October 4, 1949
Washington D.C.
Captain Hal Jordan reread the document slowly, trembling from head to toe. He couldn't believe what he was reading. The document appeared to have been clumsily typed on a yellowed, overly thin sheet of paper. The ink was purple—different from most of the documents he was reviewing.
Two relatively blurry photos were attached to the left side of the paper. The lower photograph was unmistakable—recognized by everyone—the Woman of Steel, the Woman of Tomorrow, the Maid of Might, the Protector of Earth, the Caped Wonder, the Last Daughter of Krypton, the Princess of Krypton, Mrs. Kala-El… Superwoman. A half-body shot, soaring through the sky. The other photo depicted a woman in her late twenties, very beautiful, with a somewhat melancholic gaze hidden behind big round glasses and dressed in an office suit that struck a balance between elegance and austerity. Despite the glasses and her neatly tied-up hair, the resemblance was undeniable.
With growing distress, he reread the document once more.
CLARA JOSEPHINE KENT
Born February 28, 1918 in Smallville, Kansas. On the same date a meteor shower struck the same county and other parts of northeastern Kansas. SOURCE: Report 47/D/19 and Kansas City Observatory report March 19,1918 (forwarded to Mr. Luthor as report K27/18).
Parents were farmers. No details of significance. Athletic and dancing ability. Good academic record. No college education. Nurse's aide and academic assistant at Smallville Elementary School between 1937 and 1940. Unknown whereabouts between 1940 and 1941. Enlisted as a nurse in the Navy, December 1941, Anchorage, Alaska. Stationed in the Coral Sea, Guadalcanal, Papua-New Guinea, and the Philippines. Present on USS SHUSTER during Japanese attack. Unknown whereabouts between December 1944 and September 1945. SOURCE: Service record attached to report 47/D/19.
Metropolis. Hired September 3, 1945, as assistant reporter to Major Louis Lane. August 29, 1945, rented in Yorkville. Arrival date unknown. Her articles focus on crime and police issues, refugees, civil rights, and the military-industrial complex. Seems to work completely independently of Major Louis Lane. Regularly attends Manhattan Friends Meeting (NYYM Quakers). Registered as an independent voter through a Metropolis Liberal Party campaign. March 1946 (undated, attached to report 47/D/19).
PHISICAL DESCRIPTION: Brunette, wavy hair. Athletic build. Estimated height: 5ft 10 in. Blue eyes. Eyeglasses.
SUPERWOMAN/KALA-EL
Allegedly a native of Krypton (Orion belt?). First public appearance October 1, 1945. First sightings in Metropolis since September 1945. SOURCE: Initial report S-S-01.
OTHER EARLIER POSSIBLE SIGHTINGS:
Rescue from train wreck in Nemaha, March 18, 1939. SOURCE: Initial Report S-S-01.
Flying Creature in Alaska. Sightings Spring & Summer 1945. SOURCE: Initial Report S-S-01.
Nurse with cardboard mask cauterizing wounds with heated eyes on Guadalcanal. SOURCE: Report 48/3/B, 48/7/A
Woman covered with veil but wearing nurse's uniform, able to jump several meters and carry several people. Papua New Guinea and the Philippines. SOURCE: Report 48/3a/C, 47/1/A, 48/4/B
Miracle of the USS SHUSTER. Hospital ship stays afloat despite two torpedoes. December 17, 1944. SOURCE: Navy Report 2872/16-1945, Report 48/2/A, 48/2/B
Believed to be living in Metropolis.
PHISICAL DESCRIPTION: Brunette, wavy hair. Athletic build. Estimated height: 5ft 10 in. Blue eyes.
The coincidences in the texts, the uncanny resemblance of their features—it all crowded his mind. It couldn't be. Could that almost anonymous journalist and Superwoman be one and the same? The dates, the places, the two photographs... A defiant kind of bravery seemed to lurk behind the melancholic gaze framed by the journalist's round glasses.
What to do?
***
Captain Hal Jordan did not hate Superwoman. If anything, he hated his job.
Regardless of the fact that she had likely saved all of humanity from those near-faceless invaders in Hudson Bay—the ones who claimed to come from her planet—back in 1946, three years ago, an eternity ago... Regardless of that, he owed her his life. Two years earlier, he had been sent on an emergency flight to Florida with another team of pilots—naturally, at the request of Colonel Henshaw. A storm had hit. Zero visibility. He wasn't the one flying, but it didn't matter. He knew they were going to die. They couldn't reach land; fuel was running out.
Then, through the rain and lightning, he saw it—a long red cape billowing outside his window, and beneath it, a familiar cascade of wavy black hair. She took control of the aircraft with unshakable precision and guided them to solid ground. She landed them safely and vanished before he could see her face. But it was obvious. It was her.
Now, before him lay the documents on Mercy Graves—Lex Luthor's secretary. She had been arrested weeks earlier, after Luthor's death and the attack of that monstrous being now called Doomsday. Defeated, of course, by the Woman of Steel. There were more documents, he knew that much. But he and his three-person team had been given only this pile—the contents of Mercy Graves's safe. Lex Luthor's own safe was simply empty.
Hal Jordan worked for Colonel Hank Henshaw now. Or was he more of a prisoner? He functioned, for all intents and purposes, as a personal secretary within naval aviation intelligence—or so they had told him. The truth was, he worked in a tiny, insulated unit. Recruiting and investigating test pilots. Transporting documents from one military base to another, including to that so-called "secret" facility in Nevada—whose existence the press had already exposed. Reviewing and responding to correspondence. Photographing schematics he didn't understand and never asked about. Always under the unblinking, menacing gaze of Colonel Henshaw.
Henshaw.
Hal Jordan felt like his captive.
