Chapter Text
The first thing that hit him wasn't the light. It was the smell.
Metropolis smelled like hot asphalt, ozone, and too many people breathing the same air. It was a thick, humid scent that stuck to the back of your throat. It was nothing like the sanitized, sterile recycled air of the 31st Century, and it was lightyears away from the sulfur and burnt copper of the volcano.
Jon stood in the shadow of an alleyway in the Suicides Slum, his knees buckling. The portal—the Legion’s way of sending him "home"—had snapped shut behind him with a sound like a closing book.
He stayed on the ground for a long time. His fingers dug into the grime of the brickwork. It was cold. Real cold. Not the artificial cooling of a ship, but the natural chill of a Metropolis evening.
He was seventeen.
He had left when he was eleven.
In his head, he could still hear the sound of the heavy iron door Ultraman used to slam. He could still feel the way the red sun lamps made his skin itch and his bones feel like they were made of glass. Six years. He’d spent a lifetime in a box, and then another lifetime trying to be a hero in a future that didn't belong to him.
And now he was here. Home.
Jon stood up, his legs shaking. He caught his reflection in a shattered piece of a dumpster mirror.
He didn't look like the kid on the milk carton. He didn't look like the boy who used to wear a cape made of a literal baby blanket. He was tall—too tall, maybe. His shoulders were broad, his jaw had sharpened into something jagged, and there was a thin, white scar running through the edge of his eyebrow that hadn't been there when he was ten.
His eyes were the worst part. They weren't "bubbly." They weren't full of the "gee-shucks" wonder his dad had. They looked tired. They looked like they’d seen the inside of a volcano for years and decided that the world was mostly just dark.
"They won't even know you," he whispered. His voice was deeper than he expected. It cracked.
He looked down at his hands. They were scarred. His knuckles were calloused from hitting walls that didn't break.
If he went home now... if he flew to the penthouse or the farm... what would they see? They wouldn't get their son back. They’d get this. A stranger wearing their son’s face, stretched out and broken in all the wrong places. He’d be a walking reminder of every second they weren't there to save him. He’d be a ghost that ate dinner at their table.
I can’t, he thought. The realization hit him with more force than any of Ultraman’s punches. I can’t do that to them.
He couldn't watch his mom cry because her little boy was gone and replaced by a man who flinched when someone moved too fast. He couldn't watch his dad look at him with that devastating Superman-guilt, wondering how he let the world’s most powerful man lose his only child to a madman.
Jon stepped out of the alley.
He wasn't Jonathan Kent anymore. Jonathan Kent died in a volcano. Or he stayed eleven forever in a photo frame on Lois Lane’s desk.
"I’m just... some guy," he muttered, pulling his hoodie up. "Just some guy in the city."
The first three days were the hardest.
Jon had no money, no ID, and a hunger that felt like a physical weight in his stomach. His Kryptonian metabolism was a curse when he didn't have a kitchen. He spent the first night on a rooftop in the Boroughs, watching the lights of the Daily Planet spin in the distance.
It was hypnotic. The gold globe. The cape.
He saw his dad fly past once. Just a streak of primary colors against the velvet blue of the night. Jon ducked behind a chimney, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He held his breath until his lungs burned, terrified that Clark would hear his heartbeat.
Please don't look down. Please don't look down.
Clark didn't. He was busy. There was a fire in the docks, or a plane with a failing engine, or just the general weight of being the world's savior. He flew right over his son and didn't notice.
Jon slumped against the brick. He felt a weird, agonizing mix of relief and total devastation. He was invisible. He’d spent years wanting to be seen, wanting to be rescued, and now that he was finally in the same zip code, he was doing everything he could to stay in the dark.
By the fourth day, he found a job.
It was a shitty little bodega on the edge of Hob’s Bay. The sign in the window was hand-written and yellowing:
NIGHT SHIFT HELP WANTED. DONT ASK STUPID QUESTIONS.
The owner was a man named Sal. Sal was about sixty, smelled like cheap cigars and menthol cough drops, and had a permanent scowl that suggested he’d given up on the human race somewhere around 1994.
"You got a name, kid?" Sal asked, not looking up from a crossword puzzle.
Jon hesitated.
"John. Just... John."
"John what?"
Jon looked at a box of crackers on the shelf.
"Ritz."
Sal finally looked up. He squinted at Jon through thick glasses.
Jon tried to look pathetic—which wasn't hard—and kept his posture slumped so he didn't look like a threat.
"John Ritz. Like the cracker. Real original," Sal snorted. "You a runaway?"
