Chapter Text
Clark Kent, Kal El, Superman, floated in the heart of the maelstrom. A god of war etched in cobalt and crimson against a canvas of bruised purple and emerald fire. Below, the city he loved was a grid of terror, but the sound of individual heartbeats, the frantic prayers he had spent a lifetime tuning into, were now a distant, irrelevant hum. All he could hear was the drumbeat of raw power in his own veins. A siren song that vibrated in his teeth and shook the light from the stars.
The Darkseid War. The firepits. The gift or the curse of the God of Strength.
His fist clenched and did not just contain power. It contained everything. A miniature galaxy of Apokoliptian energy swirled in his palm, unstable and hungry. With a roar that parted the clouds above the Atlantic, he unleashed it. A column of pure, screaming force lanced downward, not at an enemy, but at a phantom in his own fracturing mind. The energy met the harbor, and for a moment, there was no water. Only steam and a crater in the earth's crust, exposing molten rock that glowed like a wound.
Too much. The thought was a flicker, a tiny, dying echo of a Kansas farm boy in a sea of divine fury. His cells were singing a song of exhaustion, a dissonant counter melody to the power's anthem. Every time he channeled the new energy, the very fabric of his Kryptonian biology frayed. He was a star burning its own mass for fuel, spectacularly and terminally.
He needed to get away. Somewhere empty. Somewhere a dying god could scream without killing anyone.
With a crack of sundered atmosphere, he was gone. A streak of pain and power heading east over the ocean, his flight path wavering as his vision blurred with internal static.
***
The air on the coastal overlook outside Tokyo was crisp, salty, and thick with the cheerful chaos of a high school cultural exchange trip. Izuku Midoriya stood slightly apart from his chattering classmates, his phone in hand. Not for games, but to scroll through the latest Justice League Watchtower press release. His backpack, well worn, bore subtle patches: a stylized 'S', a bat symbol, a lightning bolt.
"The structural integrity of the Watchtower's new orbital defense grid is fascinating," he muttered to himself, eyes wide behind his glasses. "But the power sourcing mentioned here implies a shift from purely alien tech to a fusion with Star Labs' arc wave theory, which could have vulnerabilities if..."
"Midoriya!" his friend Takeshi called out, laughing. "You're doing it again! We're supposed to be looking at the view, not preparing a thesis on Superman!"
"S-sorry!" Izuku flushed, pocketing his phone. "It's just... it's all so incredible. They're out there, right now."
A sudden, sharp gust of wind, hot and smelling of ozone and something alien like burnt metal and decay, ripped across the observation deck. It was not natural. Izuku's head snapped up, his instincts firing. Not the instincts of a meta human, but of a lifelong student of heroics. His eyes scanned the horizon, past the stunning vista, to a secluded, rocky cove below the tourist path.
There, half buried in a scree of shattered rock and sand, was a figure.
"Do you see that?" Izuku asked, already moving toward the guard rail.
"See what?" Takeshi squinted. "It's just rocks, man."
But Izuku was already scrambling down the steep, unofficial path, his heart hammering against his ribs. As he drew closer, his breath hitched. It was a man. A massive man, in a familiar suit, but it was torn and scorched. The iconic 'S' shield on his chest was cracked, the colors dull. The man's skin, where it was visible, seemed to pulse with a faint, sickly light, like embers under ash.
It was Superman. Not the invincible icon from the news feeds, but a broken one. One hand clawed into the stone, his body shuddering with each ragged, grinding breath.
"Oh my god," Izuku whispered, skidding to a halt on the loose gravel. The others were far above. The roar of the sea swallowed his voice. He was alone with a wounded titan.
The Superman from the news was a symbol of hope. This being radiated pure, unstable potency. The air around him warped, shimmering with heat. Izuku's teeth ached.
But the man was hurt. And the first, unshakable rule in Izuku Midoriya's heart, a heart that had spent years studying, admiring, and believing in heroes, was help.
"Superman?" Izuku's voice was small against the crash of the waves. "C can you hear me? You're hurt. I... I want to help."
