(TKP) ULTRAMAN

There had never been a time when Ultraman existed without a directive. From the first breath drawn into his cloned lungs, his purpose had been absolute: obey without hesitation; strike without mercy; and destroy without question. He was not born, not truly. He was forged solely as a weapon, with the voice of his creator and those worthy as his constant companion, always whispering instructions, correcting errors, and praising his successes.

But now… silence.

He did not remember being thrown into the black hole, only what came before: powerful fists colliding, heat vision burning through the air, and the flash of blue and red in front of him. Then, a force had seized him and flung him into the void. And in that endless, directionless drift, one thing remained:

Hatred. 

It had been planted in him. A necessary tool for a weapon, focused entirely on the greatest threat to order. The alien that smiled as it fought, and saved even when it could have ruled.

Superman.

Ultraman was the correction to the mistake, the stronger, faster, and more ruthless of the two. And yet, in that final clash, he had lost.

He had fallen to Superman. 

He had failed his creator, failed the mission, and now, there was nothing. There was no one to tell him who to be, and what to do, so all he could do was close his eyes and wait for the void to finish what Superman had started. 

But then, an impact resounded through the air, his body tearing through a ceiling and striking the foundation of a building like a missile. Debris erupted outward as the ground cratered beneath him, melting in the heat wake of his entry, and smoke and dust rose in plumes.

For a moment, he lay there in the rubble. Then the next, his body was already slowly getting to his feet. He felt no pain—though pain was familiar and gave him focus, even through his ever-present rage—only confusion as his gaze drifted upward. He looked toward the hole he’d punched in the roof, exposing the night sky above, and wondered where he was. 

He turned his head slowly, movement smooth, yet almost mechanical, as she stepped into view.

She was young—maybe in her early teens—with tousled blonde hair framing a face caught somewhere between fear and dawning realization. The grin she wore was shaky at the edges, but it stayed fixed, like it had been worn often and worn well.

She was scared, he could tell. Her pulse was elevated, her posture braced, and her eyes scanned the room for any means of escape. But unlike the others fanned out behind her, she didn’t wear her emotions on her sleeves. She portrayed a confidence that had him tensing instinctively, the way he would before a strike.

She looked at him the way a child might look at a broken toy: curious, cautious, and evaluating.

“Wow,” she said, cocking her head to one side. “That was dramatic.”

He said nothing, with not even a twitch of his still body. 

She took a slow step forward. “You okay there, big guy? Bit of a rough landing.”

He didn’t move, but his eyes narrowed. There was something undeniably dangerous in her tone, not the threat of force as he would’ve dealt with her immediately, but something quieter: the undeniable danger of knowing. Yet, something about her eyes, that same quiet expectation behind the gaze and the assumption that he was a tool—a thing to be used—was familiar. 

“I’m Tattletale,” she said, offering no explanation for the name reveal. “And you… you are definitely not from around here.”

Still, he remained silent. Words weren’t his weapon, they never had been. But her presence pressed at the edge of his thoughts in a subtle way, deep beneath the mask of his perfect flesh, as if she saw more than she should.

“Don’t talk much?” she asked, then clicked her tongue. “No worries. I’ve dealt with silent types before.”

His eyes shifted to take in the other teenagers in the room, unevenly spaced behind her, like they weren’t sure whether to run or fight: a dark-skinned boy, hands twitching with nervous energy; a girl with a muscular build and a snarl on her lips; and a lithe boy watching with vague amusement. 

But try as he might, they couldn't hold his attention for more than a second. Only the blonde did. Not because she was anything special, but because she looked at him the same way his creator once had. 

And in that, there was something almost… comforting.

And that was oddly comforting.

She took a single step closer. “Not gonna lie, you’re creeping me out a little.” Despite her harsh words, her voice was lighter now. “But also? You’re interesting. And that’s my whole thing.”

He still didn’t react.

She squinted slightly, eyes flicking between his face, his hands, and the way he stood still like a statue. “You understand me, don’t you?”

He gave no visible indication she was right, but she smiled a fraction wider than before, as if sensing the truth of his feelings. “Thought so.”

Finally, he reacted because he had come to a conclusion. She acted like his creator, so she must be his creator, and as such, he awaited her orders.