"I’m seventeen," Jon said. It was the truth. "I just need a place to stay. And some food."
Sal looked at the scars on Jon’s knuckles. He looked at the way Jon kept his back to the wall. He’d seen a thousand kids like this in Metropolis. The city chewed them up and spat them out. Usually, they ended up in the morgue or working for Intergang.
"I got a room upstairs. It’s got a cot and a sink that leaks. I pay you under the table. You work ten to six, you don't steal the Newports, and you don't bring no trouble to my door. Capece?"
"Yeah," Jon said, his voice small. "Capece."
"Go grab a broom. The back needs sweeping."
Jon took the broom. It felt weird in his hands. He was a boy who could move planets, and he spent the next four hours sweeping dust and dead flies into a plastic dustpan.
It was the most peaceful he’d felt in years.
The room above the bodega was tiny. It was loud, too. The sounds of the city bled through the thin walls—sirens, people shouting, the constant hum of the elevated train two blocks over.
Jon sat on the edge of the cot, his head in his hands.
He was supposed to be a prince. That’s what Jor-El had told him, in between the lessons and the madness. He was the bridge between two worlds. The Great Hope.
Now he was a kid named after a cracker, living in a room that smelled like damp wood and fried onions.
He closed his eyes and tried to think about the Legion. Saturn Girl’s voice, Brainy’s clinical kindness. They’d told him he was a hero. They’d given him a flight ring and a suit and told him he was the best of his father and mother combined.
But they didn't know about the volcano. They knew of it, sure. They knew the history books said he disappeared. But they didn't know how it felt when Ultraman would talk to him.
“You’re just a weak little reflection,” Ultraman would say, his voice a gravelly mirror of Clark’s. “Your father didn't come. He’s not coming. He’s probably forgotten what your face looks like by now. He’s probably found a new kid. A better one. One that doesn't cry in the dark.”
Jon wiped his face. He wasn't crying. He’d run out of tears somewhere around year three.
He stood up and walked to the tiny, cracked mirror above the sink. He splashed cold water on his face.
He looked older. That was the main thing. If his mom saw him, she’d see the man he’d become, but she wouldn't see the boy she lost. She’d see the six years she missed. She’d see every birthday, every scraped knee, every first crush that she wasn't there for.
It would kill her. It would literally break her heart.
And his dad... his dad would look at him and see his own failure. Every time Clark looked at Jon’s shoulders, he’d see the time he couldn't fly fast enough.
"I’m doing them a favor," Jon whispered to the mirror. "They’re mourning me. Let them mourn. It’s better than them seeing what’s left."
He turned off the light.
He didn't use his X-ray vision to look through the walls. He didn't use his super-hearing to listen for his mother’s heartbeat across the city. He just lay down on the hard cot and tried to be a person who didn't exist.
Weeks turned into a month.
Jon got into a rhythm. Work at ten. Sweep. Stock the shelves. Deal with the late-night drunks who wanted a lottery ticket and a bag of pretzels. Go upstairs at six. Sleep. Repeat.
He learned to move like a human. He slowed his reflexes down. When a jar of pickles slipped off a shelf, he let it shatter instead of catching it with blur-speed. It hurt his soul to see the mess, but he couldn't risk it.
Sal was okay. Sal didn't talk much. Sometimes he’d bring up a plate of pasta his sister made and leave it on the counter for Jon without saying a word.
"You're a weird kid, Ritz," Sal said one night, leaning against the register.
Jon was cleaning the glass on the hot dog roller.
"Am I?"
"You're too quiet. Most kids your age are out there making noise. You act like you're trying to disappear into the floorboards."
Jon stopped scrubbing.
"Just don't want to cause trouble, Sal."
"Trouble finds you whether you're looking or not," Sal grunted. He tossed a newspaper onto the counter. "See this? Superman fought some big purple robot downtown today. Tore up half of 5th Avenue."
Jon’s heart lurched.
He looked at the front page. There was a photo of his dad. He was mid-punch, his cape billowing out like a banner of hope. He looked... the same. He looked perfect.
"People love him," Sal said, shaking his head. "Me? I think he’s too loud. All that flying around. Must be exhausting."
"He just wants to help," Jon said quietly.
"Maybe. But who helps the guys he leaves behind in the rubble, huh? That’s the problem with gods. They don't see the little stuff."
Jon looked at the photo. He wanted to reach out and touch the newsprint. He wanted to smell the laundry detergent on that cape. He remembered hiding in it when he was five, during a thunderstorm.
"He sees it," Jon whispered. "He tries."
Sal just shrugged and went back to his crossword.
That night, Jon couldn't sleep.
