The sky felt endless as I flew, the rising sun warming my skin, sending those tingles up my spine. There's nothing quite like it—the pure, unfiltered feeling of the sun, making me feel a little more alive than usual. The air was crisp up here, almost too clean for its own good. The ground far below me felt like a distant memory, a patchwork of farmland and mountain ranges, fading more with every mile.
I glanced at the comm screen in my headset, tracking my flight path. The automated flight control had me on course, keeping me under the cloud cover for now.
"Topeka Control, Kansas-Delta-One-One-Seven, reporting in. Just passed over the Rockies, nearing the coast now," I said, my voice steady, if not a little tired from the sheer speed I was pushing. Still a long way to go before I reached Hawaii.
"Acknowledged, Kansas-Delta-One-One-Seven. Confirm trajectory over San Francisco airspace. Stay beneath the clouds, avoid civilian flight paths," the flight controller replied. Their voice was calm, professional, the kind I'd come to expect from the fine folks at Topeka's air traffic center. They didn't say it out loud, but I could hear their underlying awe at the speed I was going. "Remember, we'll transfer you to the Japanese control center once you're clear of the Pacific."
"Understood, Control. Thanks."
Click. The comm went quiet again.
It felt nice, honestly. The quiet. Just the wind at my back and the distant rumble of engines somewhere far beneath. I didn't need to concentrate so hard on keeping my speed up. My body moved like it had been built for this. Every muscle, every cell, aligned to glide through the air like it was my second nature.
I looked down below me. The landscape stretched on, shifting from plains to rugged coastlines. I had a clear view of the Pacific now, its waters shifting from deep blue to lighter hues as I approached California.
My stomach gave a slight lurch as I saw the first signs of San Francisco coming into view—just the faint outline of the Golden Gate Bridge, sticking out of the morning haze. The air around me was clearer now, the faintest hint of fog hanging just above the bay. A few commercial jets were doing the final flight to the airport in the airspace down below. I could see them from above, their tiny, distant bodies barely noticeable against the stretch of land below.
If I wanted to, I could probably zip up through the clouds and head straight for Hawaii right now. But I had a rule. Stay below the cloud level for as long as I could. Less interference with other flights, fewer chances of mild panic from random civilians who might happen to glance up.
With a smile to myself, I adjusted my course slightly, veering just above the coastline and letting the sun bathe me in its warmth.
There was something calming about the way the world felt from up here, just me and the sky, not rushing but moving with purpose. The sun felt like an old friend, its warmth a soft, constant presence.
"Topeka Control, Kansas-Delta-One-One-Seven, checking in. Still cruising, just about to cross over the California coast. All clear on my end."
"Copy that, Kansas-Delta-One-One-Seven. You're still on track. Just keep it under the cloud cover."
"Roger that. Kansas out."
I clicked off the comm and relaxed for a second, adjusting my posture as I flew. The rhythmic motion was almost soothing. Almost. But my mind was already ahead, thinking about what was next: Japan, the place I'd been dreaming about for what felt like a year. UA.
But for now, the sky was all mine.
I tilted my head back slightly, eyes scanning the horizon. Just beneath me, San Francisco began to pass by, its buildings looking like miniature blocks. The Golden Gate Bridge flashed for a moment as I flew over, the red color catching the sunlight.
I was just starting to pass the edge of the city, cruising low and steady above the rooftops, the ocean ahead of me, when I heard it.
A scream.
Faint—muffled by buildings, wind, traffic—but sharp.
I flinched mid-flight, ears tuning in, filtering noise, zeroing in. Two blocks east. Lombard Street.
I banked hard.
Below me, San Francisco's most famously crooked road curved like a snake down the hill. But there, cutting through the curves, was a green sedan—barreling straight down, brakes squealing uselessly, engine growling like it was angry at the whole world. It had jumped the curve barrier entirely, crashing over hedges, garden fences, and ceramic lawn gnomes.
At the bottom of the hill stood a little girl. Couldn't have been more than six. Frozen. Red backpack, pigtails with cute little goat horns. Wide eyes locked on the green blur racing toward her like a hammer.
Time slowed. Not metaphorically—I made it slow.
