Marvel: Scientist reborn as Superman

"Well, my friend, let's say goodbye," I said with playful sadness, leaning against the body of a large intercity bus. Summer camp was officially over, and it was time to go home.

Diana came to see me off. Over the past few days, after all the bloody events, we had spent almost all our free time together. No, there was no obvious romance between us: the girl was consumed by the idea of becoming a monster hunter, and I willingly shared with her the knowledge I had recently acquired. I told her how to distinguish between different types of evil creatures, what their habits were, where their most vulnerable spots were — in short, I filled her head with information. As it turned out, her father had never taught her such things: he had only helped her to understand and accept her wolf nature, without going into the finer points of hunting. But Diana proved to be a capable student, quickly grasping everything on the fly. This gave me considerable pleasure, because I used to be a teacher myself — I had taught dozens of students in my past life. It turns out I missed that feeling: passing on experience, seeing the spark of interest light up in a person's eyes.

"Don't think you'll get rid of me for long, teacher," Diana grinned, narrowing her eyes. "I still have too many questions. So don't say 'goodbye', say 'see you soon'.

"You're leaving today too, aren't you?" I asked, glancing at her bag, which stood forlornly by the bench.

"Yes, but later, we're leaving in an hour," the girl sighed gloomily. "I miss my mum already. And I need to sort things out with my father — he still hasn't been in touch..." A note of anxiety crept into her voice.

I gently touched her forearm, trying to calm her down: "Everything will be fine. When you get there, be sure to call me and let me know how it went. You have my home number now," I winked, trying to lighten the mood a little. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to contact me.

you know what I'm capable of. And about the hunters, by the way, I'll find out something too: you need to get official status. Otherwise, you'll be running around like a stray," I grinned, hinting at her wolf nature.

"Go away with your jokes, Bruce," Diana raised her chin haughtily, but at the same time pouted slightly, showing that my words had hurt her. "You're torturing me.

"Well, maybe you'll give me a kiss goodbye? Last time I didn't really get a taste," I grinned, taking a step towards her and spreading my arms for a hug.

The girl darted to the side, quickly jumping back, and her face flushed red:

"No way. I told you, you're not my type! It was just a moment of weakness. My animal instincts got the better of me... But it won't happen again," she said confidently, blushing at the memory of our spontaneous kiss.

"Oh, you're such a tsundere," I laughed loudly. "Back then, you were far from an 'unapproachable princess'. I remember how I almost... — I sighed heavily, deliberately putting on a pained expression." "If it weren't for the disgusting smell of those dead bastards decomposing next to us, you would have taken not only my first kiss, but also my cherry."

"Enough, Bruce!" Diana waved her hand dismissively, almost hitting me. "Get on your bus. You're unbearable, I don't understand how fate brought us together... And anyway, this..." Suddenly her voice faltered, and she turned away, muttering. "That was my first kiss, by the way!"

"Oh, you didn't mention that," I raised my eyebrows, watching her curiously. "I thought you were quite experienced in such matters," I pretended to ponder, touching my lips with the tip of my finger."You know, I don't want to talk to you anymore!" the girl snapped. "Get lost, Wayne, get out of my sight!" And, turning her back to me, she took a few quick steps, showing that she had no intention of continuing the conversation.

It took me one step to catch up with her, and without thinking about the consequences, I hugged Diana tightly around the shoulders. She squealed softly in surprise, and I leaned in slightly and whispered directly into her ear:

"Come on, don't be mad, friend. I'm just kidding, I didn't mean to embarrass you. Bye! I'll miss you," I added more quietly, letting go of her and, to my surprise, noticing pink spots on her cheeks.

Diana said nothing, only looked away angrily, but it seemed she wasn't really angry anymore.

"Bye, Bruce! Have a good trip," she called after me as I walked towards the bus. "Me too... I'll miss you, silly!" Her words were quiet, but I heard them anyway, which made me smile.

When I got on the bus, I saw my friend Ethan, who had already taken my seat by the window. He waved desperately, motioning for me to sit down next to him. I took my backpack and sat down next to him, mentally saying goodbye to the camp. The administrative building was clearly visible from the window, with its slightly peeling paint and bright sign that marked our arrival just a couple of weeks ago. It had been a difficult time — a lot had happened, and as I remembered everything, I felt the corners of my lips lift into a slight smile.

"Bruce, are you sad too?" Ethan asked quietly, looking at me with a mixture of understanding and sympathy.

"Sad?" I asked in surprise. "Why would I be sad?"

"Just... I don't want to leave," my friend said, looking away. "It was so great here, and..." Ethan trailed off, his eyes instantly sparkling as he remembered someone from camp.