The silence of the room was too loud.
He put on his hoodie and climbed out the window.
He didn't fly. He just ran.
He ran through the streets of Metropolis, his feet hitting the pavement with a rhythmic thud. He ran until he was in the nicer part of town, where the buildings were made of glass and the air felt cleaner.
He found himself standing across the street from the Daily Planet.
It was late, but the lights were still on in the newsroom. He could see figures moving behind the windows.
He focused his hearing.
He shouldn't, but he had to.
He tuned out the traffic, the distant sirens, the hum of the city's power grid. He searched for one specific sound.
Lub-dub. Lub-dub.
There.
It was a steady, rhythmic beat. Strong. Determined.
He knew that heartbeat.
He’d listened to it while he was in his mother’s womb.
Lois was in the building.
Jon leaned against a lamppost, his eyes stinging. He could hear her typing. She was aggressive with the keys—she always was when she was on a deadline. He could hear her sigh, the rustle of paper, the sound of her sipping lukewarm coffee.
She’s okay, he thought. She’s alive. She’s working.
Then he heard a second heartbeat.
It was slower. Heavier.
"Lois, it’s 2 AM. Come home."
Jon’s breath hitched.
That was him.
"Just five more minutes, Clark. I almost have the lead on the Intergang shipping manifest."
"You said that an hour ago."
Jon could hear the smile in his dad’s voice. It was that soft, private smile he only saved for her.
"Go fly around or something," Lois teased. "Go save a kitten. Leave the real work to the professionals."
"The 'professional' has coffee stains on her shirt," Clark said.
There was a pause.
The sound of a chair rolling.
The sound of them kissing.
A soft, mundane moment between two people who loved each other.
Jon pulled his hood lower.
He felt like a voyeur.
He felt like he was stealing something that didn't belong to him anymore.
"Have you heard from the League?" Lois’s voice dropped. It lost the playfulness. It became something fragile.
"No," Clark said. His voice was heavy. "Nothing. Batman’s still scanning the temporal rifts, but... it’s been months, Lois."
"He’s out there," she said. It wasn't a question. It was a command. "Our boy is out there somewhere. I can feel it."
"I know," Clark said.
But Jon could hear the lie.
Clark didn't know.
Clark was trying to be strong for her, but in his heart, he was mourning a kid who had been missing for years in their time.
Jon couldn't listen anymore.
He turned and ran.
He didn't stop until he was back in the Slums.
He collapsed in the alleyway behind the bodega, retching into a gutter.
They were looking for a boy.
They were looking for their boy.
If he showed up now, the search would end, but the pain would just change shape.
He was seventeen.
He had scars from a version of his father who had tried to kill him.
He had nightmares where he woke up screaming in Interlac.
He wasn't their boy.
He was a survivor.
And survivors were messy.
Survivors were reminders of the trauma.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into the trash-strewn alley. "I'm so sorry."
The next day, Sal found him sitting in the back of the store, staring at a stack of canned peaches.
"You look like hell, Ritz," Sal said.
"Didn't sleep much."
"Yeah, well, join the club. Listen, I gotta go to the bank. Stay behind the counter. If anyone tries anything, just give 'em the money. Don't be a hero. Heroes get buried."
"I know," Jon said.
Sal left, the bell above the door jingling.
Jon sat on the high stool. He felt hollow.
The encounter from the night before had left him raw.
He felt like his skin had been scrubbed with steel wool.
The door opened.
Jon didn't look up.
"Welcome to Sal’s. Let me know if you need help finding anything."
"Just a bottle of water, thanks."
Jon froze.
The voice was familiar.
Not like his parents, but familiar in a way that made his heart stop.
He looked up.
Standing by the cooler was Conner.
Jon stared.
Conner grabbed a water bottle and walked to the counter. He was whistling a tune—something pop and catchy. He looked relaxed. He looked like he belonged in his own skin.
He set the bottle on the counter and reached into his pocket for some crumpled bills.
Jon stared at him.
He couldn't help it.
Conner was a link to the life he’d abandoned.
Conner was family.
"You okay, man?" Conner asked, pausing. "You look like you just saw a ghost."
"I... yeah. Fine. Just a long night."
Conner’s eyes narrowed.
"You new in town?"
"Been here a month. That’s a dollar fifty."
Conner handed him two dollars.
"Keep the change."
He didn't move.
He just leaned against the counter.
"You go to school around here?"
"No. Working."
"Right. Cool."
Conner lingered.
"I have to get back to work," Jon said.
Conner held up his hands.
"Hey, no worries. Just being friendly. Metropolis can be a rough place for a kid on his own."
