible through the rain stains that smelled of wet ink and urban grime:
"MONGUL'S RAMPAGE: SUPERMAN'S MERCY OR MISTAKE?"
A homeless man, huddled in the doorway of a boarded-up diner, clutched a faded Superman pin, the metal cool and worn smooth from endless fingering, muttering to himself in a hoarse whisper, eyes darting skyward as if the hero might descend at any moment. Hope and fear wrestled for dominance in his weary gaze, his breath fogging the chill air, carrying the sour scent of unwashed clothes and desperation.
At a newsstand, a teenage vendor with a crooked cap barked, "Daily Planet! Get your Planet! Superman debate heats up!" his voice cracking with youthful enthusiasm. He held up a stack of papers, the image of a brooding Superman on the front page, the fresh ink smudging slightly under his thumb, a testament to the city's conflicted heart.
A construction worker in a hard hat slapped coins on the counter with a metallic clink, his calloused hand leaving a greasy print on the newsprint—thick with the earthy smell of sawdust and sweat—as he scanned the front page.
"Guy's either gonna save us," he muttered, his voice rough with cynicism, breath reeking of stale cigarettes, "or burn the city down tryin'."
He melted back into the crowd, one more voice in the city's divided chorus, a tiny echo in the deafening chorus of Metropolis. Above it all, the golden globe of the Daily Planet loomed, a silent sentinel, its polished surface gleaming with reflected sunlight, a beacon of hope and a symbol of the city's complex relationship with the extraordinary. It was a silent witness to a Metropolis that couldn't decide what its hero was—or what it wanted him to be.
---
The city's roar softened as the scene shifted, the relentless pulse of Metropolis giving way to the quiet hum of a neighborhood on the edge of town. Maple trees, their leaves still dusted with the remnants of last night's rain, lined cracked sidewalks, droplets glistening like tiny jewels and releasing a fresh, earthy scent with every breeze. Modest houses leaned shoulder to shoulder, paint peeling in the morning light with a faint, flaky texture under the sun's warmth, their porches sagging under the weight of time and the unspoken stories within, creaking softly in the gentle wind. The air was cleaner here, scented with freshly cut grass—sharp and green—and the promise of a peaceful morning, undercut by the distant, muffled bark of a neighbor's dog.
One three-story home caught the first glimmers of dawn in its windows, the glass reflecting the nascent light like captured stars, cool to the touch. On the second floor, a boy's room stood frozen in the chaos of youth, a testament to the untamed energy that coursed within, the air thick with the faint musty scent of old comics and lingering boy-sweat.
Action figures staged epic battles across a cluttered desk, frozen in dramatic poses, their plastic surfaces smooth and slightly dusty. Comic books sprawled across the carpet—Sumo Slammers #12 lay open, its cover creased and dog-eared with a soft, papery give, the splash page mid-pose, a testament to a story unfinished, pages yellowed and carrying the inky aroma of adventure. A school bag slumped against a chair, zipper gaping with a metallic rasp, pencils and a dog-eared notebook spilling out, symbols of the day's potential, and the inevitable distractions, graphite smudges on the covers. A hoodie and a single sock draped lazily over a beanbag, monuments to the comfortable disarray of adolescence, the fabric soft and faintly scented with laundry detergent. On the nightstand, a digital clock glowed red, its numbers a constant, silent presence, humming faintly with electronic life.
On the bed, tangled in blankets that smelled of warm cotton and sleep, a ten-year-old boy slept, oblivious to the world outside his dreams. His brown hair stuck up in wild tufts, a cowlick defying gravity, a rebellious flag waving in the stillness, strands tickling his forehead. A golden stripe of sunlight, a fleeting visitor, slipped through the blinds, warming his cheek with a gentle, tingling heat. He stirred, mumbling nonsense in a drowsy slur, the echo of a forgotten dream escaping his lips, as the faint drone of a television drifted up from downstairs, a muted commentary on the world he was about to rejoin, static crackling softly.
