(TSSFH) CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE: SUPERMAN II

Most people thought Superman was more brawn than brain, and he couldn’t really blame them for that. When you could lift mountains and regularly went toe-to-toe against the mightiest foes, people tended to see the strength before the thought behind it.

But that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

He’d learned early that brute force wasn’t always the answer. Most of his greatest challenges—the ones that had kept him awake at night, worried—weren’t problems he could punch away: Brainiac, Lex, and even Manchester Black. Each had demanded strategy, patience, and a level of restraint he hadn’t always possessed in his youth. And though he’d never claimed to be a genius, not like Bruce or Michael Holt, he knew enough to keep up with them when it mattered.

And more importantly, he’d learned to recognize when intelligence was needed more than strength.

Just like now.

The Ash Beast wasn’t an enemy he could defeat with his fists, at least not without killing the person trapped somewhere at the center of that endless inferno, and that wasn’t an option. Death wasn’t victory, not for him. Yes, Ash Beast’s existence was agony, and whoever they were would probably be thankful to be put out of his misery, but Superman was sure—with every ounce of conviction in his heart—that there was another way.

He’d seen power overwhelm people before, even on his Earth. People transformed, consumed, and broken by their own gifts. Maybe not exactly like this, but close enough to understand what it meant. So out-of-control powers weren’t new to him, and the tragedy of losing one’s self to them wasn’t new either.

He’d seen it before. People on his Earth had lost control of their powers too, men, women, and even children twisted by either their emotions or powers until they became unrecognizable. Maybe not to this degree, maybe not so utterly erased, but enough that he understood what it meant to lose oneself completely. To forget who you were under the influence of what you could do.

Everyone deserved the chance to come back.

Ash Beast could be saved, and so could Noelle. He believed that. But belief wasn’t enough. He needed help. He needed Cauldron’s help. And that meant going through Rebecca Costa-Brown, the Chief Director of the PRT, a member of the Triumvirate, and one of Cauldron’s inner circle.

The meeting they’d had weeks earlier, about Scion and Eidolon, had ended with a promise to work together when the time came. This was that time.

He couldn’t just fly straight to Cauldron’s headquarters; even he didn’t know where it was, and if he tried to force his way in, they’d vanish farther away before he ever got close. But Rebecca was reachable. Predictable, even. And she understood that when Superman asked for a meeting, it wasn’t out of impatience or pride. It was because the clock was ticking. She’d understand his urgency. 

So he flew to Los Angeles.

The city stretched beneath him in golden haze, sunlight glinting off the Pacific as he descended from the upper atmosphere. The city center sprawled with glass towers and concrete, busy as always, and he took a moment to appreciate how peaceful it looked from above. Appearances could lie, of course, but based on what he knew, the capes here provided very little elbow room for most local villains to strive. 

He landed on the roof of the PRT Department 2, the wind barely whispering as his boots touched down. The guards stationed there stiffened, their hands twitching toward weapons before training, and recognition, overrode instinct.

Superman straightened, his presence filling the space without needing to loom. “Please inform Chief Director Costa-Brown I need to talk to her,” he said simply, his voice carrying without effort.

For a moment, no one moved. Then one of the guards—a younger man with a fresh uniform and the look of someone still adjusting to how strange this new world had become—nodded quickly and pressed a finger to his earpiece. “10-70,” he murmured, “Superman’s here. He says he needs to talk to the Chief Director.”

The guard paused, listening, and then looked up again. “She says she’ll see you right away, sir.”

Superman inclined his head. “Thank you.”

The gratitude was simple, yet it made the young man stand a little taller. He swallowed and gestured to the elevator. “This way, sir…uh, Superman.” 

Inside, the machinery didn't so much as whirr as it climbed, though the sound of breathing filled the quiet. Superman folded his hands behind his back, watching the lights indicating the floors tick downward, and waited. 

Eventually, the doors slid open to the designated floor: a minimalist office lined with bookshelves, the walls washed in late-afternoon light. 

Rebecca Costa-Brown was already waiting by the window. Her posture was as straight as always, and even from behind, she radiated control.

She turned as he stepped inside—just after the accompanying guard went back to his post using the elevator, and they were alone—her expression unreadable, as though she’d been expecting him for days. The faint lines around her eyes betrayed fatigue, though it was revealed to be the work of makeup on second glance. Her face remained youthful and free of any blemish, save of course for the scar on her face. A single imperfection on an otherwise flawless mask.

“Superman,” she greeted, her tone even but not cold. “I take it this isn’t a social visit.”

He shook his head. “No. It’s about the Ash Beast.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’ve taken care of it.”

“No,” he admitted, bowing his head slightly. “I can’t, at least not without killing it, and I don’t believe that’s the only way.”

Rebecca’s arms folded across her chest. “You think it can be contained?”

“I think it can be helped,” he corrected softly. “But I can’t do it alone. I need access to Cauldron’s resources, and your data on parahuman mutations. Whatever you’ve learned about the source of powers here.”

She studied him for a long moment, weighing every word. “That’s a tall request,” she said carefully. “Even for you.”

“I’m not asking for secrets,” Superman replied, meeting her eyes. “I’m asking for you to help me provide solutions the way I can.”

Her gaze lingered on him, and for the first time since he arrived here, her posture eased, albeit slightly. “You really believe you can help them.”

“I have to,” he said simply. “Because if I start believing that some lives are beyond saving… then I stop being who I am.”

Rebecca exhaled softly through her nose, almost a sigh. Then she turned to the glass again, his reflection joining hers, two figures with similar responsibilities thrust upon them. 

“I’ll arrange a meeting,” she said at last. “With the others. But you’ll have to convince them yourself, and they won’t make it easy.”

Superman nodded. “I wouldn’t want them to.”

That earned him the faintest twitch of her lips, something close to a smile. “You really are an idealist.” She shook her head slightly, as if to dismiss her thoughts, and added, “Door. Cauldron.”

A portal appeared, but before Superman entered, he took one last glance at her. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “They may not like what you have to say.”

He smiled faintly, giving a quiet hum of acknowledgement. 

And with that, he stepped through the portal.