At the peak of a pyramid no one should have climbed, a man sits on a slender chair upholstered in white leather. He's dressed in black. In one hand, he holds a gin and tonic; in the other, the wrinkled final pages of All-Star Superman.
—Ah, don't worry —he mutters, looking at no one in particular—. You're not needed anymore, Narrator. I'll take it from here. Thanks.
So then... are you interested in reading this? Or would you rather watch it? From what format are you witnessing this story?A novel? A bad piece of fanfic? A comic? Maybe even a film? These multiverse things tend to be a real headache.
You see, this world bores me. Even me. And that's saying something, given that I'm a being of infinite power.
After watching the new Superman movie, an idea took root in my mind. Persistent. Radiant. And so, here we are.
Well… not you physically, of course. But the camera. Or the pen. Or the voice transcribing everything I say.
Come closer. Let's talk for a while.
Oh, you're still here. Bold of you. If I were as mortal and powerless as you, and some entity started speaking to me from beyond the screen, I'd be halfway to the hills by now. But don't worry. I won't hurt you.
Your universe is either too far away —or too simplistic— for me to bother crossing into it just for fun. I've got enough existential garbage to sift through in this underwhelming plane as it is.
You may call me the Author.
And while your skepticism stings a little, I can't blame you. It's only natural to assume I'm just a fictional mouthpiece, bound by the words of whoever's typing. But I'm not. I exist. And everything you're about to witness —believe me— is really happening.
But what will happen?
Perhaps you're wondering if the writer of this story suffers from a concerning lack of imagination when it comes to titles. I won't blame you. Let me offer something a bit more compelling.
What if these heroes… became real?
It's an idea that's been gnawing at the back of my mind for years. But I didn't want to just drop them into this world. No. I may be many things, but unimaginative isn't one of them. So I came up with something better:
Why not create them from scratch?
And here we are.
Come closer.
It's time you joined me on this journey.
We're going to try to create superheroes…
Ah, yes. Almost forgot.
—Narrator, you may resume your duties.
The Author stood from his chair. In an instant, the chair, the drink, the idle comforts—gone in an instant. He remained alone at the summit of the great pyramid.
—Right. First, we need to create a save point.
He straightened his suit, raised his hands to the sky—
And reality cracked like glass under pressure.
Thus opened the Temple of Chaos. Not a place, but the idea of a place: a void beyond realities, before time and after forgetting.
The Author stepped forward. Before him, reality twisted—a swelling sphere contained the entire universe, rotating slowly like a galaxy in a bottle.
With solemn grace, he extended his hand. With his power, he conjured a replica of the universe, encapsulated within a sphere no larger than a marble.
—Perfect —he declared, popping the sphere into his mouth and swallowing it like candy—. Just a backup. A contingency, in case everything goes sideways.
With that done, he returned to the material world—this time, in front of a hot dog stand in New York City.
—One, please.
After receiving his hot dog, he walked over to a bench.
Now you're wondering: How are we going to do this? Ever read Flashpoint? We'll do something like that. But it's not so simple. This isn't a comic.
And sure, for me, altering the laws of physics and reality is as easy as thinking it—
But tampering with time? That comes with consequences.
We'll need to stretch the rules a bit... and play.
There's a constant in superhero stories. You know what it is?
There's always a breaking point. A nexus.
In Marvel Ruins, for instance, the death of the Fantastic Four destabilized the timeline. But in the original story, the mere fact that they gained their powers —despite variations in their origin— was the anchoring event of the entire Seventh Cosmos.
That's the key.
Come.
Reality trembled. A rift opened before the Author.
He stepped through, followed by his floating camera.
They appeared on the Moon, in March of 1984.
A word of advice, little mortal:
If you ever gain reality-warping powers. Messing with time? Bad idea. That's how I nearly pulled the plug on existence once. Fun night, though.
You have to do it gently. Carefully. Like touching your best friend's sister.
Use the butterfly effect. Let it ripple.
Watch what I do. And take notes.
The Author raised his omniscient eye, letting his vision encompass the whole universe—
Well, Only Earth, really. The universe is... excessive.
----
March 21, 1984 – Wichita
—Sara, hurry up! —The boy tugged at his sister's sleeve, dressed in a Superman costume with a cape trailing behind him—. If we don't go now, we'll miss Matt Reeves!
—I'm coming —she said, glancing down at her brother.
Their parents had forced her to take him to the convention. She'd be embarrassed to admit it, but she was actually having fun.
—Jon, for God's sake! —shouted a man no older than thirty, speaking to another man his age, also dressed as Superman.
—Come on, Willi —Jon grinned, amused at his friend's embarrassment—. Loosen up. We planned this trip for over a month.
You planned it. Not me.
—Whatever. We haven't seen each other since you joined the Navy. Let's enjoy it. Didn't you used to like Superman? You're with a Kent here —practically a celebrity.
—A California Kent... and that was when we were kids.
—Oh! They're about to interview Matt Reeves! We have to be there.
A smile crept across the Author's olive-toned face as he watched them. In moments, the entire life of Sara and Jon played out before his eyes. They were good people. Empathetic. Kind. Their past, present, and future could not be hidden from his gaze.
Originally, the boy would've died two days after the convention, in a car crash.
Sara would've spiraled into addiction after college and died in a Chicago alley in 2005.