"…Superman's choices cost lives," a woman's voice snapped, sharp and familiar from the MNN broadcast, cutting through the air like a knife. "He can't keep playing nurse and soldier!"
A man's voice pushed back, strained but earnest, laced with frustration. "You can't expect him to be perfect. He's trying—he's one of the few even trying."
The boy cracked one bleary green eye, a slow awakening to the realities of the day, crusty with sleep. The argument barely registered, a background hum to the symphony of his own body's demands—stomach growling faintly, muscles stiff from the night's repose. He yawned wide enough to pop his jaw with a sharp crack, the action rippling through his sleepy frame, rubbed his face with palms that left faint red marks, and let his gaze wander across the battlefield of toys and comics, searching for meaning in the familiar chaos, the carpet soft and slightly prickly under his bare feet. Then, his eyes snagged on the clock.
7:20 AM.
"Oh no." His voice rasped with the gravelly texture of sleep, panic flooding in, an unwelcome tide that tightened his chest. "The bus!"
He lurched upright, blankets tangling his legs in a suffocating knot, a clumsy dance of sleep and urgency, and toppled to the floor with a muffled thud that vibrated through the wooden boards. Kicking free with flailing limbs, he scrambled to his feet, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a drumbeat of panic echoing in his ears. Bathroom—now. He had a mission to complete.
He bolted across the hall, nearly wiping out on a stray comic, the cover art blurring in his peripheral vision with a slick slide underfoot, and shouldered the door open with a bang. Toothbrush in hand, plastic cool and familiar, he fired a reckless glob of mint gel into the sink, the fluorescent light bouncing off the shiny porcelain with a harsh glare. Bristles tore across his teeth in a frantic blur, the mint sharp and tingling on his tongue, foam flecking his chin in cool, bubbly specks, a testament to his haste. Thirty seconds—spit with a watery splash. Another thirty—spit again, the taste lingering. Done. He'd done his best.
He lunged for the shower, yanking the curtain with a metallic screech that grated like nails on chalk, a temporary barrier against the chaos. Cold water blasted down, a shock to his system, icy needles prickling his skin. He yelped, a high-pitched squeak echoing off the tiles, hopping from foot to foot, the sudden cold invigorating and punishing, raising goosebumps across his arms. Shampoo stung his eyes with a burning sting, tears welling instantly. Fingers raked through his hair—still a bird's nest, the cowlick a defiant salute to the ceiling, strands slick and heavy—a permanent reminder of his untamed nature.
No time.
He killed the tap with a sharp twist, water sluicing off him in rivulets that pattered onto the mat, a final shedding of sleep's clinging embrace, steam lingering in the air with a humid warmth, and burst out dripping, the morning already racing ahead of him, a relentless adversary, floor cool and slick under his wet feet.
Back in his room, chaos reigned, a familiar welcome, the air now carrying the fresh scent of shampoo.
White T-shirt—snagged from the floor, inside-out, fabric soft but slightly damp from the shower, but good enough in a pinch. Green cargo pants—yanked on over damp legs, the material clinging uncomfortably, one knee already grass-stained from yesterday's adventures, a silent record of adventures past, rough with dried mud. Shoes—where were the shoes? He dove under the bed, tossing action figures like grenades with plastic clatters, his hunt a chaotic dance, dust bunnies tickling his nose. Nothing. Socks mismatched—one striped with fuzzy threads, one with a tiny Puma logo—but he jammed his feet in anyway, the fabric bunching awkwardly, a concession to efficiency.
Door flung wide with a creak, he thundered downstairs, two steps at a time, wood groaning under his weight, nearly colliding with the banister, a testament to his sheer momentum, the air growing warmer with kitchen scents.
