The clouds swallow us whole as the Bat-Jet screams over Kansas farmland. I watch the land blur beneath us — rows of corn, dark soil, specks of farmhouses. Normally, this view softens me. Feels like childhood. Feels like home.

Tonight… it feels like we’re flying into the jaws of something ancient and hungry.

Bruce doesn’t speak. He controls the jet with surgical precision. Diana rests her palms on her knees — poised, patient. Barry vibrates with barely-contained tension. Hal’s ring hums like an irritated hornet.

All of this started twelve minutes ago:

A commercial aircraft lost altitude. Engines failed or… were forced into failure. The aircraft plummeted. Crash confirmed just outside Brightburn, Kansas.

Then the report that made every jaw in the Watchtower tighten:

“Eyewitnesses claim a flying child is hovering over the wreckage.”

A girl. Blood everywhere. Survivors… only some.

No one questioned the response. We moved.

⸻

The hatch opens. Smoke slams into my senses — burnt plastic, scorched earth, jet fuel thick enough to sting the eyes. Emergency personnel stand frozen, backs pressed against fire engines, staring upward like the sky might fall on them.

The wreckage glows orange in the dark, metal twisted like taffy. Flames roar, spit sparks, swallow steel.

Underneath sirens, screams, and fire crack, I hear something smaller:

A heartbeat. Fast. Erratic. Young.

And something else — a frequency like metal grinding across bone. It prickles against my skin, unfamiliar, foreign.

I lift off the ground.

My cape billows as I rise through smoke and heat. The League stays back, waiting, watching.

Then I see her.

A girl — no older than twelve. Hovering above a torn fuselage. Small frame. Bare feet. A homemade costume stitched from rough cloth and ripped fabric, probably scavenged from wherever she landed. The mask is crude — almost ritualistic, angles sharp, holes jagged.

And she’s drenched in blood. Her fingertips drip thick, dark rivulets onto the metal below.

Not just injured. Someone else’s blood.

Her eyes — glowing faint red — track me like a predator sizing distance.

I stop twenty feet away. Hands open. Calm. Gentle.

“Hey… you’re alright. You’re not in trouble.”

She doesn’t flinch.

Her posture is wrong — shoulders relaxed, chin tilted. Not afraid. Curious. Studying me the way a biologist studies an insect.

My enhanced vision brushes her body, searching for fractures, wounds.

None. Not a scratch.

She’s not Kryptonian. Her cells… hum differently. A harder frequency. Dense. Designed for impact. For destruction.

Something like Kryptonian biology… but twisted toward aggression.

The realization sits heavy:

Whatever species she is… they weren’t meant to save worlds.

They were made to take them.

My voice stays even.

“What’s your name?”

She tilts her head — too far — like she’s mimicking humanity instead of living it.

When she finally speaks, her voice is a whisper, delicate and delighted:

“They tried to stop me… but their bones break so easy.”

Ice slides down my spine.

Behind me, I hear Diana’s heartbeat change — war-ready. Hal’s ring pulses brighter. Bruce’s gauntlet clicks — contingencies arming.

I raise a hand, signaling them to hold.

Sight: flames bending around her like the fire respects her. Smell: copper and burning hair. Sound: a low hum from her chest — not a heartbeat. A power source.

Her species didn’t evolve. They were forged.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say softly. “We can help you.”

Sent.

My stomach knots.

Her pupils dilate, irises flickering with alien glyphs I’ve never seen. Something ancient. Conqueror-born.

The fire behind her flares like a salute.

She whispers:

“And there will be more. So many more.”

The wind howls through the wreckage.

My fists clench involuntarily.

She is just a child… But she is also an invasion.

And Kansas — my home — might be the first domino.

I take one slow breath.

She is not Kryptonian. She is not peaceful. She was never meant to be.