I shot down like a comet, the air shrieking around me as I closed the distance.
My feet hit the pavement just a breath before the car reached her. I didn't hesitate.
Arms forward. Knees braced.
CRUNCH.
The metal screamed as I caught it. The green sedan crumpled like a soda can in my hands, front end folding in around my forearms. The tires bounced once before settling, the entire weight of the car now held an inch off the ground, swaying slightly in my grip.
Glass cracked. The engine hissed.
But it stopped.
And the girl… was safe.
She blinked up at me. I looked back at her, with my X-ray vision I could see her heart still pounding at a million.
"You okay?" I asked, my voice soft, careful.
She nodded slowly, too stunned to speak.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Someone had already called it in.
I gently set the wrecked car down on the sidewalk, propping it so it wouldn't roll again, then crouched in front of the girl, eyes level.
"Hey," I said, offering her a small smile. "You've got really good lungs. That scream reached me all the way across the sky."
She blinked, then managed a tiny giggle.
A woman came running down the hill—her mother, probably—sobbing and out of breath. She scooped the girl up and clutched her like she never wanted to let go.
"Thank you," she gasped, eyes wide with disbelief. "I—I don't know how you—"
"I was in the neighborhood," I said, adjusting my headset. "Tell the cops the parking brake failed."
Then I rose into the air, slow and steady.
Phones were already out. People pointing, snapping pictures, recording shaky video.
I didn't stop for the spotlight.
I turned east, back toward the Pacific, heart still pounding and chest a little heavier.
It felt good to help people.
--------
The ocean opened up beneath me like an endless sheet of glass, stretching beyond the curve of the earth. No buildings now. No sirens, no streets, no sounds but the steady thrum of wind in my ears and the slow hum of sunlight sinking into my skin.
This was it. The Pacific. Wide, blue, and mine.
I angled down, just enough to skim the surface. My boots barely missed the water, but my hand dipped low, fingers slicing into the ocean like a blade. Spray erupted behind me in a burst of glittering mist.
Then the sun hit it. A rainbow bloomed in my wake—vivid, arching, riding behind me like a comet's tail.
I didn't stop. I went faster.
Wind roared past me, pressure building against my chest, my shoulders. The salt of the sea clung to my lips. The clouds above blurred. The horizon began to bend. The air shimmered like heat off asphalt—but this was me, burning through the sky.
I was going fast. Very fast. The kind of fast that would shatter windows if I wasn't careful, that would make airline pilots wonder if they'd seen a ghost.
I spotted the island chain just as the sun hit its peak—pearls of green and gold scattered across the blue. I slowed my pace, dropping out of sonic speeds and coasting low, letting the wind cool the heat off my skin.
"Honolulu Tower, this is Kansas-Delta-One-One-Seven," I said through my headset, reactivating the comms. "Requesting temporary touchdown—non-commercial, solo flight, solar-powered quirk, registered."
There was a pause.
Then: "Kansas-One-One-Seven, confirmed. Uh… yeah, we've got you on radar. You're clear to land at Hero Access Pad Five. Welcome to Hawaii."
The voice sounded both impressed and slightly terrified.
"Much appreciated," I said with a grin. "Just need to stretch my legs. And, uh, use the bathroom."
"...Copy that."
I dropped altitude fast, the ocean wind shifting to city breeze as the skyline of Honolulu came into view. Glass towers, palm trees, the smell of the ocean and grilled shrimp wafting up from street vendors—it all hit me at once. I spotted the designated landing pad near a hero dispatch center just outside the airport. Painted bright red with a white H and reinforced concrete, it looked a little overkill for someone who technically didn't need to land at all.
But still. It felt right.
I touched down gently, adjusting my pack and folding my wings—well, metaphorical ones.
The facility was quiet, not much foot traffic. A couple of pro heroes glanced my way through the windows, a kid in a visor pressed his face against the glass and mouthed "whoa." A shark man staffer in a reflective vest waved at me, holding a clipboard.
"Clark Kent?" he asked.
"That's me."
"You're clear. Just a quick layover, yeah? Everything good?"
"Yeah," I said, already halfway toward the building. "Just pit stop stuff. Need to hit the head before I cross the ocean. Little hard to hover and unzip mid-flight."