The television's drone shifted mid-sentence, volume rising slightly. Gone was the clipped anchor dissecting Superman's every move; in its place, a breathless field reporter, voice crackling with static that buzzed like angry bees, a harbinger of the day's ominous twist:
"—been multiple sightings of these… these strange creatures. They are supposedly winged, tearing through the city last night. Police have launched a manhunt for the so-called 'demons,' as dubbed by eyewitnesses—"
Ben skidded to a halt on the landing, water still dripping from his hair with cool plinks onto the floor, the droplets shimmering in the dim light. Someone had changed the channel, a sign of the world's shifting priorities. The remote lay abandoned on the coffee table beside a half-eaten bowl of cereal, milk congealing slightly, a mute observer. Onscreen, grainy phone footage looped: a hulking shadow with glowing eyes that pulsed red, leathery wings slicing the night with a whooshing flap, vanishing into smoke that smelled acrid even in imagination, a phantom terror.
His stomach dropped with a nauseous twist. Monsters. The word echoed in his head, heavy and unreal, a jarring disruption of his meticulously planned morning, the cereal's sweet scent now cloying. He tightened his grip on the toothbrush still clutched in his fist, plastic digging into his palm like a weapon, a shield against the unknown. The clock ticked mercilessly toward 7:25, a constant reminder of his dwindling time, each second a sharp click.
"Ben Tennyson! No running in the house!"
The voice cracked like a whip from the kitchen—warm, but edged with that mom-tone that could stop a freight train, carrying the sizzle of bacon in the background. It was the sound of rules, of order, of a loving, unyielding force that governed his world.
Ben froze mid-stride, dripping, toothbrush clenched like a dagger, the monster footage still flickering in his peripheral vision with eerie glows, a haunting counterpoint to his mundane concerns.
Sandra Tennyson stepped into the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel patterned with tiny chili peppers, the fabric soft and absorbent, a cheerful defiance to the looming storm. Her auburn hair was twisted into a messy bun, a casual crown, flour dusting one sleeve of her faded green cardigan like powdery snow, a testament to her morning's labor, carrying the yeasty scent of rising dough. She smiled—tired, automatic, the kind that came before coffee, lips curving with faint cracks from dry air, a promise of comfort in the face of chaos.
"Morning, sweetie. Sleep okay?"
"My shoes!" Ben blurted, eyes wild, the panic momentarily eclipsing the monsters on the screen, voice pitching high. "Mom, where are my shoes?"
Sandra blinked, then pointed upward with the towel, her gesture a silent, knowing guidance, the fabric fluttering softly. "Try the linen closet at the top of the stairs. You kicked them off when you were helping me with laundry yesterday, remember?"
Ben didn't remember. He was already moving, bare feet slapping the steps two at a time with sticky thuds, a whirlwind of motion. The linen closet door squeaked open on rusty hinges—towels, sheets soft and folded with lavender scent, and there, wedged between a stack of pillowcases, his scuffed green high-tops, leather worn and smelling of earth, a beacon of hope. He snatched them like treasure, a victory in the face of his own disorganization, laces tangled, and bolted back to his room, and flung the toothbrush onto the desk beside a half-melted action figure, plastic warped from sun exposure, a silent sacrifice to the altar of time.
Mirror check: hair still a war zone, a testament to his own untamed essence, reflected in the glass with a cool surface. He seized a comb, plastic teeth sharp, a futile weapon against the chaos, attacked a knot—ow, a sharp tug pulling at his scalp. Another tug—ouch, pain shooting like needles. Each yank drew a wince, tears pricking his eyes with salty sting. Hopeless. He tossed the comb with a clatter, a gesture of surrender, yanked open a drawer with a wooden scrape, and dragged a black beanie over the disaster zone, wool itchy but warm, a desperate measure of control, tugging it low until only a few rebellious spikes poked out the bottom, tickling his forehead, a visible rebellion.
This wasn't just a beanie. It was armor. A declaration. A shield against the day's onslaught.
Ben descended the stairs with deliberate calm, shoulders squared, beanie tugged low, the frantic sprint a memory, steps creaking softly. Now he just needed cereal and a clear shot at the door, to complete his mission. He angled for the kitchen counter, but Sandra's radar pinged instantly, her sixth sense honed by years of motherhood, the air thick with pancake batter aroma.
"Benjamin Tennyson, that beanie is not leaving this house on your head."