Shortly before the war, his best friend, Alan Scott—then a civil engineer in the defense department—had introduced him to the colonel. My friend Hal is a real ace in the air, the best pilot I know, Alan had said. Hal had always known the truth about Alan, nearly from the moment they met. Henshaw was a little older than them. And Hal never suspected the true nature of Alan and Henshaw's relationship—until he saw them once, in the dim light, simply looking at each other. He knew Alan well enough to understand.
He did not feel disgust or contempt toward people like them—only a vague unease and the quiet fear that Alan might be found out. But knowing Henshaw's secret, too, unsettled him. And Henshaw knew that he knew. That was why he kept Hal close, why he needed to keep him under control.
They fought well together in the war. Same squadron. Under his orders. Henshaw had never said a word about Alan, never hinted at anything. Alan had died in that horrific train accident back in '42. His body was never found. Henshaw had reacted with staggering violence. Now, Hal worked for that same man—young, ambitious, authoritarian, relentless. Drowning in a flood of chaotic intelligence reports about aliens and grotesque experiments.
He hated it. And he hated Henshaw. Because he knew, deep down, that Henshaw was not a good man.
Captain Hal Jordan couldn't take the paper out of the room. Every member of the small team was thoroughly searched upon leaving—no documents, no notes, nothing could be smuggled out. He began tearing up the yellowed sheet with its strange purple ink, the two damning photographs. He crumpled the fragments, stuffed them into his mouth, and swallowed. The paper felt like poison going down. He combed through the rest of the documents. Nothing else mentioned Superwoman. Nothing else hinted at her secret identity. That night, he made a decision. He would go to Metropolis. He would ask for a few days of leave—Henshaw was oddly flexible about that. And he would call Carol Ferris.
He missed her. And he was finally ready to accept her offer.
***
Hal Jordan spent two days lingering around the Daily Planet. Afraid he was being followed. Hours passed as he sat in the building's lobby, scanning the faces that came and went. He searched for her. He needed to see her. He had no intention of speaking to her, only of looking at her—of seeing her in person, of confirming her existence. It was of extraordinary importance, though he wasn't entirely sure why.
At the end of the second day, he spotted her.
It was her.
The same eyes.
Clara Kent stepped alone out of the elevator, taller than he had imagined. The almost divine figure from the photographs—the blurred vision framed by the cockpit window—was now wrapped in a blue office suit, a hat perched atop her head. Her glasses were smaller than the ones in the photo. The disguise was clever, but to him, who believed he knew the truth, it was unmistakable. She was the Woman of Tomorrow.
The woman smiled warmly as she parted ways with her colleagues, but the moment she was alone, a shadow of sorrow crossed her face. Hal followed her at a distance along the avenue. She didn't walk quickly. The woman stopped at a newsstand and bought a film magazine. Then, a bouquet of flowers. Did she live alone? The document had said she did.
She headed toward the subway. He was too close now. At the entrance, a boy of ten or eleven sat on the ground, asking for change for a ticket. Clara Kent paused beside him, knelt down, and spoke softly. She placed a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder and led him inside. Hal followed. She bought the boy a ticket and kissed his cheek before turning away with sudden resolve.
For a fleeting moment, Hal thought the nervous yet determined look in her eyes was meant for him—but no. It was directed at nothing. At empty space.
Then, she ran. Hal couldn't keep up. She was gone. Seconds later, as he emerged from the subway, he caught sight of it in the sky—a red and blue blur streaking through the clouds.
He had been right to destroy that document.
***
Hal Jordan returned to Washington by train. The secret weighed on him, but he would bury it deep within himself—alongside the truth about Alan and Henshaw. He had been trained for this in aviation, to withstand interrogation, to suppress information even under torture.
Carefully, he rehearsed how he would explain it to Colonel Henshaw. That he wanted to go back to being a test pilot. That he needed to live near Carol Ferris. That his career in aviation intelligence meant nothing to him. That he would resign. That he would always be grateful, always at Henshaw's disposal, even if he worked for Ferris Aircraft. That the documents from Mercy Graves contained nothing of significance.
He could only hope that Mrs. Graves—the woman who, according to rumors, refused to say a word about his late boss—would keep the secret as well.
He would go west. California. Nevada. He would be free. He would fly again. And Carol would be there.
March 18, 1939
Smallville, Kansas
The cold days seemed to have passed. A radiant sun streamed through the windows, filling the room with warmth. Clara had known since childhood that she was almost indifferent to heat and cold. What she truly loved was light—she felt more alive, more joyful when the sun shone… and stronger. What had once been a source of wonder, something that made her feel special, had also been a cause of frustration, confusion, and, at times, sheer horror. Now, it only brought her pain. She turned away from the window. The pain was sharp, relentless.
Two weeks before her birthday, she returned to the barn's basement—to that strange, metallic object her parents had told her was the vessel that had brought her to Smallville. She wept bitterly as she thought of her father. Three years since he passed away. In a fit of anguish, she struck the thing. And then, a metal sphere inside transformed into something else—some kind of machine, a mechanical being. It spoke first in an unfamiliar language before shifting to her own, revealing the truth she had never imagined. It told her where she came from, who her real parents were. The revelation was unbearable.
Clara saw images—two figures dressed in strange, regal garments, reminiscent of something ancient, almost Egyptian, yet more alien. They spoke to her in her own tongue, calling her by a name that sounded distant and foreign—Kalah-El… or something like that. They spoke of a place called Krypton. She couldn't take it anymore. Enraged, she lashed out, pounding her fists against the machine until it closed in on itself, shrinking back into a lifeless metal sphere. She wept bitterly in her mother's arms. And then she made a mistake.
Pete, her fiancé, had always known she was different—special. But he had never truly grasped just how different. Only a handful of people did: her parents, her uncle Seamus, Dr. Baxter, Lana… Pete had spent years by her side—classmates, friends, three years as a couple, two months engaged. They were just kids, barely 21. They never should have gotten engaged.