He laughed, shark teeth shining in the air. "You'd be surprised how many flyers forget that part."
The bathroom was clean. Blessedly quiet. I splashed some water on my face, checked myself in the mirror—hair still mostly intact, nothing too dramatic. I dried my hands, adjusted my headset, and stepped back out into the sun.
One last stretch of land ahead of me. After this, it was nothing but open water.
I clicked my comms.
"Kansas-Delta-One-One-Seven, reporting. Refreshed and ready for transfer to Japanese control."
"Copy that, Kansas," said the voice from tower control. "You're cleared for departure. We'll initiate the handoff when you hit the mid-Pacific marker. Safe travels."
I stepped to the edge of the pad, closed my eyes, and inhaled deep.
Salt air. Sunshine. The faint sizzle of power humming in my bones.
I crouched low.
And then—
BOOM.
The world blurred again as I rocketed skyward.
----------
I stayed under the cloud layer for a while, gliding just above the sea. You know, out of respect. Maritime safety, migratory birds, satellite tracking—all that fun paperwork the FAA cared about, some bottlenoses were even jumping in the water under me. But eventually, a ping came through my headset:
"Kansas-Delta-One-One-Seven, this is Topeka Control. You are now entering mid-Pacific transfer range. Contact with Japanese Flight Authority will begin in sixty seconds."
I tapped the headset. "Copy that. It's been a pleasure, Topeka."
"Likewise. Permission granted to ascend above cloud level until reentry into Japanese airspace. Go stretch your wings, son."
I grinned.
"Roger that."
And then I punched it.
I soared upward, breaking through the clouds like a rocket. The light above was searing white—sunlight unfiltered, direct, and delicious. It hit my skin like a full-body espresso shot. Every cell lit up, warm and alive, my veins humming with energy.
I tilted my body forward and let loose.
BOOM.
The sonic crack echoed behind me like rolling thunder. I broke the sound barrier, then broke that, pushing faster, higher, smoother. My vision blurred at the edges as the world became speed, heat and sunlight.
The cloud layer stretched beneath me like a rolling sea of white, glowing soft and peach under the late sun. Above it, I tore through the upper air like a comet—shockwaves rippling behind me, the atmosphere splitting open as I flew fast enough to make satellites flinch.
Then my headset chirped. Hard frequency switch.
A new voice crackled through—clear, rapid, very Japanese:
"Kansasu Deruta One-One-Seven, kore wa Nihon Kūkū Kansei-sho—do you read?" He said in very broken English.
I nearly panicked, my brain scrambling through months of lessons.
Right. This was the moment. I was officially in Japanese airspace.
I slowed slightly, dropping my speed from "meteoric" to "extremely illegal by any country's standards," and fumbled for my best intro.
"Uh—kon'nichiwa, Japan Control," I said, stumbling a bit. "Watashi wa… Kansas Delta One-One-Seven desu. Clark Kent desu. Amerikajin. Tokyo kūkō ni chakuriku shimasu."
Silence.
Then static.
Then muffled Japanese voices—one of them definitely saying "Uso daro…" Like: You've gotta be kidding me.
Another voice jumped in—sharper, clipped, official:
"Kansas Delta One-One-Seven, this is Captain Hoshino with Japanese Air Traffic Control. You are… flying without aircraft?"
"Yes, sir," I said, switching smoothly into English. My brain was too slow for anything else. "Solar-powered quirk. Solo trans-Pacific flight. Cleared through FAA and Topeka Control."
Another pause. Then the voice returned—more cautious now, but also clearly impressed.
"Copy that. Please reduce velocity immediately. Maintain current altitude until cleared for descent. Your registered arrival point is Tokyo International Airport—Hero-Class Landing Corridor, Gate D-8. Beacon will activate shortly. You will follow it directly."
Then a pause.
"You… you really flew here from America?"
"Yes, sir," I said, feeling the burn of altitude finally ease as I dialed back the speed, letting the wind bite a little harder. "Kansas. Took off this morning."
Another pause. Then, quietly:
"…Sugoi."
I smiled.
"Thank you," I said, stumbling a little on the next word. "Arigatou… gozaimasu."