A nudge here, a flicker there. Just a faint flap of wings.
And their fate was changed.
Sara brushed her bangs from her eyes just as an awkward adult "Superman" nearly bumped into them. They locked eyes. An awkward silence.
—Hey, "Superman" —she nudged Jon—. With all those powers, couldn't you fly out of this awkward moment?
The little boy burst out laughing, not quite getting it, breaking the tension.
—Come with us! We're going to see Superman!
—Superman?
Jon looked at him like one might a mischievous kid in the park. Then he turned back to the girl and smiled.
—Well, if Matt Reeves is here, all right. Let's go together.
—But—his friend started to object.
—I want to get his autograph.
I know. So subtle. But humans need little pushes.
Like when you write fanfics and force two characters to kiss.
Dramatic? Sure.
Does it work? Absolutely.
---
1990 – Hutchinson, Kansas
On the small Kent farm, the family doctor had come to speak with the young couple.
—Anthon! —Jon greeted the man with open arms—. Come in, please.
—Thanks, Jon. Nice place. How's the town treating you?
—It's been tough. We're both city folks, but Sara and I think this is the right place to raise a child.
The doctor hesitated a moment.
—Who is it? —Sara called from the kitchen.
—It's Dr. Anthon!
Sara stepped out with a bright smile.
—Doctor, what brings you by?
—I just came to talk about... well...
—Is it bad news? —Jon asked, frowning. The doctor's silence was answer enough.
—I think it's best if I speak to you both. May I sit down?
—Of course. Make yourself at home.
Sara set her oven mitts on the table and sat beside Jon, facing the doctor.
—What is it, Doctor? —Jon asked.
Dr. Anthon fidgeted with his briefcase, as if hoping the wood would supply the right words.
—Jon, Sara... —he took a deep breath—. The results aren't good. The issue isn't Jon's fertility. It's... —he looked at Sara, searching for a gentle way to say it—. Your eggs, Sara. They're not viable. If you ever conceived... your body wouldn't survive it.
The color drained from her face. Jon held her hand as if by strength alone he could hold their future together.
—Are you sure? —Sara's voice was a whisper.
—We ran three tests. I'm sorry.
Jon stared ahead for a moment before pulling his wife into his chest.
—I'm sorry, Doctor... would you give us a moment?
Dr. Anthon nodded quickly, picking up his briefcase, ready to leave.
—If you need anything, you can call or stop by the clinic anytime.
---
On the Moon, the Author watched.
A shame, truly. And though it may seem otherwise, I had nothing to do with it. Merely the problems of the era.
"Don't worry, Sara. There's always another way."
Upon hearing Jon's words, the Author couldn't help but smile, satisfied.
---
January 24, 1994 – Pittsburgh
Santa Piedad Home for Homeless Children
"He's so small," Jon said, gazing at the baby sound asleep.
"He is," Sara replied. "But he's beautiful. What's his name?"
"Clark," answered the caretaker of the orphanage.
Jon and Sara exchanged a glance, their smiles caught somewhere between amusement and tenderness.
"Clark Kent. What do you think?"
Sara chuckled softly, her eyes drifting back to the infant.
"Clark Kent? I love it."
"This way, please. We still need to fill out a few forms, but if all goes well, you'll be able to take little Clark home."
Meanwhile, a figure cloaked in shadow—yes, yes, spare me the theatrics. It's me, your all-powerful Author.
This is the pivotal moment I spoke of: a nexus point in time—the adoption of Clark Kent, this world's Superman.
But what is a Superman without powers? Sadly, there are no Kryptonians in this universe. And though my power is limitless and omnipotent, I am no monster. I won't create a race destined for extinction. So I'll pretend such a race once existed.
I've already planted the seed of the Fortress of Solitude in Antarctica, complete with a fabricated message at the end. The baby's mother was a drug addict; she'll be dead in two weeks, so no one will suspect a thing.
"Narrator, you'd best do your job properly and capture my magnificence."
The Author raised his hand, summoning the forces of the universe into motion. He marked this exact moment in time as a fixed point. Should time be tampered with—just like in DC or Marvel—the timeline will shift, causing vast changes across the cosmos. Clark Kent is Superman. Whether he chooses good or evil in this universe, he will become the pillar of this new reality.
A sphere of golden energy formed in his palm, radiant as a yellow sun.
Matters of aesthetics. A little cliché, I know—but come on, I'm creating Superman. Cut me some slack… Sorry, go on.
With a translucent hand, the Author pressed the orb into the infant's tiny chest, altering him, enhancing him with the power of the sun embedded in his very cells.
"When you turn six, your powers will awaken. It will be your choice—to become a symbol of hope like your counterpart... or a destroyer. Whatever path you take, you will be the foundation of this new era… an age of heroes."
The baby stirred. His eyes glowed red, then slowly dimmed, returning to their natural hue.
Now then… who's next? Let me see…
Chicago – 10:30 p.m., 2003
The thief pulled the trigger. Two shots. Two silences. And an eight-year-old boy, hiding behind the sofa, watching his parents' blood spread like ink across the marble floor.
"M-Mom…" Bruce whispered, but the sound withered in his throat. The thief didn't even notice him—he just fled, terrified, through the window.
From his perch on the Moon, the Author smiled.
"You'll be next…"