He couldn't handle her confession. Clara had tried to show him, to share her secret, to demonstrate what she could do. But the look in his eyes said it all—fear, horror, nearly madness. Pete saw her as something unnatural. She was. He tried to hide it, tried to pretend for a few days, but the unease was too obvious.
So she broke off the engagement before he could. It hurt, but she told everyone that he had ended things—that they were too young, that they didn't understand each other. Pete accepted the excuse with quiet relief. Lana, however, distanced herself in a way that stung more than Clara had expected. The three of them had always been inseparable—Clara, Pete, and Lana. Now, that bond was shattered.
In Smallville, the reaction was mixed. Some showed her kindness, even esteem. Others whispered behind her back—calling her reckless, unfeminine, an unsuitable wife. They gossiped about how she had refused to go to university after her father's death, despite having enough money for at least two years, and how she could have paid for the rest by mortgaging the farm.
Laura Baxter, daughter of Dr. Baxter and the school nurse, noticed the sorrow in Clara's eyes and offered a tentative smile.
"It's a beautiful day, Clara. If you'd like, we could go for a walk later. The Grahame brothers just got back from Kansas City!"
"Oh, I can't. I must tutor the third graders in math. I also have a class later at the parish school."
Clara forced a smile, appreciating Laura's kindness but unwilling to be seen with any young, unmarried man—not now. Besides, she truly did have lessons to teach. She wasn't certified to work at the public school, but she spent her afternoons tutoring at the parish school and the town hall.
"Oh, right! No worries, another time." Laura nodded, then shifted to work mode. "Alright, let's go over the vaccination list. We'll get the official records in two weeks—measles and tetanus. The kids are already talking about it. I have a list of those whose parents have raised objections or who have medical concerns. We need to review it with the principal and my father. Would you mind typing it up?"
"Of course."
Laura flipped through her notebook while Clara's fingers moved swiftly over the typewriter keys.
"You know, Clara," Laura mused after a moment, "You're really good with that typewriter. Have you ever considered working at the town hall or over at Potter's factory? You'd make a lot more than you do here—or as a tutor."
Clara shrugged. "This is fine. I think if I work five years as a nurse's assistant, I might be able to shorten the practical training and just go to Kansas City to take the exams. It'd be easier for me and my mother—less money, and I could stay in Smallville."
Laura shook her head. She didn't know Clara Kent quite well, but she had genuine affection for her. She admired her maturity, intelligence, and quiet strength—though perhaps she was too stubborn, and utterly uninterested in vanity or flirtation. That was probably why that fool, Pete Ross, had let her go.
A sudden commotion outside the school's administration building pulled them from their conversation. A thunderous mix of voices rose from the street below. Clara, despite herself, picked up every word in an instant. She tried not to use that unnatural ability—the one that allowed her to hear things from impossible distances, even whispers. It felt invasive, unacceptable. But sometimes, it simply happened.
"Hey! We're trying to work here!" Laura shouted, half-exasperated, half-amused. "This is a primary school—there are children in class! What's with all this racket?"
She strode to the window, and Clara followed. Below, nearly a dozen men had gathered alongside three cars and a truck.
"Ma'am, forgive us," one of the men called up urgently. "We're heading north, near Nemaha—there's about to be a disaster!"
"What the hell is going on?" Laura demanded, her amusement vanishing.
"The Neuchatel Railroad Bridge—it must've collapsed, or at least part of it! Vincent Jensen's cousin called us—he lives nearby. There's a train coming from Kansas City, a big one, always passes around noon. We have to stop it! It's packed with people, ma'am, always is. We need to get there in time."
"We're closer than the folks in Nemaha, but they're on their way too. There aren't many people in Neuchatel—God, they'll do what they can, but if it's one of those modern locomotives, they might not even listen to them."
"If that train derails, it's going to be a damn catastrophe," someone muttered. "There must be at least two or three hundred people on board."
Laura bit her lip, trying to steady the men with encouraging words. Then, instinctively, she turned toward Clara—But Clara was gone.
Her glasses and purse sat abandoned beside the typewriter.
***
Clara was running. She ran faster than anyone could imagine, cutting across fields at an impossible speed for a human. She had once covered twenty miles between her farm and the town in barely six minutes. If she leaped high, pushed herself harder, she could go even faster. She darted through crops, weaved through trees, vaulted over fences.
To anyone who might catch a glimpse of her, she was nothing more than a blur—another one of those strange, fleeting visions whispered about in Smallville. She hadn't hesitated. She couldn't hesitate. She could reach the bridge before the men in their cars. She was stronger. If she climbed onto the locomotive, she could warn the engineers, plead with them to stop. But would they listen? Would they see her face and take her seriously? Would she be strong enough to stop the locomotive herself? She had never tested herself against something like this.
Doubt gnawed at her as Clara ran. Why did I do this? She had never revealed herself so openly before. Her father had warned her countless times. But when she heard there were hundreds of lives at stake, she had acted without thinking. Instinct had taken over. She adjusted her path, veering north. Closer to the northwest. The railway line to Smallville came from the east. If she got turned around, she'd lose precious time.
Clara kept running, rehearsing what she would say to the train engineer. Then she sharpened her hearing, forcing herself to pick up even the faintest sounds. It took nearly two minutes, but at last, she heard it—the steady, rhythmic churning of a locomotive. The sound came from the north-northwest, not the east. Good. It wasn't the Smallville train. It had to be the Nemaha line. She ran toward the sound, praying she wasn't too late. Then she saw it. A massive locomotive, older in design—easier to board. Twelve cars. Four cargo, eight passenger. She focused her vision, seeing through the metal and wood, counting the people inside. At least two hundred. Please, God, let me help them.