"We'll see you soon, Clark-san. Safe descent."
The comm clicked. My visor lit up with a descending path—an orange shimmer pulsing like a trail of light through the sky, guiding me down. Below me, the northern edge of Japan finally broke through the clouds—Hokkaido's craggy coast, shimmering rivers, and the long sprawl of land beyond. damm, overshot the country a bit, wrong island.
The descent path blinked gently on my visor, pulsing south the country, a few minutes later I was over the vast stretch of Tokyo Bay. Below the clouds, the world sharpened—towering skyscrapers, endless trains, blinking lights moving orderly. It was beautiful. Intimidating, but beautiful.
I followed the beacon toward the airstrip reserved for hero-class arrivals. No fanfare. No crowd. Just a wide stretch of reinforced tarmac set away from the busy terminals, marked clearly in English and Japanese: FLYERS ONLY.
I slowed as I dropped altitude, gently pressing against the wind as my hoodie flapped against my back. The air rippled around me. I touched down lightly, just a two-foot drop, boots tapping the ground with barely a sound.
Clean.
A few airport staff glanced my way from the nearby checkpoint. One woman in a safety vest blinked as I walked up. Another guy dropped his clipboard. I gave them a small, polite nod—hands in my pockets, best I-came-in-peace smile.
"Clark Kent?" the clipboard woman asked, her accent light but her English perfect.
"Yes, ma'am. From Kansas. Here for UA."
She nodded quickly, tapping at her tablet. "Welcome to Japan. Please proceed to customs and security. You've made excellent time."
"Thank you. Just lucky with the wind."
She gave a small, baffled laugh. "Right… of course."
I followed the signs into the private entrance for hero-class arrivals. Even with the special lane, it was still airport security—cold tiles, fluorescent lights, and too many forms.
I had to hand over my documents—passport, visa, quirk license, and the approval letter from Nighteye's office. The officer looked them over, then looked up at me, then back down.
"You really flew here?" he asked in Japanese.
"Eeto… hai," I said, fumbling the grammar but smiling. "Watashi no quirk… hikou. Flight."
He nodded, not unkindly, and pointed me toward the next station.
Security.
"Remove shoes. No metal. Please declare any active quirks or dangerous items."
I raised my hands. "No weapons. Just solar-powered and a backpack full of Coke."
He didn't laugh.
My hoodie got flagged. Twice. They made me turn out the pockets. One of them gave my sunglasses a suspicious look, like they were about to explode.
Then the soda cans got me.
They made me open one.
I took a sip.
"Still just Coke," I muttered.
Finally—finally—they waved me through. I stepped into the arrival terminal proper, letting out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
The air inside was cooler, but the energy was electric—voices, screens, crowds of people going everywhere at once. Tokyo moved like a machine, every person a part of something big. I adjusted my hoodie, pulled my backpack higher on my shoulder, and walked forward.
Every screen in the terminal spoke five languages. Everyone walked fast but moved in lanes like it was muscle memory. Even the air smelled like order—clean tile, filtered air, distant coffee.
Still, I was glad for the sign that read:
U.S. Embassy & Consulate Services – Student Entry Processing →
Bold letters. Simple. Familiar. With an American flag that looked slightly sun-faded in the corner.
It felt like a small patch of home.
I made my way out of the terminal and into the airport shuttle system. The train to the consular access wing was smooth and quiet—glass walls, sterile floors, the kind of place designed to make nervous diplomats feel like they were back in D.C. The only thing missing was the smell of burnt office coffee and someone muttering about appropriations.
When I arrived at the American consulate, a stone-faced man in a gray suit greeted me at the front desk. His badge read ROGERS—all caps.
"Name?" he asked, already scanning my passport.
"Clark Kent," I said. "Student visa. Exchange program with UA High School."
He blinked once. "...From Kansas?"
"Yes, sir."
There was a pause.
"...You're the one who flew in."
"Yes, sir."
He gave a faint sigh—not annoyed, just tired in a deeply State Department kind of way. "You know how many emails I've gotten in the last twenty minutes?"
"Sorry, sir. I stayed under cloud level until Hawaii, I swear."