"I hope you at least got her phone number?" I asked teasingly, watching Ethan's cheeks flush slightly.

"I did," he nodded briefly but seriously, clenching his hands into fists.

"Then why worry?" I slapped him cheerfully on the shoulder. "Everything's fine! Get in touch, keep in touch, and maybe you'll meet up. And the camp itself... well, I have to admit, it was an interesting adventure.

Ethan sighed, trying to smile:

"What did you like least about it?"

I thought for a second, automatically remembering the "Earth-11 squad."

"To be honest," I admitted, "one thing annoyed me: the name of our squad — 'Earth-11'. It sounds like something from a cheap science fiction series. Definitely not my thing, apparently.

*****

"Mum, Dad, I'm home!" I shouted loudly, stepping over the threshold and slamming the heavy oak door behind me.

"Oh, dear, Bruce is back!" my mother exclaimed, rushing into the hall and hugging me so tightly that I could feel her heart beating in time with mine. "Is it just me, or did you really grow taller during your camp holiday?"

"I don't know, maybe I did," I smiled, shrugging my shoulders. "The air is fresh there, nature is favourable, so I was drawn to grow taller.

"To be honest, son, I'm starting to worry: how much taller can you get? What if you never stop growing?" My mother looked at me with a mixture of playful concern and genuine curiosity.

"Everything will be fine," I replied with a smile. "Even if I'm over two metres tall, I don't see anything wrong with that." 

"You're probably right," my mother relaxed a little and ruffled my hair affectionately. "I missed you so much, I even wanted to come and see you, but your father talked me out of it: 'Don't disturb him, let him enjoy life at camp. All right, enough chatting in the hallway, go upstairs, freshen up and come down — we're having lunch. I'll ask your father to come out of his study. He's back from Austria with a new lucrative contract and is working on it around the clock." She laughed and gently pushed me towards the stairs leading to the second floor. "We'll be waiting for you downstairs, don't be long!"

As I climbed the stairs to my room, I couldn't help glancing at the wall where my sword, Abraham's gift, still hung. Memories flooded back: the blood-soaked clearing, the horrific scenes of carnage I had wrought in that cursed forest... And the strangest thing was that I had actually enjoyed the feeling of power and excitement that had overwhelmed me then. I tried to shake my head, banishing the unwelcome images: I would deal with my demons later. Right now, I needed to focus on family peace.

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, I went down to the dining room — a spacious room with high ceilings and large windows that let in the soft midday light. My parents were already sitting at the table, talking quietly about something. Hearing my footsteps, they turned around.

"Hello, Dad, it's been a while," I said with a smile, sitting down in my usual place opposite my father.

My father, a stately man with a piercing gaze and an eternally focused expression, looked at me with a warm, almost affectionate gaze:

"Good to see you, son. So, tell me, how was your holiday? Lots of new experiences, new friends?""I had a great rest," I said, running my hand over the tabletop as if considering my answer. "I gained a lot of new experiences, gained some experience and... reconsidered some of my priorities in life.

My father raised his eyebrows:

"Wow, I see the camp did you good. Tell me more about these changes."

I sighed, searching for the right words:

"I realised that football no longer brings me any joy or interest. To be honest, I never really liked it in the first place. I just... decided to give it a try, maybe I'd find something new in myself. But I found nothing except the obligation to run after a ball and try to live up to the expectations of the coach and the team. Now I don't know how to tell the guys, and I'll have to explain myself to the coach.

I felt a slight pang of sadness in my chest. After all, we had trained together a lot and had grown accustomed to each other. However, there was no point in continuing to do something that did not bring me satisfaction.

My father heard my words, smiled slightly and shook his head:

"To be honest, I'm not surprised. I've noticed for a long time that football isn't really your thing. But since you wanted to try, I didn't object — I hoped that in the process you would either find a true passion for it or realise that it was time to move on. And it looks like you've come to your own conclusion. With your mind and talents, there are a thousand more promising and useful things to do than chasing a ball around a field.

I blushed involuntarily at his approval. I used to think that I had to prove with all my might that I deserved to be on the team. But now I felt relieved that he was understanding of my decision.

"Bruce, what are you going to do now?" my mother interrupted, handing me a plate of fragrant vegetable salad. "I hope it's not something completely reckless?"

I nodded gratefully, taking the plate.

"I already have an idea: I want to get seriously into computer science, programming, and everything related to high technology. I'm sure that's the future. And I think I'll be good at it.

My mother tilted her head curiously:

"Programming? That sounds quite reasonable. Nowadays, there are so many different fields that it's hard to know where to start. But if you feel that this is your calling, I will support you.

"And I'll support you even more," added his father with a smile. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. Money, advice, contacts — whatever you need."