Her voice carried the gentle authority of a woman who'd wrangled plumbers, toddlers, and stubborn husbands alike, a voice that carried the weight of experience, warm like fresh bread. She caught his wrist before he could protest, her grip firm yet soft, redirecting him to the counter like a tugboat docking a speedboat, granite cool under his palms, a gentle, but firm, correction.
"Up."
Ben hopped onto the granite, legs swinging with a faint squeak, a captive audience, the surface chilled against his skin. His cheeks burned with a flush of heat, a blush of embarrassment and rebellion. He hated this part—being fussed over like a little kid—but he also didn't fight too hard. Not really.
Sandra disappeared into the pantry, a brief retreat with shuffling sounds, and returned with her "mom tools": a wide-tooth detangler comb, smooth and sturdy, a weapon against knots and tangles, and a palm-sized bottle of leave-in conditioner that smelled faintly of coconut and stubborn love, spritzing with a fine mist, a fragrant truce.
She spritzed the conditioner, the cool liquid soaking in with a subtle tingle, working it through the knots with the patience of a bomb tech, her touch both firm and gentle, fingers warm. Ben squirmed, a small protest, the comb gliding with soft pulls.
"I can do it myself—"
"Uh-huh. Hold still or I'll start braiding it." She eased the comb through a particularly vicious snarl, the sound of the comb's passage a soft, satisfying rip through tangles, a testament to the knots' tenacity.
Ben groaned, the sound rumbling in his throat. "You wouldn't."
"Try me."
Her hazel eyes glinted with the same mischief he'd inherited, a spark of shared DNA, warm and twinkling. For a second, he almost smiled, a shared secret, the scent of coconut lingering.
Sandra's voice softened as she worked, a lullaby against the turmoil of the morning, breath gentle on his hair. "Your dad'll be home in an hour. Night shift at the plant—some new LexCorp contract running triple overtime. He looked dead on his feet when he called."
Ben's chest tightened with a dull ache, a familiar squeeze. He pictured his dad, Carl, in the orange safety vest and steel-toe boots, sleeves rolled high, grease under his nails from tweaking conveyor belts that built satellite parts, the imagined smell of motor oil and coffee strong. Carl always smelled like motor oil and coffee, always had a dumb joke ready, a reservoir of warmth against the harsh realities of their lives.
Night shift again.
The thought sat heavy in his stomach, a lead weight, an unwelcome truth, twisting like indigestion. The plant paid the bills, sure, but it stole his dad in chunks—hours, days, whole weekends swallowed by LexCorp deadlines, the relentless grind of modern life.
Ben blinked hard, eyes stinging slightly, staring at the TV in the other room where the winged shadow replayed again and again with flapping sounds in his mind, a silent, unnerving loop. Monsters in the city. Superman under fire. His dad working himself to the bone.
And him—just a kid with messy hair and mismatched socks, late for the bus, a small casualty of the everyday war, feet fidgeting on the cool floor.
"There." Sandra stepped back, admiring her work with a soft exhale, a moment of triumph. The cowlick had finally surrendered into soft waves, the hair tamed, if only for a short time, strands silky now. "Perfection."
Ben leaned in and planted a quick kiss on her cheek—warm, flour-dusted with a powdery texture, smelling faintly of pancakes and home, syrupy sweet. "Thanks, Mom."
She lifted him down like he still weighed thirty pounds, her familiar strength in her arms, pressed a bowl of Cocoa Puffs into his hands, ceramic warm from the kitchen, milk already poured with a creamy slosh, her touch a silent act of love. "On the couch. Five minutes. Bus'll be here at 7:35 sharp."
Ben shuffled into the living room, spoon clinking against the bowl with metallic tings, the sound a small symphony, chocolate scent wafting up. The TV had flipped back to the monster footage—grainy wings rustling audibly in the audio, red eyes glowing, a scream cut short with a chilling echo, a taste of the encroaching chaos, static prickling the air. On the couch, knees drawn up, sat a black-haired kid demolishing a bowl of Frosted Flakes like it owed him money, crunching loudly, his own breakfast ritual. Hoodie too big, fabric baggy and soft, jeans faded at the knees with threadbare patches, a scar cutting through one eyebrow, rough and pale, a permanent reminder of a skateboard souvenir from when they were seven.
