Kal sat on the cold metal bench outside Principal Neumann's office, one leg bouncing with quiet impatience, the other foot flat and still. The hallway was silent save for the muffled ticking of a wall clock and the occasional chatter of a distant class. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above, casting a sterile glow over the linoleum floors and faded bulletin boards.
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling but not really seeing it—his focus was inward, fixed on the quest window hovering in his vision like a ghost.
[ORIGIN QUEST ASSIGNED: "Echoes of the Crash"
Your pod has been found. Not by a human.
Objective: Investigate the anomaly. Retrieve the pod.
Time Limit: None—delays may have consequences.
Reward: +500XP, Kryptonian Escape Pod]
Kal exhaled slowly, brow furrowed. The message had been bouncing around in his skull all morning. It changed everything. Again.
First: a pod. His pod. That alone was staggering. It meant his Kryptonian heritage wasn't just flavor text on his status screen—it had substance. Tangible artifacts. Maybe even tools or tech that could accelerate his growth. And if this world held that… What else did it hold?
Second: the line that chilled him the most. Not by a human.
He couldn't stop replaying it. What the hell did that mean? Monsters? Aliens? Monsters and aliens? He'd seen enough media to know where that phrasing usually led. His pulse quickened at the thought, not out of fear, but readiness. He'd always assumed the world he woke up in was just a slightly altered Earth. But that assumption was cracking.
Third: Origin Quests. The fact that it had its own quest type implied there were multiple. A deeper connection to his past—or at least the past of this body. If there was one pod, maybe there were others. A fleet? Survivors? Hidden memories? A backup AI? He didn't know. But now he had reason to hope. And reason to worry.
The door to the principal's office clicked open. Kal blinked, pulled from his spiral of thoughts as a secretary in a beige cardigan peeked her head out.
"Kal Kent? Principal Neumann will see you now."
Kal pushed all his thoughts to the back of his mind and stood. Brushing imaginary dust from his jacket, he stepped inside.
The office door clicked shut behind him.
Kal stood still for a moment, taking in the room. It was well-lit and surprisingly cozy. Not sterile like he expected. A few houseplants, a row of thick books with curled spines, and a large window letting in slatted morning light through the blinds. Mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, filled with awards, old leather-bound books, and framed class photos that stretched back decades. It smelled faintly of citrus and aging paper.
Principal Thomas Neumann stood waiting, a calm expression on his lined face. Mid-60s, graying beard, warm eyes. A navy blazer over a pale blue shirt.
"Kal," he said, stepping forward and extending his hand.
Kal shook it. Firm grip. The man held his for a second longer than necessary, like he meant it.
"Thanks for coming. Go ahead and take a seat."
Kal nodded and sat down in the chair in front of the principal's large wooden desk. He half-expected Neumann to go around and settle into the high-backed chair behind it. Instead, the man stayed where he was, walking around the side and easing himself onto the edge of the desk, just in front of Kal.
Not a coincidence.
Thomas had made a decision the moment Kal walked in—he wasn't going to talk at the boy from across a desk like some administrator wielding policy. No. The kid had lost everything. Both parents, according to the file. Uprooted. Dropped in a town where the rain barely stopped falling.
'This conversation needs to be heart to heart', Thomas thought. 'Not bureaucratic.'
Thomas's heart ached as he took in the boy before him—composed, respectful, quiet. And utterly alone. A sixteen-year-old with no parents, no friends, no anchors in this gray little town. He looked at Kal and saw himself, thirty years ago, sitting in a hospital hallway with two death certificates in his hand and no idea what to do next.
But this was harder, he thought. Kal had no time to grieve. No one to guide him through it.
Thomas took a slow breath.
'This isn't easy', he thought. 'How do you start a conversation like this?'
He let a few more seconds tick by in silence, hoping the right words would come.
For a moment, neither of them said anything.
Kal tilted his head slightly.
The man was looking at him strangely. Not suspicion. Not irritation.
It was… sympathy?
'What's with the face?' Kal thought, confused. He glanced away. 'Why's he looking at me like my dog died?'
Thomas exhaled, gathering the words.
This was the hard part. The opening.
"I asked you here because," he said gently, "you missed your entire first week of school. First week of the semester."
Kal opened his mouth. "I—"
But Thomas raised a hand.
"You don't need to apologise."