Clara sprinted toward the train, and with a single leap, she hurled herself onto the locomotive's side. Metal groaned beneath her impact, the door denting inward as she grabbed hold. Inside, three engineers turned in shock
"Please, open up! Stop the train! Stop the train! The Neuchatel Bridge has collapsed—please, you have to stop!"
The roar of the locomotive drowned out her voice. The engineers inside didn't dare speak; they couldn't hear her. All they saw was something—someone—slamming against the door, trying to tear it open.
Clara struck again, harder this time, but still holding back. She didn't want to hurt them. The metal nearly gave way. Then, one of the men, eyes wide with terror, pulled out a revolver and fired. Gunshots rang through the cab. Some bullets slipped through the warped door and ricocheted, bouncing harmlessly off Clara's body.
She froze. For the first time in her life, she watched, stunned, as bullets flattened and rebounded from her skin. She had no time to process the shock. Turning, she focused on her vision, scanning ahead. They were close—just two, maybe three miles from the ravine. The men from Smallville never would have made it in time. A dozen figures stood at the bridge's entrance, a truck parked hastily across the tracks. The bridge—wood and brick, supported by three arches—had collapsed at the last span.
Would those men be enough to stop the train? Inside the cab, the engineers were panicked, too afraid to react rationally. There was no time to explain. No time to convince them.
Clara leapt from the side of the locomotive and sprinted ahead. She had stopped heavy objects before—fallen beams, tree trunks on the farm. But this… She inhaled sharply, trying to steady herself. She positioned herself directly in front of the locomotive, turning her back to it. Then she reached up, hands pressing against the train's metal face, bracing herself.
She had no idea if she was strong enough. She had no idea if she was too strong. The ground trembled beneath her feet. The shrill whistle of the train pierced her ears as the engineers, shouting in blind terror, pulled uselessly at the controls. She turned her head just enough to see it—The bridge, rising ahead like a sentence of death. Less than two miles. No hesitation. No room for doubt. Clara clenched her jaw, pushing against the train. At first, it was like pressing against a moving wall—unyielding, unstoppable.
Then the metal groaned. Her feet touched the ground, skidding against the dry earth. Her shoes disintegrated as her heels dragged through the railroad bed. The wooden ties snapped under her weight, splintering beneath her sinking legs. The rails bent. If the train didn't stop soon, it would derail before it even reached the bridge.
Clara pushed harder, her entire body locking in resistance. She braced her back against the locomotive, using her feet to fight the relentless momentum. The steel around her arms began to warp. Drops of steam and tar hissed from the overheated engine, falling over her skin. The train screamed in defiance. She clenched her teeth, muscles coiling under the strain. It wasn't enough. The locomotive shuddered in her grasp, but its sheer momentum kept driving it forward. The weight of the train, the force of its inertia—it threatened to crush her beneath its will. Inside the cab, the engineers were still shouting, still pulling at the controls. The passenger cars swayed violently, filled with terrified cries.
She clenched her fists, digging her feet deeper into the broken earth. The metal warped around her back and arms. The front of the locomotive crumpled beneath her hands. The wheels screeched. The entire train lurched. For a breathless second, it felt like the world itself might snap apart. And then—The train began to slow. The engine let out one final shriek before jolting forward in protest. The first car rocked. The second wobbled dangerously on the tracks. The ravine was just ahead. Clara exhaled, feeling the locomotive's movement finally give way beneath her back.
And then—the train stopped. Steam hissed from the crippled engine. The train sat motionless on the tracks, just a few hundred yards from the collapsed bridge. Clara took a step back, her breath heaving. She looked down—her dress was shredded, her arms smeared with soot and tar. The passenger cars were tilted, voices rising in confusion and fear, but—miraculously—no one seemed hurt.
The men from the bridge were already sprinting toward them. With a crash, the engineers kicked open the cab door and leapt to the ground. The eldest among them staggered forward, his face streaked with soot. And then, he stopped. Staring in disbelief, he turned his eyes to the front of the locomotive. A massive dent stretched across the metal. A dent, in the exact shape of a person. Slowly, hands trembling, the man made the sign of the cross.
Clara, hidden behind the underbrush, swallowed hard. Fear and adrenaline tangled in her chest. She couldn't stay. With one last look at the stunned crowd, she turned—and with a single leap, vanished into the trees. Behind her, a train sat saved, a town stood in awe, and the impossible had become real.
The official story? The train had hit a fallen log—one massive enough to slow it down before being hurled off the tracks. A log that was never found.
December 17, 1944
Leyte Gulf
Ensign Clara Josephine Kent of the Navy Nurse Corps leaned against the railing of the hospital ship USS Shuster. It was just after the midday meal. She had not eaten. Her gaze drifted over the turquoise waters of Leyte Gulf, where the silhouettes of the Philippine Islands stood in the distance. Yet even as her mind seemed to soar into the heights, she struggled to focus, scanning the water with careful intent. Clara had an uncanny ability to detect enemy submarines, thanks to her telescopic and X-ray vision. To the rest of the world, however, she was merely a woman obsessed with U-boats, unusually lucky in spotting their periscopes. The crew, humoring her supposed talent, had even gifted her a pair of binoculars, which she dutifully pretended to use.
She had been a Navy nurse for three years, most recently assigned to auxiliary services supporting the Seventh Fleet. She had seen many places—Guadalcanal, Papua New Guinea, the Philippines. The war had changed her, reshaping both her view of the world and her understanding of herself. But that violent transformation had begun five years earlier, when she first discovered the truth about her origins.