"You let me oversleep on purpose," Ben accused, flopping beside him with a cushion puff, their familiar dance beginning, the couch springs creaking. "You could've woken me."
The kid grinned, milk at the corner of his mouth glistening, a mischievous glint in his eyes, teeth flashing. "And miss the chance to watch you flap around like a headless chicken? No way, Tennyson."
Ben rolled his eyes but couldn't fight the smile tugging at his lips, a testament to their enduring bond, cheeks warming. Kevin Levin had crash-landed into the Tennyson household three years ago when Grandpa Max, forever chasing weird signals in that rust-bucket RV, asked Carl and Sandra to "keep an eye on the kid," a subtle plea for help. Kevin's dad was always "on a job," which usually meant weeks of silence, a lonely echo in the boy's life. Since the day they met at five—Kevin trading a busted Game Boy for Ben's last juice box, a true transaction of friendship, the cardboard tangy—they'd been inseparable. Kevin slept in the guest room that wasn't a guest room anymore, left toothpaste explosions in the bathroom with minty splatters, and knew exactly how to push Ben's buttons and patch them up after. Best friend, honorary brother, partner in every dumb scheme.
Ben shoveled cereal, the chocolate puffs crunchy and sweet on his tongue, eyes flicking between the TV monsters and the clock, a battle of competing priorities, milk dribbling slightly. 7:29. Four minutes to inhale, four minutes to sprint, four minutes until the day officially began, a tight schedule, spoon scraping the bowl.
Onscreen, the monster footage looped again—leathery wings with a textured flap, jagged teeth glinting, a car flipped like a toy with screeching metal in the audio, a sudden reminder of the world's fragility. Kevin crunched Frosted Flakes, his jaw a machine with sugary crunches, eyes narrowing, already processing the information.
"Supes'll squash those things before lunch," Ben declared, his mouth half-full, chocolate lingering, already dismissing the threat, his faith in Superman unshaken. "One heat-vision and zap they're done."
Kevin snorted, a sound of polite skepticism, breath warm. "Or maybe he dragged 'em here. Alien brings alien pals, right? Classic invasion playbook."
Ben's spoon froze mid-air, the cereal clinging to its surface with milky drops, a temporary monument to his sudden doubt. "No way. Superman's the good guy. He wouldn't—"
"Wouldn't what? Accidentally open a door?" Kevin smirked, a challenge in his eyes, lips curving. "Face it, Ben. Your boy scout's got baggage."
Ben shook his head, his loyalty unwavering, even in the face of reason, hair shifting under the beanie. "He saved my dad's plant from that gas leak last year. Good guys don't import monsters."
Kevin just shrugged, unconvinced, his skepticism a constant, a shadow of doubt, shoulders rising with a fabric rustle.
Thirty seconds later, bowls empty with final slurps, Ben was a blur, the machine in motion. He snatched both ceramic victims, dumped them in the sink with a clatter that echoed sharply, earning a distant "Gentle!" from the kitchen, water splashing faintly, and bolted upstairs, leaving the detritus of breakfast in his wake, stairs thumping. School bag—check, one strap torn with frayed threads, a casualty of his enthusiasm, but it'd hold, canvas rough. He thundered back down, nearly colliding with Sandra at the foot of the stairs, another near-miss, her cardigan brushing his arm.
She caught his shoulders, smoothing an invisible wrinkle with warm palms, her touch a grounding force. "Eyes on the teacher, fists in your pockets, home by the bell. Got it?"
"Got it, Mom." Ben planted a lightning-fast kiss on her cheek, a fleeting goodbye, skin soft.
Kevin lingered by the door, hands stuffed in his hoodie, a casual silhouette, pockets bulging slightly. "Later, Mrs. T."
"Be good, Kevin," she called, already turning back to the stove with a sizzle, already preparing for the day's relentless demands, a silent hero in her own right, spatula scraping.