Kal paused, lips still parted. He slowly closed them again.
"You've had everything you held dear taken from you," Thomas said, voice low, steady. "And then, before you even had time to catch your breath, you were moved somewhere completely unfamiliar."
Kal blinked. His brows pinched just slightly.
'What is he talking about?'
There was a pause. Heavy. Intentional.
Thomas looked out the window, just briefly, remembering.
"When my parents died—my mother went first, and my father followed the very next day—I didn't come into work for a month."
He gave a soft, mirthless chuckle. "And even when I did come back, I didn't get anything done for another month after that. I was here in body, but I wasn't really here."
Kal sat up a little straighter. The words hit him differently now.
Not because he felt them—but because he finally understood what this was.
'He thinks I'm grieving', Kal realised. 'He thinks I lost my parents. That's why he's saying all this.'
For a second, it was like the whole charade turned inside out.
The system had forged documents, seeded fake death certificates, planted just enough backstory to justify his sudden enrollment.
And this man—this very good, very sincere man—had read that file and shaped this entire conversation around it.
Kal almost laughed.
Only now did the absurdity of it hit him—he was supposed to be acting like a grief-stricken teen. Instead, he'd spent the week punching trees, flying over forests, and completing psychic torture chess trials against Chopin. The contrast was so staggering, it felt like a cosmic joke.
He wanted to laugh.
Desperately.
But he couldn't.
Kal lowered his head, locked his jaw, and forced the humor into a cold, invisible place behind his ribs. Not just to look sad—but to not crack. It gave him a look of subdued grief. Perfect for the moment.
Thomas, of course, mistook the movement for grief. His heart clenched.
In truth, he just needed to hide the laugh threatening to explode.
"I was nearly forty when my parents died," Thomas went on, voice softening further. "You're only sixteen."
He shook his head.
"I can't imagine how that must feel."
That was the tipping point. Kal's lungs trembled with the effort of keeping it down. The moment anyone told you you weren't allowed to laugh was the exact moment everything became funnier.
But he didn't crack.
He kept his head low. Jaw locked.
Thomas mistook the silence for something else.
"I know you need time. To heal. To adjust. That's normal. But… your education's still important too. And I think we can work something out."
He gestured behind him, toward the open file on his desk.
"I've seen your transcript. Straight A's. All the core subjects."
He looked back down at Kal, his tone carefully measured.
"I've seen your transcript. Straight A's. That's impressive. So here's the deal I'd like to offer you."
"You keep up with your assignments. Maintain your grades. And attend school at least fifty percent of the time. That's all I ask. No questions. No judgment. The state doesn't grant credits by seat time anyway—just performance. Can we agree to that?"
Thomas waited, then asked, "Is that okay by you?"
Kal slowly lifted his head. For a moment, it looked like he was going to say something.
Then he stopped. The words never came. A single tear rolled down his cheek.
He just nodded.
Thomas nodded back, satisfied.
'Poor kid was so choked up he couldn't even get a word out.'
On Kal's side, the story was quite different. The words that never came out? Because if Kal opened his mouth he knew he would laugh. The tear that rolled down his cheek? From trying to keep it in.
A quiet moment passed between them.
Then Thomas reached out and placed a warm, steady hand on Kal's shoulder.
The gesture was simple. Human. Real.
Kal looked up at him—and for the first time, really saw him.
As a person. One trying to offer comfort the only way he knew how.
Suddenly, Kal no longer found the situation funny. The absurdity drained away.
He saw the earnestness in the man's eyes. The quiet ache behind them. This wasn't some performance. It wasn't pity.
It was empathy.
And just like that, Kal understood something else.
This man is a good person.
Thomas pulled back and cleared his throat.
"You've been signed up for all your core subjects already—math, English, chemistry, physics, biology. You'll need to pick your electives, though. Seven in total. At least two languages. One art. You can sort the rest out with my assistant."
He rose and gestured toward the door.
"I'll walk you out."
Kal stood and followed.
As the door opened and they stepped back into the hall, Kal wiped away the tear in his cheek.
[Quest Complete: "A Most Academic Concern"
Objective:Attend the scheduled meeting with Principal Thomas D. Neumann at Forks High School on Monday, January 10th at 9:00 AM.]
