DC: Rise Of The Kryptonian Tyrant

Nevada, the town of Stonetown.

The town of Stonetown was as ordinary as they come, indistinguishable from countless others. It had no remarkable architecture, no scenic vistas, and no historical landmarks worth mentioning.

In the distance, however, stood the giant sequoia forest—a rare and striking feature.

Giant sequoias are the thickest trees in existence, some even growing to over 110 meters tall. While the ones in this forest weren't quite as towering, many reached heights of 60 to 70 meters, standing like ancient sentinels among the other trees.

Most of the homes in Stonetown were constructed from the wood of these sequoias, their strength a point of local pride. Logging had always been a part of the town's rhythm, a tradition that never really waned. Whenever someone needed firewood, a new fence, or reinforcements for their home, groups of middle-aged men would head out to fell trees together.

The sight of these men cutting down a massive, 60-meter tree—trunks so large they required four or five people to encircle them was almost theatrical. The thunderous crash as the giant fell, the spray of dirt from the impact, and the trembling ground beneath their feet filled them with pride.

What they didn't realize, however, was that giant sequoia wood, while resistant to decay, was brittle and prone to cracking, making it less than ideal for construction.

From his window, Mike watched as sawn timber was hauled past his house. He silently scoffed at what he saw as the ignorance of these country folk. Even though his own house had been built with their help, it didn't stop him from looking down on them in private.

Of course, what Mike didn't understand was that the locals often crushed sequoia wood into pulp, using it to create stronger, decay-resistant materials.

When the last of the wood passed his door, Mike stepped outside, breathing a sigh of relief.

He found the townsfolk's enthusiasm for logging tiresome. Whenever they ran into him, they'd invariably say things like, "Mike's grown up so well," or, "Mike's got such a bright future." Their praise was inevitably followed by suggestions like, "Mike, you should write a story about small-town life. There's warmth in simplicity."

Mike didn't want to greet them, let alone entertain their naïve notions about his profession. To him, there was nothing worth writing about in this uneventful little town.

If not for the holidays, and the obligation to visit his family, Mike would never have set foot in Stonetown again. The place had no news value.

In his mind, he belonged in National City, interviewing high-profile business magnates, celebrity musicians, or writing profiles on Pulitzer Prize winners. He had graduated from National City University and joined the National Daily Newspapers as a full-time journalist. He was a rising star in his field, and he clung tightly to his aspirations for success.

One day, he thought, he would be there. He would be one of the greats.

And it seemed, perhaps, that the universe agreed.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, twilight gave way to darkness, and stars began to shimmer in the vast sky.

Then, a streak of light blazed across the heavens.

"A meteor?" Mike muttered, his hands tucked into the pockets of his black sweatshirt. He tilted his head back to watch the fiery streak, noting how close it seemed. The object's outline, though faint, was visible, surrounded by a red-hot glow as it tore through the atmosphere.

Suddenly, the "meteor" erupted in an explosion that shook the air around him. Mike staggered back, startled by the deafening sound. His heart pounded as a plume of thick black smoke trailed from the object, which hurtled toward the forest on the town's outskirts.

His wide eyes followed its descent. The fiery projectile crashed into the sequoia forest, splintering trees as it struck the ground. The impact was so fierce that Mike imagined the reverberation down to his teeth.

The explosion woke the sleeping town.

"It's a meteor!" someone shouted.

"It hit the sequoia forest!"

"Call the fire department! Notify the police!"

"Tell everyone in town to prepare for an evacuation, there might be a wildfire!"

Experienced voices rang out, shouting orders as the townsfolk poured into the streets. The threat of a fire spreading from the forest to their wooden homes was enough to send everyone into action.

Although sequoias are naturally resistant to flames, the plants and debris surrounding them often served as kindling, turning small sparks into raging infernos.

The rising smoke set the town on edge.

But Mike stood frozen, his gaze fixed on the plume rising from the forest.

That wasn't a meteor. He was certain of it.

His instincts as a budding journalist told him this was something new, something monumental.

The Pulitzer Prize was calling to him.

Mike's body tingled with excitement, his skin breaking out in goosebumps. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he spun on his heel, running back toward his house. He ignored the crowd preparing to evacuate and the man who shouted for him to help alert others.

The smoke wasn't from burning vegetation. It was thick, mechanical, the byproduct of some kind of explosion.

Bursting through his front door, Mike dashed to his room, panting. He grabbed his beloved Pentax K1000 camera from the closet, quickly loaded it with film, and slung it around his neck. Without so much as a goodbye to his parents, he flew down the stairs, taking them two at a time, and wheeled his mountain bike out of the garage.

Ignoring the burning in his legs, Mike pedaled furiously toward the forest, the town fading behind him. His breath came in heavy gasps, his face flushed with exhilaration.

The closer he got, the more certain he became. There was no wildfire, the smoke was from an explosion, just as he'd thought.

Reaching the forest's edge, Mike abandoned his bike on a steep hill. Fueled by adrenaline, he clambered up the slope on all fours, ignoring the scrapes and bruises forming on his hands and knees. His muscles screamed in protest, but he pushed on, his excitement an unstoppable force.

Finally, he broke through the treeline.

His breath hitched.

The crash site was everything he'd hoped for and more.

Massive gashes marred the trunks of nearby sequoias, their bark peeled back to expose the pale wood beneath. At the center of the devastation, billowing thick black smoke, was a white spaceship.

The vessel's design was sleek, futuristic, almost otherworldly in its elegance. But it was heavily damaged, half of its hull charred and sparking faintly.

Leaning against the wreckage was a man, unconscious. His features gave him an arresting, almost ethereal appearance, while the deep scar on his left cheek lent him a cold, unyielding air.

Stepping closer, Mike instinctively moved to help the man. But the thick smoke drove him back, and he coughed violently, tears streaming from his eyes.

Then his fingers brushed against the camera hanging from his neck, snapping him back to reality.

"Who cares about saving him? Get the shot first," he muttered to himself.

Mike raised the camera, pressing it to his eye. The sound of the shutter and the whir of the film advancing sent a thrill through him. Each click of the camera brought him closer to his dreams of winning the Pulitzer.

By the time the roll of film was used up, Mike was grinning ear to ear, licking his dry lips in satisfaction.

Only then did he remember the man.

As the smoke began to thin, Mike edged closer to the ship. He fanned the lingering fumes away with his hands and tried to pull the man free.

"He's… so heavy," Mike muttered, straining.

It wasn't that the man was stuck. His body was unnaturally dense, as if he were made of solid iron.

Mike's breath caught as the realization hit him.

"This isn't human… He's not from Earth."

Before he could process the thought further, movement stirred in the shadows of the forest.

Dark figures emerged silently, surrounding the crash site.

Mike froze.

From the group stepped a tall, imposing man in a military colonel's uniform.

Relief flooded Mike. "Soldiers!" he exclaimed. "Thank God! Help me—he's too heavy, and I'm telling you, he's not human—"

Before Mike could finish, the man in uniform, Colonel Slade, moved.

In an instant, he closed the distance between them. His right hand blurred, striking Mike in the throat with pinpoint precision.

Mike crumpled to the ground, unconscious.