Superman's eyes flickered open. They were not the clear, kind blue of interviews. They were pools of molten anger, shot through with cracks of red Apokoliptian energy. He focused on Izuku, and a groan escaped him. A sound of tectonic plates shifting.
"...Run..." the god gritted out, the word laced with agony. "...Unstable... can't... hold..."
A spasm wracked him. A wave of visible force, a shockwave of pure concussive might, erupted from his body. It did not blast Izuku away. It pinned him, a weight of pure gravity crushing him to the rocky sand. The stones around them flattened into dust.
Superman was trying to contain it, trying to pull the energy back into himself, but it was leaking. A dam breaking. Izuku fought to breathe, pushing against the invisible pressure. He could not run. He could not leave him like this.
With a final, desperate effort against the force, Izuku lunged forward, not away. His plan was simple, stupid, and utterly born of a fanboy's heart: grab his arm, try to offer a human anchor in the storm.
His hand, ordinary and small, made contact with Superman's broad, shuddering forearm.
The universe detonated in silence.
The leaking Apokoliptian energy, the divine augmentation eating Superman alive, found a new path. Not a vessel of near indestructible Kryptonian cells, but a conduit of incredible, reckless willpower housed in utterly normal human flesh. Izuku's biology, a perfectly ordinary human template with no metagene activation, no mystic heritage, became a sudden, shocking ground. A void that could be filled.
A circuit completed.
Raw, screaming power, the strength of dead gods, the might that could crack planets, flooded into Izuku. It was not a gentle transfer. It was a volcanic eruption, a river of liquid starfire burning through every nerve ending. He saw visions: a world of fire and gears, Apokolips; a booming voice saying "I AM"; the feel of a mother's hand on a rocket, Krypton; the taste of Kansas wheat, home; and the crushing, beautiful weight of a yellow sun, life.
He could not scream. His voice was gone, stolen by the torrent.
On the rocks, Superman went limp. The terrifying, pulsating light faded from his skin. The cracks in his suit remained, but the aura of violent, disintegrating godhood vanished. It was replaced by a profound, battered stillness. His breathing, while still labored, evened out into something merely exhausted, not catastrophic. The cellular breakdown halted, reversed by the sudden, total absence of the foreign energy that caused it. He was just Clark Kent again. Wounded, drained, but himself.
Izuku, meanwhile, was floating three feet above the ground.
Tendrils of golden energy, like captured sunlight, snapped and crackled around his body. His green hair lifted in an unseen current. His school uniform jacket tore at the seams from the sudden expansion of his frame. Inside, he felt like a glass jar filled to the brim with a neutron star. Every sense was dialed to a million. He could hear the plankton in the sea, the rustle of his classmates' jackets on the overlook a mile above, the frantic heartbeat of a hawk in a distant pine. He could see through the rock, through the layers of the cliff, to the fossilized shells embedded within. The strength in his clenched fist felt like it could, without any effort, hold up the very cliffside.
The energy blast had faded. The pressure was gone. With a soft thud, Izuku dropped back to the sand, on his hands and knees, gasping. The visible energy receded into his skin, leaving a faint, golden trace in his veins before fading. But the feeling remained, the impossible, terrifying, oceanic feeling of power. He was no longer just Izuku Midoriya, hero fanboy.
He looked up, his eyes wide with a terror that was not for himself.
Superman stirred. He pushed himself up on one elbow, his movements slow and human. He looked at his own hands, clean of the angry light, then at the trembling Japanese teenager before him.
The rage in his eyes was gone. In its place was a dawning, horrified understanding, and a deep, weary grief. His voice, when it came, was familiar. It was the voice from the press conferences, the voice of comfort after disasters. But now it was heavy with a new, profound burden.
"What..." Superman breathed, his gaze locked on Izuku, seeing the raw, untamed power swirling just beneath the surface of the boy's skin. "What have I done to you?"
Izuku opened his mouth, but no sound came out. All he could do was feel the impossible power humming in his bones, a god's strength now housed in the body of a normal boy who just wanted to help.