[+100XP]
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kal's first official day of school began as unceremoniously as the sky above Forks: grey, overcast, and reluctant. The moment he stepped into the corridors, he felt it — the weight of a hundred eyes trying not to stare. People noticed him, even if they pretended not to. Forks High School wasn't big. News of a new student, especially one as out-of-place looking as him, spread fast.
He had picked his electives the day before, after the meeting with Principal Thomas: physics, computer science, gym, European history, Spanish, French, and music. The choices had been practical. Physics and computer science appealed to his curiosity, gym would help him blend in without suspicion, and the languages were... well, padding. The music class was chosen because of his recently-acquired piano playing skills. His lip quirked.
His first class of the day was Math. No need for introductions, thank god. The teacher simply gestured toward an empty seat at the back without pausing the lesson, and Kal gratefully slid into it. Heads turned. A few whispers buzzed. He ignored them. He just needed to keep his head down and make it through the day.
It wasn't long before the girl in front of him turned around. She had a bright, curious smile and the kind of presence that demanded attention without trying.
"Hey," she said, a bit too loudly. "You're the new guy, right?"
Kal blinked. He'd seen her before—or thought he had. For a second, he was caught off guard by how much she resembled Anna Kendrick, though her features were slightly softer, her voice a little more nasal.
"I'm Jessica. Jessica Stanley." she said. Quite enthusiastically.
"Kal," he said simply, offering a brief, polite nod.
Jessica's smile widened. "You got a schedule yet? If you want, I can show you around between classes. This place is a maze when you're new."
She tilted her head, letting her hair fall over one shoulder. She was definitely interested — Kal could tell from the way her eyes lingered a beat too long, the subtle shift in posture. She was trying to appear casual. She wasn't doing a bad job of it.
"Sure," Kal said. "Thanks."
The bell rang not long after, and she led him to their next shared class: European History. Again, Kal took a seat at the back, trying not to draw attention. Jessica talked the whole way there, mostly about the school, the teachers, the weather, the cafeteria food, a little gossip about who was dating who — stuff Kal barely retained. He nodded when appropriate, gave short answers that were polite but firm enough to keep her from asking too much.
It didn't stop her from trying.
She let him know about the cliques—the jocks, the band kids, the loners, the kids who always hung around the art wing. And some family called the Cullens.
"They're weird," Jessica whispered. "They're all adopted, and like, super pretty, but totally antisocial. They don't talk to anyone."
Kal could not care less.
By the time lunch rolled around, Kal was already mentally drained. Not because of the lessons — he barely needed to pay attention to keep up — but because of the constant interactions. Jessica had stuck to him like glue, seemingly determined to give him the full Forks High tour in a single day.
"You wanna sit with us?" she asked as they made their way to the cafeteria. "My friends would love to meet you."
Kal grimaced. He was not looking forward to school lunches again—especially when he didn't need to eat.
He offered a small, apologetic smile. "I'm not really hungry."
Jessica's face flickered with disappointment before she covered it with a smile. "Alright. Maybe tomorrow."
He gave her a grateful nod and peeled off before she could say more. Yes he didn't need to eat. At least not like other people. But more than that, he needed a break — from the noise, the staring, the effort of being normal.
He wandered the halls until he found the music wing. It was quieter here, almost eerily so. The soundproofed walls muffled the world. When he opened the door to the music room, he found it empty. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting pale bars of gold over the polished wood floor.
In the corner, near the back, sat a grand piano.
Kal walked to it slowly, almost reverently. He slid onto the bench, let his fingers rest on the keys. For a moment he just sat there, eyes closed, breathing in the stillness.
Then he played.
It wasn't a song so much as a memory. He let his hands move on their own, coaxing out a soft, melancholic melody that filled the room. The notes echoed off the walls, warm and rich. The kind of sound that made even the silence afterward feel full.
He didn't know how long he stayed there. It could've been minutes. Could've been an hour.
Eventually, the bell rang again. He sighed and stood, the last chord still vibrating in the air.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Chemistry, then French, then gym. He barely registered the lessons. The teachers didn't call on him, didn't ask questions, didn't even really look at him. They gave him the same quiet, pitying glances he'd seen in the principal's office. Kal knew why.
Thomas must've told them all.
He kept his head down, said as little as possible, and sat near the back every time. Jessica continued to talk to him in between classes, trying to make plans for after school or asking about his interests. He deflected each one gently but firmly.