I felt a pleasant warmth from the realisation that my parents supported my plans. After a moment's hesitation, I decided to express another important thought:

"By the way, about help. Dad, I wanted to ask for your support... And I have something else to add. I've been thinking about it for a long time and have decided to go through the emancipation process after I turn sixteen. I have six months left, and I want to file the paperwork that will allow me to enter into contracts, open accounts, and run my own business.

My mum frowned immediately, her eyes flashing with concerned surprise:

"Emancipation? Why do you need that, Bruce? Don't we give you enough freedom?

My father also looked at me intently but said nothing, waiting for an explanation.

I tried to speak more calmly than I felt inside:

"You see, I want to start my own small company. Start small, but take it seriously. I feel like I'm ready for this: I have the skills, the ambition, and an understanding of the market. The future is in technology, and as the heir to the Wayne name, I want to contribute to my family's legacy. Becoming the youngest billionaire in American history — sounds like a challenge, doesn't it?

My mother shifted her confused gaze from me to my father and back:

"But, son, you're still so young! What if something goes wrong? And starting your own business at such a young age is a huge responsibility, and you...

"Esme, dear," my father said quietly, "let him finish."

My mother faltered and waved her hand, allowing me to continue:

"I'm not going to leave or cut you off legally. I just need formal rights and opportunities: to manage funds, to enter into official agreements on my own behalf. I want to do everything myself, go all the way from start to finish. Yes, you can consider me a spoiled millionaire's son who wants to play at business. But I promise you: I will take this 'game' as seriously and thoughtfully as possible.

There was silence. My mother thoughtfully bit her lip, and my father, rubbing his chin, stared intently into space, weighing my words. Finally, he smiled softly:

"I think it's a really interesting idea, and it's quite feasible. I'll have my lawyers prepare all the necessary documents in the best possible way. If you promise not to rush into this without proper preparation and consultation with experienced people, then you can consider it a birthday present on your sixteenth birthday.

"Jonathan, dear, are you serious?" my mother exclaimed, her voice pleading. "First he quits football, then he wants to become a programmer, and now he wants to legally declare himself independent. Don't you think that's too fast?"Mum, really, don't worry," I interjected conciliatorily, trying to sound confident. "I'm not going anywhere, I'm staying at home, enjoying all the family benefits, but at the same time I'll be working on developing the company. I just need legal freedom to act. Nothing supernatural."

"You sound like an adult," my mother sighed and shook her head. "My little Bruce... When did you grow up?

"It's not sudden, Esme," my father explained quietly. "We just didn't notice how he was coming to this decision. And now, finally, he's spoken up. I know Bruce wouldn't do something on a whim.

Seeing that the conversation was heating up and wanting to distract his mother from her worries, his father changed the subject:

"All right, enough arguing. He's still six months away from his sixteenth birthday, you've got plenty of time to change your mind three hundred times. Let's talk about our family holiday instead. You were planning something, weren't you, dear?"

His mother looked dissatisfied, but, crossing her arms over her chest, she finally spoke:

"Yes, we're flying out next week. I've already made all the arrangements and chosen everything. I've booked a wonderful villa on the coast. Warm sea, sun and fruit await us there... I've even hired a chef and maids so that no one will be distracted from relaxing.

"Sounds perfect," my father said encouragingly, glancing at my mother, then turning his gaze to me. "It's been a long time since we've all gone away together. Let's have a proper family holiday."

"That's for sure," I agreed, already looking forward to getting away from my thoughts and just enjoying the sea breeze.

"That's great, we really haven't gone anywhere as a family for a long time. It'll be a wonderful holiday," my father concluded, smiling at us both and pointing to the dishes laid out on the table, urging us to finally start dinner.

*****

I stood with my parents at the check-in desk, listening to the muffled, barely audible voice of the loudspeakers announcing our flight to Honolulu. Hawaii! It seemed like a dream come true: azure seas, sandy beaches and eternal summer. But I suddenly felt a strange excitement. I was about to go on holiday with my mum and dad — and even though my body belonged to a fifteen-year-old teenager, I felt much older inside. I'm sure I looked like a normal tall guy in jeans and a T-shirt, just looking forward to a holiday. But who could have guessed that inside my head lived the experience of a "grumpy old man" who had lived an entire adult life?

In recent days, I had been haunted by a feeling of absurdity. It was as if a wall had collapsed inside me, separating two different entities: the young Bruce, still going to school, and the man who had already seen and known too much. Now these two "me"s had begun to merge, and everything I had experienced before had a profound effect on my current reactions, opinions and actions. Sometimes it seemed to me that I was not "living" but merely "playing" the role of a teenager in front of those around me. And it was exhausting: I wanted more freedom of action, freedom of choice — in everything.