In early 1940, unable to resist the gnawing doubt—or was it longing?—that consumed her, she had once again activated the strange metallic sphere that, with a hum of energy, became a kind of robot. It had told her more about her extraordinary heritage, about the journey that had bathed her in cosmic radiation, about how the sunlight and Earth's gravity had shaped her into something beyond human. She had accepted the robot's call—and the spectral figures claiming to be her true parents—and had carried the sphere, hidden in a battered suitcase, to Alaska. There, they had told her, lay a vessel from her homeworld, a key to unlocking her past, her language, her power. She had searched for it in vain.
Anchorage became both refuge and exile. She enrolled in a military nursing school, seeking usefulness. She had brief, fruitless romances—mostly aviators who meant nothing in the end. And sometimes, driven by restless hope, she would pack the metallic sphere into a sack and wander the frozen mountains in search of the lost ship. She never found it. More than once, hunters and explorers had glimpsed a lone woman in a city coat, carrying an odd burden, vanishing into the icy wastes with unnatural speed. Rumors spread of a spirit haunting the Alaskan wilderness. The legend of the Ghost of the Glaciers made its way back to Anchorage, where Clara merely shrugged and turned the pages of her nursing manual.
She wanted to know who she was. What she was capable of. What she was meant to do. The questions tormented her. Should she reveal herself to the world? Her father, Joseph, had warned her against it. He feared that her very existence would upend the world—that she would lose what the Quakers called "Peace at the center." That if she lacked strength and wisdom, she would become an agent of injustice rather than justice. Clara was not ready. She still feared what her hands, her eyes, could do.
When Japan bombed Pearl Harbor, she buried the sphere—its name was Kelex—just outside Anchorage and enlisted as a nurse. It was the only thing she could do. She would use her abilities only to heal, never to harm. She had no right to take a life. She alone could tear an army to shreds, but how could she do so without drowning in blood? Without becoming an angel of destruction? Without losing her "peace at the center"? Her father had been right. The war could make her a monster.
Now, three years later, the doubts gnawed at her once more. Clara had spent those years moving between islands and hospital ships, using her gifts in secret—cauterizing wounds, shielding soldiers and civilians from harm. She had even captured enemy combatants, always veiled, hidden beneath blankets, moving faster than the eye could follow. Some suspected. Some surely knew. One man, an older doctor, Dr. Dolan, had protected her. He forged documents, invented cover stories, locked her away with the wounded so she could work in secret. He never asked for explanations, nor did he pry. But he kept his distance. Her gratitude was infinite.
What was she to do? Was it enough? She no longer believed so. Her superhuman abilities demanded something greater. Martha, her mother, had always told her of the Parable of the Talents: To whom much is given, much will be required. That thought haunted her now.
"Hey, Kansas, they're not giving you the lookout post. Get back inside." Carol Blumen, a nurse from Metropolis, beckoned Clara back into the ship. "Come on, let's play cards. I don't think we'll be docking before midnight."
Clara smiled and followed. Carol, as always, kept chattering. "A little bird told me you've been writing about us—letters or something—and that a paper in San Francisco and another in Kansas published them. All good things, they say! Who would've thought? Our Kansas girl—nurse, lookout, and now a writer!"
"I always wanted to be a literature teacher," Clara admitted. "I don't know, I like being a nurse too."
"Listen, girl, you've been published in two newspapers, more than once! I've written a thousand letters to the Daily Planet about how lousy public services are in my neighborhood, and they've never printed a single one. You must be damned good at those letters."
Clara chuckled. The Daily Planet—one of the three biggest newspapers in the country, one of the two most influential in Metropolis, the largest city in North America, a forest of steel and glass. Maybe someday…
Before she could drift into a daydream, a deafening roar split the air. An explosion tore through the ship, hurling her forward. She and Carol were thrown to the floor, landing on top of one another. The hallway lights flickered, then died.
A wave of terrified screams erupted all around as the floor tilted beneath them. There it was—her greatest fear. A submarine. A torpedo. The USS Shuster was packed with more than 3,500 souls—wounded men, troops, medical personnel, and refugees from the scattered Philippine islands, all hoping to reach safety in Mindanao.
Clara didn't hesitate. She helped Carol to her feet and, taking advantage of her disorientation, whisked her to the deck at near-superhuman speed. Outside, despite the blazing sun, the scene was already nightmarish. In mere minutes, the ship's tilt had become almost catastrophic. Hundreds of people ran in all directions; dozens had already plunged into the sea. With her superhuman vision, Clara spotted the Japanese submarine half a mile away.
Nearly four thousand lives. The weight in her heart shifted—no longer doubt, but pure resolve. Ignoring Carol's frantic shouts, she leapt gracefully overboard and plunged into the depths. She moved through the water at a speed beyond human comprehension, the ocean wrapping around her like a warm embrace. Her vision cut through the dark depths, pinpointing the USS Shuster's wounded hull, listing and sinking, its metal frame torn open by the torpedo's blast.
Thousands of lives hung in balance. She could not afford hesitation. With her X-ray vision, she assessed the ship's structure in an instant. The explosion had ripped a gaping hole into the starboard side, just below the waterline. If she tried to lift it from a single point, the weakened metal would collapse, splitting the ship in two. The force needed to be distributed evenly.
Clara knew this—had learned it in the Kent farmyard, using her strength to move beams, lift machinery, and repair structures without shattering them. She swam swiftly, almost creating a whirlpool around her, extending her arms and feeling the ship's vibrations beneath her fingertips. Bracing herself, she positioned her hands under the keel, the ship's massive weight settling onto her back.
She pushed. Not wildly, not recklessly, but carefully. Evenly. She had to be precise. Drawing a deep breath, she gathered her strength. This wasn't just about power. It was about control. Too much force in the wrong place, and she wouldn't be saving these people—she would be dooming them.
Repeating the process several times at blinding speed, Clara gradually applied upward force, distributing the ship's weight evenly. Slowly, the USS Shuster ceased its descent. The terrifying tilt stabilized, and the screams of panic on deck faded into murmurs of disbelief.
