Greg Cox - Man of Steel

He took a deep breath to steel himself.

I can do this, he thought. Jor-El says I can do this.

Throwing caution to the wind—and possibly himself, as well—he ran toward the ledge and leapt over the gaping chasm, landing on the other side in a single bound. His heart filled with exhilaration and he repeated the feat, again and again, each leap propelling him higher and higher, until he was practically flying.

Jor-El’s words urged him on.

“You will give the people of Earth an ideal to strive toward.”

But he was just getting warmed up. Almost flying wasn’t good enough, not any more. Balling his fists, he threw his arms out in front of him and launched himself up, up, and away—into the open air.

Despite his enthusiasm, it was an ungainly flight. Screaming out loud, like a passenger on a roller coaster, he corkscrewed through the sky, losing control. Powerful wind currents buffeted him.

He began to lose altitude.

“They will race behind you. They will stumble. They will fall.”

A snowy slope seemed to rush up to meet him. He crashed into the side of a mountain, setting off an avalanche. His body bounced and skidded across the rocky ground and over gaping crevasses. Momentum carried him for miles. Unlucky boulders were pulverized by the impact.

Finally he came to rest at the bottom of a freshly carved crater. The ravaged mountainside looked as though a meteor had hit it. Wincing, he rose to his feet and brushed off the snow and powdered stone dusting his skin and uniform. A quick inspection revealed that the Kryptonian skinsuit was just as durable as Jor-El had promised—his crash landing hadn’t even scratched it, so that it appeared good as new. Even the flowing red cape was still in one piece.

Clark chose to accept that as a positive omen.

I actually flew, he realized. Not very well, but…

He couldn’t wait to try again. So he turned his eyes skyward once more, drawing strength from the golden daylight. Then, without hesitation, he hurled himself back into the sky. Ice and rock shattered beneath the force of his leap.

“But in time, they will join you in the sun, Kal,” Jor-El had said. “In time, you will help them accomplish wonders.”

The last son of Krypton soared above his adopted world, higher than any bird or plane. Slowly getting the hang of it, he flew smoothly through the sky, gazing in awe at the Arctic wilderness that now lay so very far below. For perhaps the first time, he felt comfortable using his unique abilities, as though he was finally doing what he was always meant to.

Tears stung his eyes. No longer earthbound, he jetted across the planet at more than supersonic speed. He could go anywhere now, do anything, be anyone.

Even a superman.

Leaving the barren polar region behind, he zipped across the ocean to Kenya, where he cruised above a grassy savannah, barnstorming a herd of stampeding zebras. He whooped in delight as the hot African sun filled him with speed and energy. He waved good-bye to the animals as he rocketed back up into the jet stream, heading west toward America.

Miles sped by in seconds. A cool ocean spray pelted his face as he skimmed across the Atlantic—by focusing, he could allow himself to feel it, to enjoy it. The salty air was fresh and invigorating, adding to his exuberance. If only his friends the humpback whales—not to the mention the captain and crew of the Debbie Sue —could see him now!

Reaching North America faster than any commercial jet, he took an aerial tour of Monument Valley, Utah. Testing himself, he wove through the rusty limestone buttes and mesas jutting up from the desert floor. His fist stretched out in front to control his flight, he banked and rolled like a fighter jet. He took a corner too quickly and clipped the edge of a towering rock formation, sending a loose boulder plummeting toward the cacti that grew on the desert floor.

Oops.

He dived after the dislodged rock, catching it with one hand before it hit the ground. He placed it safely on top of a convenient mesa before continuing on his way, climbing higher and higher into the sky. A thick layer of clouds hung before him, but he punched through the misty barrier and emerged into the sunlight.

The bright, yellow sunlight.

How do you find someone who’s spent a lifetime covering his tracks?

Lois began back at Ellesmere, where she showed around a blurry surveillance photo of “Joe.” The military personnel wouldn’t speak to her, naturally, but at least she got Jed Eubanks to talk a little bit about his former employee.

Off the record, of course.

Returning to Metropolis, she looked for the urban legends that had sprung up in the mystery man’s wake. A wild story, posted on the internet, led her to a trucker bar in Yellowknife, where a sweet young waitress named Chrissy shared an amazing story about a scruffy young busboy—and an eighteen-wheeler that got reduced to scrap under mysterious circumstances. The rig had belonged to a trucker called Ludlow, but he hung up on Lois every time she got hold of him.

Even so, it was a clue.

One of many.

The threads were tenuous, to be sure, and it was difficult to tell fact from fiction. Friends of friends of friends claimed to have seen “Joe,” or somebody who looked a lot like him. Lois followed every lead, all the way to the port of Dutch Harbor where the captain and crew of a crabbing boat—the Debbie Sue —told her about an enigmatic young greenhorn who apparently had been washed overboard.

It had happened around the time an indestructible “burning angel” had rescued several endangered roughnecks from an exploding oil rig. Captain Heraldson, the skipper of the boat, conceded that the missing greenhorn might be the man in the photo Lois had showed him.

His engineer, Byrne, was sure of it.

As she worked her way back through the years, a profile began to emerge, albeit a murky one. For some, he was a guardian angel. For others, a cipher… a ghost who never quite fit in.

Like the one who used to live in Smallville.

Lois drove her rental car down the town’s main drag. When compared to Metropolis, the place certainly lived up to its moniker. A water tower bearing the name of the tiny rural community was the closest thing they had to a skyscraper. A large American flag was painted on the side of the local VFW. Pickup trucks were parked in front of the Sears department store. Old men sat on benches, watching the world go by. A banner advertised an upcoming church bake sale.

A strolling couple even stopped to clean up after their bulldog.

It seemed nice enough, as hick towns went, but all in all, it struck her as an unlikely home for the laser-eyed man of steel she had encountered in the Arctic. She would have expected him to come from Roswell, at least.

Here’s hoping this isn’t a dead end, she thought. I’ve come a long way to leave empty handed.

She pulled into a gas station to refill her tank and ask for directions. The friendly attendant pointed her to the pancake house down the road. Lois didn’t feel like pancakes at the moment, but she parked her car and went in search of the restaurant’s manager. He was a round-faced redhead in his early thirties.

“Pete Ross?” she asked. “I’d like to talk to you about an accident that occurred when you were young. A school bus that went into the river.”

No surprise, he remembered the incident vividly, as well as the quiet, reclusive classmate who had saved his life.

A boy named Clark Kent.

The Kent family farm lay just outside the town, at the end of a long dirt road, and was surrounded by acres of cornfields. From the looks of things, the place had seen better days. The barns and silo needed painting. The blades of a rickety windmill rotated slowly in the breeze. A swing hung from a branch of an old maple tree. Chickens clucked in a pen.