He snorted and waved me through. "Go on. Office three, down the hall."
The consular waiting area looked like every American government building ever—beige walls, framed photos of the president and vice president, an American flag that needed ironing, and a vending machine that only took coins. I sat in a plastic chair while my paperwork got triple-checked and cross-referenced with Homeland Security, the Department of Quirk Oversight, and probably a bored intern in Kansas.
After fifteen minutes, a different agent called me in—tall woman, military posture, a crisp suit with a small American flag pin on the lapel.
"Clark Kent?" she said.
"Yes, ma'am."
She motioned me into a private office. "We've confirmed your visa, flight log, and arrival paperwork. Your quirk classification has been updated in the Japan–US shared registry. Your contact at UA confirmed they're expecting you tomorrow morning. Everything's in order."
I nodded, trying not to let out the thank-God sigh too loudly.
"We'll forward your arrival confirmation to your guardians back home. You're officially checked in as an American national residing abroad. Before you leave, you'll receive a credit card to support your stay. You'll also need to update your flight license within thirty days to match Japanese registry format. That's your responsibility."
"Yes, ma'am."
She studied me for a moment, then smiled—just slightly.
"You did good, Kent," she said. "Frankly, I expected you to overshoot the archipelago entirely and land in the Sea of Okhotsk."
I smiled back. "I almost did. But then I remembered I don't speak Russian."
She actually laughed.
After stamping my file and handing me a small booklet—rules, contact numbers, consular protections, emergency protocols—she waved me toward the exit.
"Good luck at UA, Mr. Kent. Make Kansas proud."
Before I left the consulate, one of the staff—guy in his thirties, arms too big for his dress shirt, permanent squint like he didn't trust light—caught me by the front desk.
"Clark Kent?" he asked, holding out a slim blue booklet like it was a warning label.
"That's me."
He tapped the cover with a pen. Quirk Etiquette & Legal Use in Japan – For Foreign Nationals.
"Read it. Twice," he said. "You're not in Kansas anymore. Or anywhere in the States, for that matter. Japan's got different rules. Stricter ones."
I flipped it open. Lots of kanji. Lots of bold red Xs.
"No public quirk use," he continued. "Period. Unless you're licensed and on duty. No casual flight without updating your license—though you've got one, so that's easier. No heat vision to warm up ramen. No x-ray peeking through gacha machines."
I glanced up. "That's a real example, isn't it?"
He didn't even blink. "Over here, quirks are regulated more like firearms than natural rights. No Second Amendment. No constitutional protections. You're a guest in this country, and they expect you to act like one."
I gave him a salute and my best reassuring grin. "Yes, sir. I'll keep it ground-level."
He grunted. "Appreciated. Good luck out there."
At the desk, they handed me a printed address for the dorms, but one of the younger staff—Maya, the same girl from earlier—offered to beam it straight into my HUD.
"Tokyo's a maze," she said with a tired but kind smile. "Don't try to wing it. Even if you can fly."
The destination lit up in my visor like a video game waypoint:
UA Satellite Housing Unit 3A – Tokyo 26th Ward
Embassy-secured. Government-coordinated. Taxpayer-scammed. Sir Nighteye–approved. My temporary home while I got settled.
I stepped out past the bulletproof glass, out of the quiet consulate, and into Tokyo proper.
And immediately got hit with everything.
The movement. The density. The sheer human volume of it all.
People brushed past me with precision—so close I could feel the air shift, but not a single bump. Neon signs crawled up buildings. Billboards screamed colors in languages I was still learning. Somewhere in the background, a train howled into a station. The sidewalks felt like arteries. Tokyo pulsed.
I instinctively lifted a few inches off the ground, just to breathe as the noise was playing hell on my ears.
"Oi! No quirk use!" a voice barked—uniformed officer, across the street, pointing at me with full cop energy.
I dropped immediately, boots thumping the sidewalk. "Sorry! First day!" I called.
He muttered something, shook his head, and moved on.
Right. Not Kansas.
My visor arrow blinked, gently recalculating.
Route updated: pedestrian path only. Estimated arrival: 23 minutes.
I adjusted my hoodie, hoisted my backpack, and started walking.
