03:30 PM – Wayne Manor, Private Medical Wing
Clark laid the pod down in the center of the med-bay. The metal was still hot to the touch, humming with a low, vibrating frequency that made the teeth of everyone in the room ache. He didn't wait for tools. He gripped the hatch and ripped it open with bare hands, metal screeching in protest before giving way.
Bruce lay inside. Unconscious. Pale. But wrong.
His black suit was scorched, fused to his skin in places where the fabric had melted and re-solidified. Veins glowed faintly violet under the surface, pulsing in time with a heartbeat that was far too fast.
Peter Parker sat on a stool, mask pulled up to his forehead, eyes wide with a mix of guilt and fear. Thomas and Martha Wayne stood by the window, faces tight with worry, hands clasped so tightly their knuckles were white.
Clark leaned over Bruce, super-hearing focused entirely on his chest.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
"It's accelerating," Clark said, straightening up. His voice was tight, edged with a fear none of them had heard before. He looked at Peter, then at Thomas. "What was he doing in space?"
The room went silent. The only sound was the erratic, drumming rhythm of Bruce's heart.
Peter stared at Bruce, guilt washing over his face. "He… he stowed away? Why?"
Thomas stepped forward, hand hovering over Bruce's forehead, afraid to touch. "He wasn't supposed to be on that mission. None of us knew."
Martha's hands trembled. "Is he… is he going to be okay?"
Clark didn't answer. He couldn't. Because beneath the heartbeat, he could hear something else. A low, gnawing sound. Like cells eating themselves.
04:00 PM – Global News Feed
Every TV in the room flickered on automatically, tuned to the emergency broadcast.
BREAKING: FANTASTIC FOUR TRANSFORMED. MYSTERY INTRUDER CONFIRMED.
Footage played. Grainy security cam from the Baxter Building launch. A black shadow slipping into Cargo Bay 3. Then, photos of the rescue. Reed Richards with a stretched arm. Victor Von Doom made of metal.
"—confirming a sixth individual on board," the reporter said. "Sources identify this person as an intruder. Clad in a black suit. Identity unknown."
Peter's head snapped up. He stared at the screen. Then at Bruce.
"So… Bruce entered that ship?" he exclaimed.
He hit his hand on his thigh in surprise. The sound cracked like a whip. Everyone jumped.
"Peter!" Martha gasped.
"He didn't just sneak in," Peter whispered, realization hitting him like a truck. "He went there for the storm. He knew what was coming."
04:12 PM – The Discharge
Suddenly, Bruce's back arched off the bed.
A crackle of violet electricity erupted from his body. Not lightning. Something heavier. Older.
The air in the room changed. Became thick. Then weightless.
Peter floated off his stool. Clark's feet lifted an inch off the ground. Thomas and Martha drifted toward the ceiling. Medical equipment—IV stands, monitors, trays—unmoored, hovering in mid-air like astronauts in zero-G.
"What's happening?" Thomas gasped, grabbing a floating chair to anchor himself.
"His energy…" Clark strained, trying to anchor himself with heat vision on the floor. "It's disrupting the local gravity field!"
Bruce's body glowed brighter. The electricity spiked, arcs of violet energy dancing across the room, wrapping around the floating equipment.
And then—Pop.
He vanished.
Not teleported. Just… gone. The bed was empty. The electricity faded. Everyone dropped to the floor with a thud.
"Bruce?" Peter scrambled up, rubbing his head. "Where did he go?"
Clark's eyes glowed red. X-ray vision scanning the walls. The ground. The sky.
"There," he said, pointing out the window. "The garden."
04:15 PM – The Garden
They ran.
Maids screamed, dropping silver trays as they saw a figure materialize above the hedges.
Bruce floated there. Ten feet in the air. Arms limp. Eyes closed. Surrounded by a faint violet aura. The grass beneath him bent away, as if repelled by an invisible force.
"Bruce!" Martha cried.
As if he heard her, Bruce's eyes snapped open.
They weren't glowing anymore. Just blue. Confused. Terrified.
He blinked. Looked down. Saw the ground rushing up.
He fell.
Clark moved to catch him, but Bruce hit the grass first. Not hard. Softly. Like a leaf settling.
He lay there. Chest heaving. Alive. Then, his eyes rolled back, and he fainted again.
"Get the IVs!" Clark shouted. "Now!"
They rushed him back inside. Peter and Clark attached various fluid bags to his arms—glucose, saline, electrolytes, high-calorie nutrient mixes.
Thomas also used the sigil of healing, and started to draw diagram and at last magice energy started to flew toward bruce.
They taped three bags to each arm, running lines straight into his veins.
His body was screaming for hunger. The cosmic radiation had burned through every reserve in his cells. He was starving on a molecular level. His metabolism was running at a thousand times normal speed, burning calories faster than they could be delivered.
Clark watched the fluid levels drop. The bags emptied in seconds. He swapped them out. Again. And again.
"His body… it's eating everything," Clark whispered.
Peter looked at Bruce's face. Pale. Sweaty. But the violet veins were fading. Settling.
"He's not just healing," Peter said quietly. "He's evolving."
Outside, the wind howled. Inside, Bruce slept.
But his hunger… his hunger was just beginning.