When the final bell rang, Kal didn't waste a second. He was out of the building before the hallways filled, moving fast without looking like he was. He didn't stop walking until he was off campus entirely.
He made it home in record time.
The house was quiet. The same way he'd left it. But now, there was something new on the table in the kitchen: a map.
It was large and detailed, marked with topographical lines and road names. Two pins stood out clearly. One was Forks — a red pushpin nestled right in the town center.
The other was seventy kilometers northeast, deep in the Olympic wilderness. A black pin.
His pod.
The crash site. The place it'd arrived from whatever world or void or dimension it'd crossed.
He stared at the map for a long time, hands braced on the edge of the table, shoulders tense. The distance wasn't far — especially not for him — but it was remote, and the visibility obscured by the canopy. He didn't know what condition the pod would be in. Or what else might be there.
Still, he'd have to check it out soon. He had questions. Too many. And that pod might hold the answers.
For now, though, he was exhausted. Not physically — he could run across the state and still not break a sweat — but emotionally, mentally. The day had taken its toll.
He stood in silence, the quiet of the house wrapping around him like a blanket.
Tomorrow he would take the day off school - one of those 'personal days' he needed to 'grieve'. Instead he would find his pod.
And the truth waiting in the woods
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The next morning came with a dull mist clinging to the treetops, the sky as grey and unwelcoming as ever. Kal had barely slept, though his body didn't need rest the way humans did. He had spent the night reviewing the map, memorizing the terrain, estimating the path and altitude. Seventy kilometers northeast. The location of the pod.
He didn't bother with breakfast. Didn't need to.
Instead, he donned the Kryptonian bodysuit—he had learned his lesson after the first flight—his clothes had torn at the seams when exposed to the wind shear and acceleration. The bodysuit, however, adapted to his body's movement. Flexible. Durable. It didn't flap, didn't snag, didn't restrict. It fit him like a second skin, and when he stepped outside into the cold morning air, he felt like he could breathe.
With a running start, Kal launched into the sky.
The wind roared past him, but the suit held firm. He angled upward, breaking above the treeline, and then leveled out. The forest stretched below like an endless sea of green. Mountains sloped gently to the north, fog creeping through the valleys like slow smoke.
He flew low, no more than thirty meters above the canopy, weaving between rising ridges and plunging ravines. His internal compass guided him. Every few kilometers, he dipped beneath the trees to scan the ground up close, adjusting his course.
The flight took just over half an hour. That worked out his average speed as hovering around 130 mph.
He hovered high for a moment, gaze fixed on the clearing he knew held the pod.
Descending slowly now, Kal passed through the mist and down beneath the tree line. The thick green parted to reveal a clearing marred by violence. The trees surrounding it were blackened and broken, some split down the middle, others toppled as if swatted aside by a giant hand. The ground was scorched, soil overturned in deep furrows and shattered roots.
Following the trail of destruction, Kal saw it.
The pod.
It rested in the center of the clearing, hunched like a wounded beast. Dark, angular, and metallic, it was just slightly larger than a trailer in size. Smoke still rose from its vents, curling lazily into the air, as if the forest hadn't yet decided whether to smother it or flee from it.
Kal's boots touched down gently at the edge of the clearing. He stood still for a long moment, observing. The pod's hull was scorched but intact, though it looked like something had raked across one side of it. Jagged gouges marked the surface.
He took one step forward.
The pod shuddered.
Kal froze. It wasn't mechanical movement. It was impact.
Something had hit it.
The air fell silent. No birds. No insects. Even the wind seemed to halt.
From the far side of the pod, a shape emerged.
It moved like a wolf, looked like a wolf, but no natural beast resembled this.
Its form shimmered at the edges, like smoke barely contained by muscle and bone. Its fur — if it could be called that — was coarse and dark, matted in places and broken by sickly patches of exposed skin. Its eyes glowed faintly blue, not with light but with wrongness, as if something ancient and twisted peered out from behind them.
Its paws crunched the scorched earth as it crept forward, slow and deliberate, the way predators moved when they weren't sure what they were hunting.
Kal didn't move.
Neither did the thing.
The clearing held its breath.
Then the creature growled — low, wet, guttural.
Kal's jaw tightened.
Whatever it was, it wasn't here by accident.