Reforged in the Sun: Clark Kent Reborn SI

Smallville had always been a town of whispers. People noticed everything, and rumors spread faster than the summer wind over the cornfields. Darren Vaughn's incident and the man with molten skin had shaken the town to its core, but they didn't have the words—or the courage—to admit it. The once-friendly chatter on Main Street was now subdued, laced with tension and suspicion.

I had the advantage of knowing where all of this was heading. I had read the stories, watched the shows, and pieced together a timeline that, before, had felt like entertainment. But standing in the middle of it now, I realized how little I actually understood. The meteors were doing more than I remembered—changing people, twisting them, and leaving them scared and dangerous. The threads of Smallville's transformation were messier and more violent than I had anticipated.

As I walked through the farm that morning, the familiar sights felt foreign. The golden expanse of cornfields seemed oppressive, the creak of the barn door like a warning instead of a welcome. Even the crisp morning air felt heavy.

Jonathan and I had been fixing the barn roof for hours when I finally worked up the nerve to speak.

"Dad," I said, setting my hammer down. "What if I can't handle this? What if there's too much to stop?"

He paused, wiping sweat from his brow. The way he looked at me made my chest tighten. It wasn't disappointment or doubt—it was the weight of a father who wanted to protect his son but knew he couldn't.

"Clark," he said finally, his voice steady. "You've got a gift, but it doesn't mean you have to carry everything on your shoulders. Being strong doesn't mean you never fall. It just means you get back up and keep going."

He didn't know the half of it. I nodded anyway, swallowing the lump in my throat. He couldn't know what was coming—not yet.

That afternoon, as I biked into town, I couldn't ignore the shift in the air. Main Street had become a place of unease, a far cry from the lively hub it once was. The bakery still sold fresh pies, and the diner still served hot coffee, but no one lingered anymore. Conversations were short, and glances were wary.

I stopped at the hardware store to pick up supplies for Jonathan. The bell above the door jingled as I entered, and the familiar scent of sawdust and oil greeted me. Behind the counter, Mr. Halloran glanced up, his expression grim.

"Clark," he said, his voice tinged with unease. "You hear about what happened out at the mill?"

I froze. "The mill?"

He leaned in, lowering his voice. "My nephew works there. Says one of the field hands went crazy—threw a tractor clear across the yard. Swears his skin was glowing green like those rocks."

My stomach churned. I forced a casual shrug. "Maybe it's just another story. You know how people exaggerate."

Halloran frowned, shaking his head. "This town's got too many stories lately, Clark. It ain't normal."

That evening, after dinner, I made my way to the storm cellar. The air inside was cool and heavy, carrying the faint scent of earth and rust. The ship sat in the center, its surface smooth and gleaming faintly in the dim light. I had avoided using it too often—I didn't want to rely on Kryptonian knowledge too much, not yet. But I couldn't ignore it any longer.

I placed my hand on the ship, and light rippled across its surface. The hum grew louder, and the holographic figure of Jor-El materialized before me. His expression was calm, his eyes sharp and commanding.

"Kal-El," he began, his voice deep and resonant. "You seek answers."

I nodded. "The meteors—they're doing something to people. They're changing them. It's worse than I expected. Is it because of Krypton?"

Jor-El's face remained impassive, but his words carried weight. "When Krypton's core collapsed, fragments of our planet were scattered across the universe. The meteors you call Kryptonite are remnants of that destruction. They carry properties that can amplify, corrupt, or destabilize living organisms."

I clenched my fists. "So it's my fault. These people are suffering because of Krypton."

Jor-El's expression softened. "No, Kal-El. You are not responsible for the choices of Krypton's leaders. But you have the power to protect this world from the consequences of their actions."

I nodded, his words sinking into me like a stone. Protecting the people of Smallville wasn't just about stopping freaks—it was about righting the wrongs of a lost civilization.

I didn't have to wait long for the next disaster.

The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows across the town. As I walked toward the diner, I heard it—a low rumble, almost like thunder, but closer. The ground shook beneath my feet, and a scream pierced the air.

I sprinted toward the sound, my heart pounding. In the parking lot behind the hardware store, I saw him—a man in his mid-thirties, his skin pale and translucent, veins glowing green. His eyes darted around wildly, his movements jerky and frantic.

"Stay back!" he shouted, his voice breaking. "I don't want to hurt anyone!"

A crowd had gathered at a safe distance, their murmurs blending into a low hum of fear. I stepped forward cautiously.

"Hey," I said, keeping my voice calm. "It's okay. I can help you."

He turned to me sharply, his glowing eyes narrowing. "Help me? You don't know what this is like!"

He lunged at me without warning, his hands glowing green as they swung toward my chest. I dodged, his fist smashing into the pavement and leaving a smoldering crater. The shockwave sent me stumbling backward, my mind racing.

The man's movements were erratic but powerful, each strike fueled by raw, uncontrollable energy. He swung again, his fist slicing through the air. I caught his arm, the green glow burning my skin as I struggled to hold him back.

"You don't have to do this!" I said through gritted teeth.

"You don't get it!" he roared, his voice shaking with desperation. "I didn't ask for this! It's inside me, and I can't stop it!"

He threw me across the lot, my body slamming into the side of a parked truck. Pain shot through my ribs, but I forced myself to stand. He charged again, his glowing hands aimed for my throat. I ducked and countered with a punch to his midsection, the impact sending him staggering backward.

But he didn't go down. The green glow in his veins flared brighter, and his expression twisted into a mix of rage and anguish.

"You're not stopping me!" he shouted.

I didn't hesitate. Using my speed, I closed the distance between us, delivering a series of rapid strikes to his chest and arms. He roared in pain, his movements slowing as the energy inside him began to falter.

Finally, with one last burst of strength, I delivered a solar-charged punch to his chest, the impact sending him crashing into the wall behind him. He collapsed to the ground, his glowing veins dimming as he lost consciousness.

The crowd stood in stunned silence as I knelt beside the man, his breathing shallow but steady. I could hear their whispers, their questions.

"Who is that kid?"

"How did he do that?"

"What's happening to Smallville?"

I stood slowly, ignoring their stares as I carried the man out of the lot. My hands were trembling, not from the fight, but from the realization of what was coming. Smallville was spiraling into chaos, and I was the only one who could stop it.

That night, as I sat on the porch of the farmhouse, staring out at the dark fields, Martha joined me. She didn't say anything at first, just sat beside me, her presence as warm and steady as ever.

"You've been carrying a lot lately," she said finally, her voice soft.

I nodded, my gaze fixed on the horizon. "It feels like it's getting worse, Mom. Every day, there's someone new. Someone hurting. And I don't know if I can keep up."

She placed a hand on mine, her touch grounding me. "You don't have to save everyone, Clark. You just have to try. That's all anyone can ask of you."

Her words didn't erase the weight I felt, but they made it a little easier to bear.