But Clara knew holding the ship afloat wasn't enough. The hull was too damaged to withstand the open sea for much longer. It needed safe harbor. She turned her head, scanning the horizon. Ten miles away, she spotted a reef with a gentle enough slope to beach the vessel without capsizing it. It was the best option. Focusing her super-hearing, she listened to the desperate commands of the crew and the grinding strain of the crippled rudder. They were trying to steer toward the very same reef.
Beneath the water, amidst the sheer enormity of the task, Clara felt an unexpected clarity. It was fear and hesitation that crushed her, not action. The moment she committed, everything aligned.
Her efforts were working. She began pushing the ship forward, her arms and back bracing against its massive frame, carefully adjusting her force, uncertain but determined, making sure not to exert uneven pressure. It was like trying to move a cathedral through a hurricane. Bit by bit, the USS Shuster lurched forward. The list remained stable. Water still poured in, but the ship—miraculously—was not sinking.
Then Clara remembered. The submarine. She had forgotten it entirely. Should she destroy it? The dark shape still loomed less than half a mile away. Then she felt it. A deep, resonating tremor—like a tuning fork struck against the ocean itself, mixed with a splashing vibration. A second torpedo. Clara released the ship and darted toward the incoming missile. She had barely trained with her heat vision. But there was no time for doubt. She focused with all her will, feeling a strange energy build behind her eyes. Then—suddenly—scarlet beams lanced through the water, cutting through the depths. The torpedo detonated in an eruption of foam and fire, swallowed by a churning vortex of bubbles. She had done it. A stunned exhilaration surged through her.
Clara turned back toward the ship, improvising silent prayers over and over as she raced to save it. On deck, confusion reigned. No one could explain how, suddenly, the ship had stopped sinking and was now gliding toward safety. The current wasn't nearly strong enough to drag it along at such a pace, and the ship's failing electrical systems no longer had the power to keep the propellers turning. Nurses, refugees and soldiers clung to anything they could, feeling the inexplicable motion beneath them.
Beneath the waves, Clara pressed on. She pushed, braced, created whirlpools to reduce resistance. The ship inched forward, agonizingly slow but steady. With one final effort, she heaved the USS Shuster onto the flattest part of the reef, allowing its deadly tilt to level out gradually. She didn't realize it then, but as she first grounded the stern and then lifted the bow, she exerted so much force that, for a brief moment, she made the entire ship hover inches above the water. Some onboard felt it.
Clara, unaware, remained half-levitating just above the waves, holding the ship's bow in her grip. Then, with a groaning protest of metal and a final shuddering lurch, the USS Shuster settled onto the reef. The sea around it stilled. It was safe.
She swam along the hull, scanning the structure, ensuring it would hold until reinforcements arrived. The panic on deck had transformed into something more controlled—officers barking orders, lifeboats swinging into the water, people beginning to grasp that, somehow, somehow, they had been saved from certain doom. Thousands of lives. She had been pushing for over an hour. At times, she had moved the massive ship at nearly twelve or fifteen knots—almost its full speed. The feat defied reason. There would be no explanation.
Clara surfaced, swimming slowly toward the nearest lifeboat. The sun was dipping low, casting a golden glow over the ocean, the ship, the wreckage. Escort vessels were closing in, their boats rushing to aid the evacuation, while a minesweeper had already set off in pursuit of the enemy submarine.
In the lifeboat, as a kindly sailor offered her a cigarette she was unable to light, Clara broke down. Tears of relief and overwhelming emotion streamed down her face.
"You're safe, lady, all is well, the ship is saved! Wow! That crew really pulled off a miracle." Clara continued to cry, but it was with joy and relief and a decided sense of liberation. The decision she had made went beyond keeping ships afloat.
August 1945
Alaska-Smallville, Kansas
"NO."
Clara bellowed, yet with serenity. Her voice echoed through the vast, metallic, semicircular chamber, its surface gleaming under the dim, artificial light. Beyond the great honeycomb-shaped window, the void stretched endlessly. That chamber had been her home for the past six months.
Six months since she had seized the opportunity, granted leave after the attack on the USS Shuster, to return to Alaska. Six months since she had unearthed Kelex and trudged through the darkness, across endless ice, until they had found it—the ship, buried beneath millennia of snow. With her laser vision, she had melted through the ice, stepping inside alongside Kelex. The robot had taken control of the vessel.
Six months. Six months of speaking, learning, and watching—watching projections, mere echoes of voices long extinguished, yet perfect in their replication of what her parents might have said, had they lived. It was as if the images had stepped off the cinema screen, granted life and thought. Six months without truly sleeping, eating, or drinking. Devoted to understanding, to reflecting, to mastering herself. Six months that had proved her faster, stronger—capable of wielding every power her eyes could summon. And most important of all: she had learned to fly. To hurl herself skyward, an experience as exhilarating and defining as when she had kept the USS Shuster afloat. She had donned the strange yet magnificent Kryptonian ceremonial suit Kelex had carried in her pod, the long red cape billowing behind her. She did not fully understand why, but wearing it filled her with pride that burned in her chest.
Those images—her Kryptonian parents—were an intelligence, artificial perhaps, but one that carried the thoughts, the wisdom, the ghosts of those who had perished long ago. They were like her, and yet unlike her. Just as Martha and Joseph were.
Her father, Jor-El, was an intellectual, a dreamer, a believer in humanity. He had shown her how Krypton had destroyed itself. Yet he was also cautious, at times wary. Sometimes naïve, sometimes solemn beyond measure. Her mother, Lara Lor-Van, was resolute, wise, unyielding—more rigid than Jor-El, yet braver. Clara saw pieces of them both within herself. They had taught her more than she ever imagined possible.
But now—now, she raged against them. Against them and against Kelex.