The front door banged open with a woody thud, a finality to the act, a separation from the sanctuary. Morning air—crisp, edged with exhaust that tasted metallic on the tongue, a taste of the city's harsh beauty—slapped their faces, a welcome shock, wind carrying distant traffic hum. They jogged down the driveway, sneakers scuffing cracked pavement with gritty scrapes, past Mrs. Henderson watering petunias, the floral scent sweet and pungent, and Mr. Patel locking his bike with a metallic click, a tapestry of suburban life. At the corner, a weathered bench waited under a sagging bus-stop sign, wood splintery and cool, graffiti-tagged with a faded S shield, paint chipped, a symbol of hope and the unknown.
Ben dropped onto the bench, his bag a familiar companion between his knees, canvas heavy, a resting place for his hopes and dreams. "So you gotta check out this new comic, it's about a hero, Chrono Kid, the guy can see five minutes into the future. He can dodges bullets, aces pop quizzes, even knows when the cafeteria serves mystery meat."
Kevin leaned back, arms crossed with a hoodie rustle, the picture of nonchalant cool, wood creaking. "If we had that it would be our cheat codes for life. We'd never flunk math again."
"Or dodgeballs," Ben grinned, the thought igniting his imagination, teeth flashing. "Imagine this—'In three seconds, before that jerk , Cash throws left—you duck. That's gotta piss him off.'"
Ben was mid-gesture, his hands sketching an imaginary dodgeball matrix in the air with whooshing sounds, lost in the possibilities, when a voice drifted from behind the bench, cool and precise, like a librarian shushing a riot with clipped consonants, a discordant note in their reverie.
"Precognition would be an existential torment, doofus. Every punchline spoiled, every plot twist telegraphed. You'd watch yourself confess to a girl and get rejected in 4K before you even opened your mouth. The thrill of risk evaporates, and life becomes rehearsal. You'd stagnate in predictive purgatory."
Ben whipped around, startled by the intrusion, bench shifting, and saw the one person he disliked the most, his cousin.
Gwendolyn "Gwen" Tennyson stood there, her presence a precise counterpoint to their chaos, sneakers planted firmly on the pavement. Orange hair in a high ponytail that caught the sun like copper wire, swaying slightly in the breeze, freckles sharp across her nose like cinnamon sprinkles, green eyes narrowed in perpetual judgment, a constant assessment. Her backpack—neat, color-coded folders peeking from the flap with crisp edges, a symbol of her organized approach to life—hung square on both shoulders, straps adjusted perfectly. A pleated skirt rustling softly, white blouse crisp and starched, and sneakers so clean they looked photoshopped, soles unscuffed, completed the picture of someone who'd never lost a spelling bee.
Ben and Gwen had been locked in a cold war since diapers: she corrected his grammar with a sharp tongue, he hid her spellbooks (back when she was in her "magic phase"); while she aced tests, he aced detentions. Yet somehow Kevin remained Switzerland, charming them both into truce.
Kevin lifted a lazy hand, fingers wiggling. "Morning, Gwen."
"Kevin," she nodded, voice even, then turned the full force of her stare on Ben, eyes piercing. "Still hallucinating victories, I see."
Ben puffed up, chest expanding. "I beat you to the stop! First one here—champion of the park shortcut!"
Gwen's expression shifted to pitying, the way one regards a puppy proud of chewing its own tail, lips quirking faintly. "I arrived ten minutes ago, genius. Took a walk around the block to burn the extra time. Your 'victory lap' was me waiting for the bus like a civilized human."
Ben's grin collapsed. His stomach sank with a hollow drop, heat rising in his ears like a flush of fever. Kevin's smile widened, slow and savoring, teeth gleaming, as the wind left Ben's sails with an almost audible whoosh.
For a moment, the three of them sat in the crisp morning air—siblings, rivals, friends—morning dew scent lingering, while the city beyond stirred with rumors of monsters, distant sirens wailing faintly. The bus hadn't arrived yet, but the day already felt like it was teetering on the edge of something bigger.