"I'm not a kid."
Conner grinned.
"Whatever you say, Ritz. See you around."
Conner walked out.
Jon slumped against the cigarette rack.
He was shaking so hard he thought the shelves might rattle.
He’d almost been caught.
But then he realized something.
Conner hadn't recognized him.
Conner had looked right at him—at his face, at his eyes—and he’d just seen a runaway.
A stranger.
It worked.
The disguise was perfect because the trauma had changed him so much that even his own blood didn't know who he was.
He should have been happy.
He should have felt safe.
Instead, he felt like he was drowning in the middle of the ocean, and the rescue boat had just sailed past without throwing a buoy.
Months passed.
The seasons changed.
Metropolis went from a humid oven to a gray, slushy mess as winter set in.
Jon got better at being John Ritz.
He learned the names of the regulars.
He knew that Mrs. Gable from 4B needed help carrying her groceries, and that the guy with the twitchy eye always bought three lighters and a pack of gum on Tuesdays.
He became part of the neighborhood.
A quiet part.
The "good kid" who worked the night shift.
He still didn't fly.
He still didn't use his powers.
He spent his nights in his cold room, staring at the ceiling.
Sometimes, he’d think about the Legion. He’d think about the 31st Century and the way the sun looked there—different colors for different days.
He missed them.
He missed his friends.
But he couldn't go back, and he couldn't go forward.
He was stuck in this weird, frozen present.
One night, it started snowing.
Big, heavy flakes that turned the grime of the Slums into something almost beautiful for a few minutes.
Sal had gone home early because of his hip, leaving Jon to close up.
Jon was locking the front grate when he heard it.
A crash.
It wasn't a normal crash.
It was the sound of metal being torn like paper.
He looked down the street.
Three blocks away, a car had been tossed into a storefront.
A group of men in high-tech armor—Intergang—were dragging crates out of a warehouse. They were armed with energy rifles that glowed with a sickly purple light.
"Help! Someone help!"
A woman was trapped under the debris of the storefront.
The Intergang members didn't care.
One of them raised his rifle, aiming it at a bystander who was trying to film them with a phone.
"No witnesses," the thug grunted.
Jon’s hand stayed on the lock.
Don't do it, his brain screamed.
If you do this, you’re not invisible anymore.
If you do this, they’ll find you.
The thug pulled the trigger.
Jon didn't think.
He didn't decide.
He was across the street in a heartbeat.
He caught the energy blast in his palm.
It stung, a sharp, searing heat that reminded him of the volcano, but he didn't flinch.
The thug stared at him.
"What the—?"
Jon didn't give him a chance to finish.
He grabbed the barrel of the rifle and twisted.
The metal groaned and snapped.
He stepped in close, using his elbow to catch the man in the chest.
The thug flew twenty feet, hitting a brick wall and slumping over.
The others turned.
"We got a meta! Take him down!"
Jon felt a surge of something he hadn't felt in a long time.
It wasn't joy.
It was a cold, hard focus.
This was what he was built for.
This was the only thing he knew how to do that made sense.
He moved through them like a blur.
He wasn't flashy.
He didn't use heat vision or ice breath.
He just used his hands.
He was efficient.
He was brutal in a way his father never was.
He didn't pull his punches to be "inspiring."
He pulled them just enough to make sure they didn't die.
In thirty seconds, it was over.
The Intergang members were a pile of broken armor and groans on the snowy pavement.
Jon stood in the center of the street, his breath hitching in the cold air.
He looked at his hands.
They were glowing slightly from the energy he’d absorbed.
The bystander with the phone was staring at him.
The woman under the debris was looking up in awe.
"Who... who are you?" the woman whispered.
Jon looked at her.
She didn't see a broken boy.
She saw a savior.
Then he heard it.
Woosh.
The air pressure changed.
The smell of ozone and laundry detergent filled the street.
Superman landed.
He looked at the wreckage.
He looked at the unconscious thugs.
Then he looked at Jon.
Jon stood frozen.
He wanted to run, but his feet felt rooted to the concrete.
Clark stepped forward.
His blue eyes were searching.
Scanning.
He looked at Jon’s face, his height, the way he stood.
"That was impressive work," Clark said. "You handled that well."
Jon didn't speak.
He couldn't.
He was terrified that if he opened his mouth, he’d say Dad.
Clark walked closer.
He stopped a few feet away.
"Are you hurt?" Clark asked. He reached out a hand.
Jon flinched.
He couldn't help it.
He pulled back, eyes wide.
Clark’s expression shifted.
He saw the flinch.