**
The world had narrowed to the sound of the sea, the crunch of sand under his palms, and the thundering, impossible drumbeat inside his own chest. Izuku's breaths came in sharp, ragged gasps that felt like they were moving too much air, as if his lungs had tripled in capacity without his permission. The taste of salt and ozone was thick on his tongue.
Across from him, Superman (Superman!) was struggling to sit up. The movement was no longer the effortless, floating grace of news footage. It was the weary, pained motion of a man who had run a marathon through hell. His blue eyes, now clear of that terrifying red energy, fixed on Izuku with an intensity that was almost physical.
"Are you..." Superman began, his voice a gravelly baritone that resonated in Izuku's newly sensitive bones. He stopped, wincing as he pressed a hand to his side. A normal, human gesture of pain. "Are you injured?"
The question was so mundane, so human, it shattered Izuku's panic for a second. The greatest hero in the universe, fresh from what looked like a cataclysm, was asking him if he was okay.
"I... I don't think so," Izuku managed, his voice a squeaky whisper. He looked down at his hands. They were his hands. A little scraped from the fall, but otherwise normal. Yet, when he curled his fingers, the sand beneath them compacted with a soft crunch into something as hard as ceramic. He jerked his hand back as if burned. "But... I can feel it. It's... it's inside me. What is this?"
Superman's expression tightened, a mask of guilt and profound regret. He finally managed to get his feet under him, standing with a slight sway. He seemed smaller now, not in stature, but in presence. The aura of invincibility was gone, replaced by a palpable exhaustion.
"It was a power that was killing me," he said, his gaze distant, seeing memories Izuku could not imagine. "A gift from a dark place. It was breaking me apart. And when you touched me..." He looked at Izuku again, his eyes scanning him not with X-ray vision, Izuku realized, but with a doctor's worry. "You took it. All of it. You grounded the storm."
"I took it?" The concept was too vast. He had stolen Superman's power. The thought was blasphemous. "No, I did not mean to! I was just trying to help! You have to take it back!"
Even as he said it, he felt the energy stir in response to his distress. A faint, golden glow emanated from his skin for a second, and a small shockwave of force pulsed out from him, kicking up a ring of sand. He flinched, hugging his arms to his chest, trying to contain the sun within.
"I do not think I can," Superman said softly. There was no anger in his voice, only a deep, resonant sorrow. "It is intertwined with you now. Your biology accepted it in a way mine was rejecting it. The connection is severed." He took a careful step forward, moving like someone afraid of startling a wild animal. "What is your name?"
"I-Izuku. Izuku Midoriya."
"Izuku." Superman said the name with a gravity that made it sound important. "My name is Clark. Clark Kent. And I am so sorry, Izuku. This should never have happened to you."
The apology, direct and heartfelt, from Clark Kent, did something strange to Izuku's panic. It did not erase it, but it boxed it in, made it share space with a dizzying sense of awe. He was having a conversation with Superman. Who had just told him his secret identity.
"What do I do?" Izuku whispered, the question encompassing everything: the power, the fear, the fact that his classmates were probably looking for him by now.
Before Clark could answer, a sharp, tinny sound erupted from the ruins of his suit. A faint, static filled voice. "...perman... ceive... are you... biosignature spike and then collapse... location..."
Clark touched a barely intact emblem on his chest. "Batman. I read you. I am stable. For now. I need an emergency extraction. Remote coordinates." He recited a string of numbers that meant nothing to Izuku. "Non standard medical. And a secure civilian transport. One."
The voice on the other end was silent for a beat. "Acknowledged. ETA seven minutes. Report status of the non standard."
Clark's eyes never left Izuku. "The energy is contained. It is no longer a threat to me. It has, however, found a new host. A civilian. No meta gene signature prior. He is handling it. For now."
Another, longer silence. "Understood. Preparing containment protocols."
"No," Clark said, the word firm, leaving no room for argument. "No protocols. He is a victim, Batman. Not a subject. Medical and shelter only. I will explain when you arrive."