"Why did you keep this from me?" she demanded. "Kelex listens to every radio on Earth, even the military frequencies—he deciphers them all. You are one, all of you, the three of you."
Once, she might have lost control. Now, she simply hovered, her fury burning cold and steady.
The image of her mother spoke, "We agreed, you and we alike, that you would not interfere in humanity's great affairs. It was your wish—not to shape the world in your image, not to stain your hands with blood. And we abide by that."
"But—those bombs! Those bombs are monstrous! They have obliterated hundreds of thousands in mere seconds! Humanity is on the brink of destroying itself!"
Her father's voice, warm yet measured, answered next. "My daughter, preventing those deaths would have forced you to make a choice over the fate of millions more. This war is the most terrible humanity has endured since they fought amongst themselves—and against the Kryptonians—twelve thousand years ago. When you return to your human home, you will hear of horrors beyond imagination, of what has transpired in the place you call Europe."
Her mother's voice cut in before she could protest. "Kala-El, we have also heard through transmissions that this war will end in mere days. It is over. It will weigh upon you always, but had you intervened—now or before—you would have paid a price too great. A price we could never have wished upon you when we sent you to this world."
"Kala, my daughter," her father said, his voice as gentle as it could be. "Embrace the peace that follows. It will be a painful, unjust peace—but those who have been defeated were the most heartless, the most self-destructive. The victors are harsh, but they will allow you space. And now, you must help them. Your mission begins now."
Clara trembled on the edge of an outburst. "What you say makes no sense! Am I to stand aside if humans try to start another war? Am I to do nothing? To simply fly above them?"
"Your training is not complete. This war was already finished before you could act. You would have caused more suffering, not less. Now, you must fight for peace—to ensure there is never another war like this. But you are not ready." Her mother's words were resolute.
Her heart pounded. She could not wait. She would not wait. Every passing minute cost lives. She had a duty. She could delay no longer.
Then, her father's voice returned, "They possess the potential for greatness, Kala-El, for in their hearts lies the desire to rise above. Yet, they falter in darkness, needing but a guiding light to illuminate their path. It is for this reason above all— their boundless capacity for good— that I have sent you, my only daughter. You must be their example, their protector, your hand steadying their course, so they do not share Krypton's fate. But remember, you cannot impose their salvation upon them; they must choose it for themselves. Those to whom we entrusted you have nurtured you with wisdom beyond our greatest hopes. We ask only that you fulfill your purpose—but not before you are truly ready. You have yet to gain knowledge you will need."
"No, Father. It is enough. I cannot wait any longer."
The projections did not respond. They seemed to understand her resolve.
She turned to Kelex. "I am returning to my human home. I will be back in a few days."
Moments later, a red and blue blur, still unknown to humankind, blazed across the American skies—heading for Kansas
***
Martha Kent hurried to take down the laundry as a light cloud of dust rose around her. She paused, startled, as she caught sight of a crimson shape fluttering in the air—something that did not belong among the clothes. She blinked twice, trying to make sense of it, and then she froze.
Before her, hovering several meters above the ground, was her daughter—majestic, radiant. Yet, she was almost unrecognizable. She seemed stronger, her presence commanding. She wore an unfamiliar suit, impossibly fine, its texture somewhere between metal and skin, shimmering in deep blue and red. A bold emblem in the shape of an "S" adorned her chest, and a long crimson cape billowed behind her, catching the sunlight. Her hair was tousled, windswept, yet beautiful. Her eyes burned with an intensity Martha had never seen before, but within that fire, a single tear traced its way down her cheek.
"Mom, I'm home."
Her voice was the same, yet trembling, fragile with emotion.
Martha broke into tears. Her daughter descended, wrapping her in a fierce embrace. For a moment, it felt as if she had lifted her into the air—but then, gently, they both sank back onto solid ground.
***
Martha's hands trembled as she poured the coffee. Clara now sat across from her, dressed in an old floral dress, her hair clumsily tied in a loose bun. On the table lay the strange suit she had worn just moments before—its fabric so impossibly light and fine that, even folded, it barely took up any space. Martha gazed at it with a mixture of awe and unease. Her daughter held her hand tightly.
"So now... you fly." Martha attempted a lighthearted tone.
"Something like that." Clara laughed softly, though the glimmer of tears still lingered in her eyes.
Martha gave her a warm, motherly smile. "I suppose I should have seen it coming." Then, clearing her throat, she began sifting through a small stack of papers. "Here's your leave authorization… and, well, an indefinite extension of it unless hostilities resume. They say Japan will surrender tomorrow." She hesitated, then continued, "A doctor… someone named Dr. Dolan, sent a letter. He wanted to thank you. He also asked that you not return—that you're sure to be needed here in peacetime."
She set another bundle of papers on the table. "They sent all your things back from Anchorage. There are letters from Lana and Pete—I haven't opened them, but… You know they're parents now." Martha glanced at her daughter, watching her reaction. "Ah, and several more letters. Regarding the articles you wrote about your job and the wounded." She sighed, almost overwhelmed. "I haven't opened those either."
Finally, she picked up a telegram, her fingers trembling as she handed it to Clara. "This one came from San Francisco."
"Allow me to extend my congratulations on your recent articles. They have been well received both here and in your home state. Your prose is exceptional—precise, eloquent, and remarkably compelling, qualities not often found in a writer of your little experience. Upon your return, we would be delighted to welcome you for a conversation at either the San Francisco Chronicle or the Wichita Eagle. We may be able to offer you a position as a junior staff writer or assistant reporter. It is not customary for us to extend such opportunities, but your writing has made a strong impression. Furthermore, I understand that Mr. Perry Weiss and Miss Catherine Grant of the Daily Planet have also expressed interest in your work. Metropolis, no doubt, could be an appealing destination for a promising young woman. Please do not hesitate to reach out upon your return should you wish to arrange an interview at any of the three publications. We trust there will still be openings available by the time you arrive."
