Reforged in the Sun: Clark Kent Reborn SI

Summer mornings on the Kent farm had their own kind of magic. The sky seemed endless, painted in shades of soft blue that deepened as the sun climbed higher. Birds chirped from their perches on the barn's rafters, and the gentle rustle of cornfields carried across the warm breeze. To anyone else, it was just another day in Smallville. But to me, each day felt like a small miracle.

Every morning, Martha cooked breakfast on the old cast-iron stove, the smell of bacon and eggs filling the air. The kitchen was the heart of our home, with its mismatched chairs around the weathered oak table and curtains that Martha sewed herself. Jonathan sat at the table, sipping his coffee while scanning the newspaper, his calloused hands dwarfed by the mug.

On this particular morning, Jonathan folded the paper with a sigh. "The mayor's talking about building a new mall in town," he said. "I can't see how that'll help Smallville much, but they seem determined to push it through."

Martha raised an eyebrow as she flipped a pancake. "Well, as long as they don't touch the farmer's market, I won't complain."

I sat quietly, chewing my toast, but my mind was elsewhere. Ever since my encounter with Jor-El in the storm cellar, I had been consumed by questions. What was my purpose? How could I carry the weight of an entire civilization's legacy?

Later that day, Jonathan asked me to help him fix the fence bordering the west field. The old posts had rotted in places, leaning precariously. It was the kind of task we'd done a dozen times before, but this time, something felt different.

The air was hot, heavy with the scent of fresh earth and hay. I grabbed a fence post and pressed it into the ground, the wood sliding easily into the soil. Too easily. I glanced at Jonathan, who was hammering nails into another post.

"Clark," he said without looking up. "Try to ease up on it. You're pressing too hard."

I froze, realizing I had driven the post so deep that only a few inches were visible above the ground. Heat rose to my cheeks as I quickly pulled it back out, splinters snapping under my grip.

Jonathan noticed. He set his hammer down and walked over, wiping sweat from his brow. "You're getting stronger," he said simply.

I nodded, unsure of how to respond.

Jonathan crouched beside me, his eyes level with mine. "It's not a bad thing, Clark. But you've got to be mindful. Strength like yours... it's a gift. But it's also a responsibility."

His words settled into me, heavy and meaningful. I looked out over the fields, the golden expanse stretching to the horizon. For the first time, I wondered how far my abilities could take me—and how much they could change the world.

Smallville had a charm that felt both comforting and eerie, depending on how you looked at it. On the surface, it was the quintessential small town—friendly neighbors, tidy streets, and the smell of apple pie wafting from the diner on Main Street. But beneath the surface, there were whispers. Stories about strange occurrences that began the day the meteor shower came.

The meteor shower wasn't just the day I arrived; it was the day everything changed. Chunks of glowing green rock had fallen across Smallville, leaving scars in the earth and, as I would soon learn, in its people. The town's folklore had grown around it—stories of crops failing near the rocks, livestock acting erratically, and, most chilling of all, people changing.

I didn't know it yet, but I was about to encounter one of those changes firsthand.

Darren Vaughn was the kind of kid you didn't notice until you had to. Quiet, unassuming, with a habit of blending into the background. He was in my grade at Smallville Middle School, though we rarely spoke. That was, until the day he decided to make himself known.

It was lunchtime in the cafeteria, the smell of stale pizza and tater tots filling the air. I was sitting with Pete Ross, my best friend, and Lana Lang, the girl I couldn't stop thinking about but could never find the courage to talk to directly. Pete was halfway through a story about his dad's tractor when the first tray flew.

It was subtle at first—a tremor in the air, like the faint hum of an approaching storm. Then, without warning, a lunch tray lifted off the table across the room and hurled itself into the wall with a deafening crash. The cafeteria went silent, all eyes turning to Darren, who stood at the center of the chaos.

His face was pale, his hands trembling. The air around him seemed to shimmer, as if distorted by heat.

"Darren?" the teacher on duty called cautiously. "Are you alright?"

But Darren wasn't alright. His eyes widened, and another tray shot across the room, narrowly missing a student. Panic erupted as kids screamed and dove for cover. Pete grabbed my arm, his voice low.

"Clark, what's happening?"

I didn't answer. My heart pounded as I stood, my mind racing. Darren wasn't in control—of that, I was certain. And if someone didn't stop him, someone was going to get hurt.

I moved quickly, weaving through the chaos. The air felt heavy, charged with an invisible energy that made my skin crawl. Darren's breathing was ragged, his hands clutching at his temples as if trying to block out some unbearable noise.

"Darren!" I called, keeping my voice calm but firm. "You need to stop!"

His head snapped toward me, and for a moment, I saw fear in his eyes. "I... I can't!" he choked out. "It won't stop!"

Another tray lifted into the air, spinning violently before hurtling toward a group of students. Without thinking, I lunged forward, catching the tray mid-flight. It stung against my palms, but I barely noticed.

"Listen to me," I said, stepping closer. "You're scared, I get it. But you're stronger than this. You can stop it."

Darren shook his head, tears streaming down his face. "I don't know how!"

I reached him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Then let me help you."

For a moment, the chaos paused. Darren's breathing slowed, and the shimmering air around him began to settle. His shoulders sagged as the energy dissipated, leaving only the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.

The cafeteria was a mess—food splattered on the walls, overturned tables scattered across the floor. Darren sat on the ground, his head in his hands, while the rest of the students whispered in hushed tones.

Pete approached me, his face pale. "What was that, Clark? How did you...?"

I shook my head, cutting him off. "I don't know, Pete. But I think we just saw what those meteors can do."

Darren was taken to the nurse's office, but I couldn't shake the image of his terrified face. It wasn't his fault. Whatever had happened to him wasn't natural. And it wasn't over.