The call cut out. The authority in Clark's voice had been absolute, a glimpse of the leader of the Justice League. It faded as he turned back to Izuku, replaced again by that weary concern.
"My friends are coming. They will help us. You are not alone in this."
"My class... they are up on the overlook," Izuku said, a new worry cutting through the surreal haze. "They will be looking for me."
Clark nodded. "We will handle it. For now, try to stay calm. The power reacts to your emotional state. Fear, anger, panic. They are like fuel. Try to breathe. Think of something quiet."
Izuku tried. He thought of his room, of his shelves lined with hero figurines and binders of analysis. He thought of his mom's katsudon. The golden glow under his skin receded slightly. The hum in his bones dropped from a scream to a low thrum.
The seven minutes felt like seven lifetimes. Izuku sat on a large, flat rock, focusing on his breathing. Clark remained standing, a silent sentinel, but Izuku could see the lines of pain around his eyes, the way he favored his right side. He was hurt. Really hurt. And Izuku had his power.
The guilt was a cold stone in his gut, mixing with the churning cosmic energy.
The arrival was silent. One moment, the cove was empty save for the two of them and the sea. The next, a sleek, black aircraft shimmered into existence about twenty feet above the sand, as if peeling away a layer of reality. It made no sound. A hatch opened, and a ramp extended to the ground.
A figure descended. He was clad in black and grey, a cape flowing behind him despite the lack of wind. The Batman. His expression was unreadable behind the cowl, but his gaze swept the scene with a terrifying, analytical speed, taking in the scorched ground, Clark's battered state, and finally, locking onto Izuku.
Izuku felt naked. He was sure those lenses could see every cell, every shimmer of the foreign energy inside him.
"Report," Batman said, his voice a low growl that was somehow both emotionless and demanding.
"The Apokaliptian power has fully transferred to Izuku Midoriya," Clark said, stepping slightly between Batman and the boy. A protective gesture. "My cellular decay has halted. I am weak, but recovering. Izuku is unharmed, but untrained and frightened. He requires our help."
Batman's head tilted a fraction of an inch. "The energy readings are coherent. Stable, for the moment. No signs of the psychological degradation you exhibited." He took a step closer, and Izuku involuntarily shrank back. "Midoriya. Can you tell me what you feel?"
"I... I feel strong," Izuku stammered out, the understatement of the century. "I can hear everything. The plane's engines, even though they are silent. I can see layers in the cliff. And I am afraid if I move wrong, I will break something."
Batman gave a single, sharp nod. "A rational fear. Control is your first priority. Can you walk?"
"I... I think so."
"Then come. We are leaving. Your absence has been noted. We have fabricated a story of a minor landslide and a rescue by local authorities. Your teachers and classmates have been informed you are safe but receiving precautionary checks at a nearby clinic."
The efficiency of it was staggering. The world had already been spun around them, truths hidden in plain sight.
With Clark leaning slightly on Batman for support, a sight so profoundly strange Izuku would have doubted his own sanity if not for the power in his veins, they boarded the aircraft. The interior was all cool, dark metal and glowing holographic displays. It was nothing like the bright, hopeful image of the Justice League. This was the shadow that worked behind it.
As the hatch sealed and the world outside vanished, Batman turned to Clark. "The Watchtower's medical bay is ready for you. We will rendezvous with the Javelin in orbit."
Then he turned to Izuku. "And you, Mr. Midoriya, are coming with us. You are now the repository of one of the most destructive forces this universe has ever created. Until we understand what that means for you, and for everyone on this planet, you are under the protection of the Justice League."
The aircraft, invisible once more, shot skyward. Izuku watched through the viewport as Japan shrunk away beneath him, a patchwork of green and grey and blue. He was leaving his life behind, ascending into a world of gods and monsters, carrying a piece of the sun in his chest.
He looked at Clark, who offered a small, pained, but genuine smile of encouragement. Then he looked at his own hands, ordinary and yet holding the power to reshape mountains.
He was no longer just a fanboy. He was a variable. A problem. A living, breathing mystery.
And the first lesson, as the blackness of space enveloped the ship, was learning not to be afraid of himself.