Clara read the telegram over and over, a dizzying sense of possibility washing over her. Wichita was close—quiet, familiar. There, she could live in anonymity. San Francisco was far, but people said life was good there. And then… Metropolis. She had always wanted to see it. The Daily Planet—one of the most renowned newspapers in the country. She had never imagined herself as a journalist, but… What if it was exactly the cover she needed for her new mission?
Martha watched her carefully, then gently folded the telegram and placed it beneath her daughter's hands.
"You have time to think, sweetheart. How about we go into town? Catch a movie. They're showing Meet Me in St. Louis—you're going to love it. It's beautiful, absolutely charming." She smiled, brushing Clara's hand with motherly warmth. "We'll take a walk… And you can tell me everything."
***
She chose Metropolis. Her mother had insisted. It was the most prestigious newspaper of the three. What would it be like? Would Metropolis be the right place to begin her mission? Too many questions, too many doubts. Journalism seemed like a job that would help her do what needed to be done. She could operate from the farm if she wanted—after all, every corner of the world was now just minutes away. But her mother had urged her to go. Maybe she was right. A great city. A great newspaper. Hard work.
She wanted to work—of that, she was certain. She wanted to earn her living, to carve out a place for herself as a woman, even if her true mission would always take precedence over everything else. But she didn't want to stop being Clara Kent, even if only for a few hours at a time.
The city of skyscrapers and dazzling lights called to her like a siren's song. Was it vanity? Perhaps. She chose not to dwell on it. She would try her luck there. And if she failed, Smallville would always be just a few minutes away.
Her mother had wanted to buy her a train ticket straight to Metropolis, but Clara only agreed to go as far as Kansas City. It would give some family friends a chance to say goodbye without raising suspicions.
Her Uncle Seamus, two cousins from Topeka she hadn't seen in years, Dr. Baxter and his daughter Laura, the pastor… Even Pete and Lana arrived, hesitant at first, but when they shook her hand, there was warmth and sincerity that eased something deep inside her.
If she stayed in Metropolis, she knew she would return officially to Smallville only sparingly—every few months, at most—to avoid drawing attention. But most of those gathered here already knew the truth, even if they had chosen to bury it in their hearts.
Her mother was still overwhelmed with emotion. As Clara stood by the train, ready to depart, Martha reached for her arm and pressed a yellowed envelope into her hand.
"Clara, your father wrote this nine years ago, just weeks before he left. Please, read it. He wrote it with me. Don't be too hard on him. Read it. He loved you more than anything in this world. He didn't want me to give it to you until a day like today. He knew this moment would come. He was stubborn as a mule, but he was a good man. Read it carefully." Her voice wavered "I love you, my daughter."
***
My Dearest Daughter,
I ain't much for words, and never claimed to be. But if you're reading this, then two things have come to pass. One is natural, as all things of this earth must come to their end. The other—well, it's something greater. Something I always knew would happen, though I prayed it wouldn't come too soon.
I'm writing this for the day you step into the light. And you will. I have no doubt. A person cannot bury a candle under a basket forever—sooner or later, the world will see its glow. And in these days, when men are cruel but knowledge increases, when the earth shakes and the hearts of many grow cold, there will be those who look to you. Not because they ought to, but because they need you. I have prayed long and hard that such a day would not come, but I reckon the Lord has other plans.
There's not much I can give you now except this—I love you. I'm proud of you. Your mother and I have loved you from the moment you came into our lives, though we never did understand how or why you were made the way you are. That was never ours to know. We only knew to raise you as best we could, with the same love you gave to us.
I know it ain't been easy. I know I've been a hard man at times. A father has a duty to guide, and I've done my best. But I won't lie—I have feared for you. Feared what the world might do to you, feared what it might turn you into. I have seen how power twists men, how it hollows them out. I have seen good men lose their way, believing they were the ones to set the world right. The Lord did not put you here to be used as a tool of the mighty, nor to be wielded by those who deal in violence. The sword devours both the wielder and the struck. Stay low. Walk humbly. Do what you must, but do it without pride, without hunger for praise. And if you must work unseen, hidden from the world, then so be it. It is better to be unknown and righteous than known and led astray. This would allow you and your Mother to enjoy living in peace and quiet.
And hear me now—you have no right to take what the Lord alone gives. No right to rule over others, no right to force the world into your mold. Change what you can, but let it be through love, through mercy. Let every soul be equal before you, whether they be high or low, righteous or lost. And whatever you do, do it not for a banner, nor for a nation, nor for your own name. Do it for what is right.
And never—never—let go of your Peace at the Center. The world will roar. The nations will rage. Men will cry out for war and vengeance. But the Lord is not in the whirlwind, nor in the fire, nor in the earthquake. He is in the still, small voice. Hold fast to that voice within you. If you lose that, no power on this earth will be worth the price.
There will be many who do not understand what you are, and some will fear you. Stand firm. Stand steady. You are strong. And you are stubborn as a Missouri mule. We ain't blood, but if you got that from me, I wouldn't be surprised.
Wherever I am, I will pray for you. That you stay true. That you do the good you were meant to do. And that you never lose sight of the Light within.
Joseph Kent, 1936
Clara wept silently, tears streaming down her face, while the other passengers in the carriage pretended not to notice. After a moment, she felt a flicker of frustration with herself—I can't be such a crybaby.
She clutched the letter tightly to her chest, overwhelmed by a whirlwind of emotions—joy, nervous anticipation, and a deep, aching nostalgia. Her gaze drifted instinctively to her suitcase. A few dresses, a couple of suits, some money, a handful of books… The rest she would bring from Smallville over time. But there was something far more important inside that suitcase.
A long, crimson red cape.