Feet on the ground. Head low. No shortcuts. No detours through the sky.
Just me. Clark Kent.
The world's greatest grounded solar-powered teenager.
----------
After twenty minutes of dodging bicycles, politely bowing at every crossing light, and trying not to accidentally outpace the entire sidewalk, I finally reached the building.
UA Satellite Housing Unit 3A was nestled between a kombini and a multi-level café with robotic waitstaff. The entrance was clean and modern—glass doors, polished tile floors, and a digital keypad with a card reader. I tapped the card the embassy gave me against the sensor, and the doors slid open with a soft chime.
Inside, a small elevator hummed like it was trying its best.
The ride up was slow—the kind of slow that made me question if stairs would've been the better choice. But eventually, the doors creaked open to a narrow hallway, pristine but weirdly claustrophobic, like it had been molded in a tube and shipped here in one piece.
I found 3A, unlocked it, and stepped inside.
The apartment was... small.
Like, very small.
The whole thing could've fit in the Kent family living room twice over, and that's not including the kitchen.
But it was clean. Quiet. The floor was wood laminate, the walls plain white with a faint texture, and the window—while tiny—offered a sliver of skyline painted in gold from the dipping sun. It had one of those narrow balconies clearly meant for laundry, not lounging, but still—space was space, and that was currency.
There was a bed against the far wall, a built-in desk, a kitchenette that looked more like a performance-art piece about minimalism, and a bathroom that was 100% a airplane lavatories.
I took it all in slowly.
Dropped my backpack by the desk.
Sat on the bed.
The springs creaked like they were reporting a crime. The mattress was firm—almost aggressively so. I gave it a test bounce. Not good.
I pulled off my hoodie, let the AC unit—mercifully functioning—cool me down, and stepped over to the little window.
Tokyo buzzed beneath me. Rooftop lights flickered on. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, then faded. The city pulsed like a living thing—orderly, endless, impossible to slow down.
First things first—soundproofing, or else I won't be able to sleep.
I dug into my backpack and pulled out a vacuum-sealed bundle of foam panels I'd packed back in Kansas. Flattened for travel, blessed by the local family hardware store, and chosen specifically for their ability to dull the outside world's everything.
I popped the seal. The foam hissed and puffed up with a satisfying fwoomp, like memory-foam bread. A faint chemical smell hit my nose—oddly comforting, in that Midwestern, aisle-eight-of-the-hardware-store way.
The walls were thin. I could hear my across-the-block neighbor typing. Typing. That didn't bode well for a guy who could hear a wheat field rustle.
I peeled the adhesive backs and started pressing panels into place, one corner at a time. Took me twenty minutes to pad all four walls. It wasn't perfect—one corner bubbled like it was holding a grudge, and I'm pretty sure I stuck one panel upside down—but it muffled the world to a bearable hum.
Next up: the bed situation.
Back home, my room was reinforced. Steel anchors. Concrete footings. Tactical straps rated for rowdy livestock. This bed? This bed looked like it cried when it saw a toolbox.
The floor was a no-go. I'd tapped it earlier—hollow. Probably a storage compartment. I wasn't about to punch through the apartment on day one.
So I improvised.
Bolted the straps directly to the bedframe with some hardware I packed. It wouldn't survive a full panic dream, but it might keep me from drifting through the ceiling like a confused helium balloon at 3 a.m. again.
Once the rig was in place, I unpacked the rest—spare clothes, a framed photo of Ma and Pa, two boxes of granola bars, and three emergency Coke cans, Big blue stayed on the backpack. Essentials only.
The room looked a little less sterile now. Still small. Still a box. But it was my box.
I sat on the edge of the bed and looked around. It was quiet. The city outside had dimmed, just a little, like it was giving me a moment.
I wasn't hungry.
I probably should've been after a flight like that, but the sun was still humming in my chest, warm and slow. It dulled my appetite. Probably why I could live off a Pop-Tart for half a day if I flew through high noon.
I checked the clock. Just past eight. Orientation was in the morning.
I took a long breath, leaned back, and let the straps catch me.
They held.
Everything was ready.
I was ready.
Tomorrow… UA.
And tried to force myself to sleep pass jetlag.