(THE “S” STANDS FOR HOPE) CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO: CLARK

The subject of good and evil was one that had been debated since time immemorial, and to date, no one had ever managed to give an accurate definition of what either of the two terms truly meant.

Clark had read philosophers who argued it was a matter of perspective, a product of circumstance and upbringing, of hunger and fear and what a person was taught to value before they were old enough to question them. Others claimed it was intrinsic, something written into a being long before they ever made their first meaningful choice. 

His ma and pa had always believed the former, with an unshakable certainty born of kindness, not ignorance. 

There’s good in all, Clark.

He had grown up on that belief, had carried it with him from Kansas to Metropolis and then far beyond Earth’s atmosphere. It was a comforting idea. A necessary one, too, if you wanted to be a hero. 

But Clark had met beings who flew in the face of such a notion.

As such, he was more inclined to believe that environment mattered far more than people liked to admit, though, as with most things, the truth lived somewhere in the uncomfortable middle ground. Perspective shaped people, and so did nature. 

Would Darkseid still be Darkseid if he had been raised in a good, loving home?

Superman was lauded as a paragon of justice, the ultimate Boy Scout, but even he would answer that question with a no. Darkseid’s evil was too intrinsic, too foundational to his very existence, to ever allow him to become anything else. He was not shaped by tyranny; he embodied it.

But that didn’t mean Clark wouldn’t try to help, if a being wanted to be more than what their nature dictated.

But wanting mattered.

Which was why he found it difficult to understand why it was considered so alarming that he had been seen talking to Rune.

The PRT, it seemed, disagreed.

The conference room was too small for the number of people crammed inside it.

Director Piggot stood at the head of the table, jaw set in the way that meant her mind was already made up and she was waiting for everyone else to catch up. Around her sat analysts, PRT officers, a handful of capes, and Clark himself, positioned intentionally off to one side rather than among them.

A screen at the far end of the room played a muted video on loop.

Superman and Rune on the rooftop.

Apparently, the building belonged to Medhall Corporation. It had been kept intentionally empty for some time now, a real estate asset waiting for the right moment. It was also outfitted with cameras, placed just carefully enough to avoid casual detection.

One of those cameras had captured everything.

And Max Anders had obviously wasted no time.

Piggot broke the silence first. “You understand the problem.”

“I understand that there is a problem,” Clark replied evenly. “I don’t agree that I’m the cause of it.”

A few heads turned his way. But some, like Armsmaster, didn’t even bother at all.

Piggot exhaled sharply through her nose. “That girl is an active member of the Empire Eighty-Eight.”

“She’s fourteen,” Clark replied.

“She’s a parahuman affiliated with a domestic terrorist organization,” Piggot shot back. “Her age affords her leniency in sentencing. It does not exempt her from scrutiny, or consequences.”

Clark nodded slowly. “But I didn’t give her immunity. I didn’t give her anything except comfort.”

“You gave her legitimacy,” one of the analysts said, tapping the screen with a stylus. The footage froze on a frame where Superman had lowered himself to Rune’s level. “That image alone has been shared over forty thousand times.”

Piggot continued without missing a beat. “Medhall’s campaign office released a statement less than an hour after this surfaced. Max Anders praised your ‘open-mindedness’ and reaffirmed his belief that Brockton Bay needed leadership that brought people together.”

Something cold settled in Clark’s chest.

“So he’s lying,” Clark said.

“No,” Piggot replied. “He isn’t.”

She gestured to the screen, and the video resumed. Clark heard his own voice, tinny through the speakers:

“I’m not here to arrest you. And I’m not here to lecture you.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I heard someone who was hurting. And ignoring that is wrong.”

Piggot paused the footage again.

“That last line alone,” she said, “has done more for Anders’ polling numbers than weeks of campaign ads.”

Clark leaned back in his chair, fingers interlaced loosely in his lap. “If the public believes that talking to a crying teenager is an endorsement of her ideology, then the issue isn’t me.”

“That may be true,” Piggot said flatly. “But it’s also irrelevant to our current situation.”

Armsmaster finally looked at him, mouth set in a thin line. “Your intentions don’t really matter here,” he said. “What people take from it does. You should know that, Superman.”

“Then let’s talk about perception,” Clark replied, meeting his gaze. “Because the alternative you’re suggesting is what? That I ignore people like her entirely? That I only engage when there’s a warrant and a cell waiting?”

“That would at least be consistent,” Piggot said.

“Consistently wrong,” Clark retorted.

A murmur rippled through the room. Piggot’s eyes hardened, but she didn’t speak up yet.

“I didn’t promise her absolution,” Clark continued. “I listened and offered advice. And if that is enough to legitimize an extremist movement, then we’re already in deeper trouble than this room wants to admit.”

An uncomfortable silence followed. 

Then, after a while, one of the analysts cleared her throat. “With respect, you don't operate in a vacuum. Everything you do is amplified, especially here.”

Especially in Brockton Bay, went unsaid but was heard by all.

Piggot nodded. “We’re not asking you to stop believing in second chances. We’re asking you to be more… selective about where you extend them.”

Clark considered that as he thought of Rune’s tear-streaked face, and the heart-wrenching realization that being useful wasn’t the same as being wanted. And more, poignantly, the way she hadn’t said yes, but hadn’t said no, either to his offer.

“Selective,” he repeated, a hint of skepticism creeping in quietly. “Or… convenient.”

Piggot didn’t answer.

The meeting ended shortly after that. There was no resolution, and Clark honestly didn't feel like staying longer than he had to. He quickly left the building through the window, the city rushing up to meet him as his thoughts raced.

There’s good in all, Clark.

Rune wasn’t Darkseid.

But neither was Max Anders.

That was the problem.

Exposing Anders’ secrets hadn’t slowed him. Brockton Bay was desperate, exhausted, and angry, and in Anders, they saw someone who promised answers. Someone who felt closer, more human, than some alien being in a cape.

They had ignored the warning signs willingly.

Clark doubted that even the truth—that Max Anders was Kaiser—would be enough to stop the momentum he’d built.

Maybe this was no longer a war Clark Kent could fight alone.

Maybe it was time for Clark, and Superman, to stop treating this like a philosophical problem.

And start treating it like what it really was.