Watching Clark flee in total panic, Felicia froze for a second, then let out a bright, silver-bell laugh.
Clearly, she had not realized just how completely clueless this earnest, big-hearted guy was when it came to romance.
"An innocent golden boy..." she murmured, swallowing lightly, her eyes shining with the look of a hunter spotting prey. Then she rose to her feet, shot Gwen a provocative arch of the brow, and strolled away like a proud Persian cat.
Of the people who had just watched the whole spectacle unfold, Harry was the first to offer an opinion on the friend he had only met that very day.
"He actually ran away?" Harry said. "Your brother's pretty interesting, Peter."
Seeing his brother make such an awkward retreat, Peter scratched his head a little sheepishly. "He's always been... kind of bad at dealing with girls."
But then he noticed Gwen beside him stabbing at her pasta with a fork and wisely decided not to add anything else. The last thing he needed was Mary Jane avenging her best friend on the spot.
Lunch ended, and like most schools, there was basically no lunch break worth mentioning. Afternoon classes started early, and dismissal came early too.
Their first class after lunch was gym.
For Clark, who was still a little dazed from everything that had happened, it felt mildly torturous.
After all, he had spent his whole life hiding his strength, and today that felt harder than usual.
He looked at the shot put they were supposed to use and could not help sighing.
Then, using perfectly standard form, he hurled it.
Only because of everything that had happened today, he put in just a little too much force.
Whoosh! — Bang!
The shot sailed easily past the line for a perfect score, cleared the field entirely, and finally smashed into a distant metal gate before stopping.
The gate retired from active service on the spot.
Everyone stared in complete shock.
The coach's whistle fell right out of his mouth, and Flash looked especially horrified. At the same time, he was also secretly grateful he had slipped that morning, because otherwise, who knew where he might be lying now.
"Uh..." Clark's mind went into overdrive as he tried to think of a way to make this seem less strange. It was only a few dozen yards, really. With enough training, someone could probably manage it. Besides, he was stronger than normal people.
Scratching his head, Clark put on the most sincere and harmless expression he could manage. "Coach, maybe the school's equipment is just really old? And I've worked out before, so getting that kind of distance shouldn't be that weird, right?"
The coach looked at Clark, then at the shot put way off in the distance, and in the end decided that yes, clearly the school equipment was old.
It sounded ridiculous.
But it was better than letting his entire understanding of reality collapse.
After school, Clark turned down everyone's offer to walk home together.
He needed to let off steam.
Because the strain he lived under, year after year, was not only physical. It was mental too.
He could not allow himself too much emotional swing. Sometimes he did not even dare laugh too hard or get properly angry, afraid that for just one moment he might forget how different his strength was from everyone else's. He lived like a bomb that could go off at any moment, tiptoeing through a porcelain shop.
He had always thought that description fit him perfectly.
And it had shaped the way he lived.
By dusk, Clark had made his way alone to an abandoned factory in Brooklyn, a place where there was not another person for miles around.
He took off his jacket, revealing a physique that looked carved from marble, like some idealized Greek statue.
He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.
Twin beams of heat vision burst from his eyes and instantly sliced through a massive abandoned machine beside him. The cut was so hot that metal at the edges liquefied and streamed down in glowing rivulets.
Then he turned his head, opened his mouth, and exhaled toward it.
Whoosh.
A freezing white gust laced with ice crystals rushed out. The superheated machine froze solid in an instant, locked in frost, though it could never return to what it had been before.
Then Clark leaped forward and drove a punch into it.
Then another.
And another.
Under the barrage, the machine shattered into chunks that crashed across the floor.
When it was over, Clark stood there breathing hard, staring at the wreckage around him.
What he felt was not satisfaction.
It was fear.
He leaned against a pillar, then slowly slid down until he was crouched there with both hands over his head.
He was afraid.
Every time he let his power off the leash, he felt the same thing:
That if he ever let one dark impulse take root, he could seize control of this country.
Maybe even this world.
He remembered the comics from his previous life. He knew exactly what happened when a being with absolute power slipped free of human restraint. He knew what kind of monster that could become. Whether it was the Superman of Injustice, or Ultraman, who killed without blinking, or even harsher incarnations like Justice Lord Superman, he wanted none of it.
This world had ruthless super-criminals and HYDRA hiding in the shadows.
But it did not yet have the Avengers.
It did not yet have those other heroes who could stand as checks against him.
If one day he lost control, who would be there to stop him?
"The greater the power... the smaller the responsibility," Clark muttered to himself, twisting the old saying into something darker. But it reflected exactly how he felt right now.
By the time his emotions settled, the sun had completely set, and night had fallen over New York.
Clark dusted off his clothes, pulled his jacket back on, and walked out of the factory.
Then, just as he was about to head back to Queens, his super-hearing caught words he really did not want to hear.
"Hand over the money! I need the cash!"
It was a rough, aggressive male voice. No one had been hurt yet.
Then came a girl's voice, frightened but trying hard to stay steady.
"I... I don't have any money left. This is for helping people."
That was... Mary Jane.
Mary Jane's family was not wealthy, but because she wanted to understand how ordinary people really lived, she often helped out at diners and restaurants, and sometimes used her own money to help people who were struggling.
Clark did not hesitate for even a second.
He launched himself straight off the ground. He could not fly yet, but he could jump very, very far.
In an alley in Queens.
Mary Jane was pressed against a brick wall, clutching her backpack tightly.
Standing in front of her were three broad, rough-looking thugs.
The truly frightening part was the metal gauntlets strapped over each of their hands.
These were clearly not ordinary self-defense devices you could buy anywhere. They were illegally modified concussion weapons.
In other words, the kind of "high-tech criminals" Uncle Ben had mentioned over breakfast.
"Don't make this harder than it has to be, sweetheart," the bald thug in front sneered, raising his right hand, fitted with a shockwave glove. "We're the Terrible T's. We want money, not bodies. Once we fire these things up, you're going night-night. So be smart and toss the bag over."
Mary Jane bit her lip.
The stubborn streak in her would not let go. That money was the wages she had earned through long hours helping out at the restaurant. Tomorrow, she had planned to take Peter with her to help some people in need, buy them what little they could manage.
The bald thug lost patience, cursed, adjusted the settings on his gauntlet, and aimed it at her.
And just as Mary Jane shut her eyes in despair…