Meanwhile, my parents seemed to be in high spirits: my mother kept a small handbag with our passports close at hand, occasionally adjusting a strand of hair that had fallen out of her hairstyle. My father clutched a folder with documents left over from his last business meetings. Around us, streams of people flowed like endless rivulets. Some hurried to the boarding gate, others struggled with bulky suitcases on wheels, and still others, their caps pulled low over their eyes, nodded off, apparently exhausted even before takeoff. The hum of the crowd mingled with the sounds of cafeterias where fresh coffee was being brewed, adding a hint of bitter roasting to the overall aroma. I breathed in the scent of the airport with pleasure — a mixture of fuel, caffeine and genuine human excitement.

"Bruce, you haven't lost us, have you?" my mother asked, pretending to be concerned, looking over her shoulder and smiling at me.

"It's okay, Mum, I'm here," I reassured her, trying to keep my voice steady and calm. After all, to them, I was just a teenager who was probably nervous about what they considered to be his first big trip.

Finally, we safely passed through all the security checks, where friendly security officers quickly checked our bags and tickets. In 1989, it seemed a little simpler than in my past world: less attention to metal detectors, fewer strict rules. When we reached the right exit, we waited for the boarding announcement and slowly moved along the jet bridge, which trembled slightly above the tarmac.

I felt a pleasant sense of déjà vu: here was the cabin of the airliner with its wide aisle, rows of seats and cosy dimmed lights. We were flying business class, which offered additional amenities: spacious leather seats, polite flight attendants with warm smiles, and soft lighting that made the space feel intimate and relaxing. I happily took my seat by the window: it's so nice to watch the plane take off over the city and disappear into the darkness of the sky.

"How do you like your seat, son?" my father asked, sitting down next to me. "It must be quite comfortable. I specifically requested these seats so that you could see the city during takeoff.I smiled at him, trying to convey my gratitude without words.

"Thanks, Dad. You couldn't have done better.

My mother sat down next to him and immediately took out an interior design magazine and immersed herself in reading. Her eyes sparkled with joy at the prospect of the upcoming holiday.

"Everyone buckled up?" the flight attendant asked cheerfully as she passed our row. "We'll be taking off in a couple of minutes, ladies and gentlemen. Would you like anything to drink before takeoff?"

She offered us a choice of juice, water, or champagne and cognac for the adults. I would have liked to sip a glass of sparkling wine, but considering that I was officially fifteen, I limited myself to orange juice.

The plane began to accelerate down the runway: I felt the fuselage vibrate, a slight pressure on my back, and then a gentle jolt as the landing gear lifted off the ground. Through the small window, I watched as night-time New York remained below. From a bird's eye view, the city looked like a huge glowing network: a tangle of roads, shiny streams of car headlights, neon advertising lights, flickering and changing on the skyscrapers. In 1989, the metropolis was buzzing with its own special energy — glamorous and crazy at the same time. The skyscrapers looked like toy models, and the river, silvery in the moonlight, like a thin ribbon of foil.

Gradually, the lights began to fade into the darkness, and the plane headed out over the Atlantic Ocean. The clouds, illuminated from below by the lights of the big city, were now replaced by endless twilight. I stared at this black canvas, feeling a strange longing. "How I want to learn to fly myself..." flashed through my mind. "For some reason, my abilities are gradually unfolding, as if someone is turning them on one by one when they see fit. But I am so eager to learn how to soar in the sky, freely, without any turbines or seats... When will that happen?"

I sighed, glancing at my parents. My mother was saying something quietly to my father, who nodded and smiled, but he also seemed tired after all the hassle of preparing for the trip. My eyesight was excellent: if I wanted to, I could focus on the smallest details, but now I tried to tune out everything, just listening to the steady hum of the engines. The slight vibration of the aircraft's fuselage lulled me to sleep, and my eyes began to close.

Suddenly, there was a sharp cry from behind, a piercing scream that turned into an indistinct noise. I instinctively woke up and turned on my "vision," which allowed me to see what was happening in the cabin as if through walls. In the image that appeared before my inner eye, I could make out three strangers dressed in dark clothes. They were frantically waving weapons — pistols — shouting that the plane had been hijacked and that everyone should sit quietly. One of them was already making his way to business class.

"Great..." I thought bitterly, feeling a rush of excitement pierce every nerve. "It's as if I attract trouble like a magnet for all this ridiculous drama. Can't I even relax in peace?"

My father and mother didn't understand what was happening yet; they just turned around anxiously at the sounds of commotion. I felt my heart begin to beat faster — not out of fear, but rather out of curiosity. After all, I had abilities, and I could prevent a catastrophe.

And then the door between the salons flew open — one of the terrorists, judging by his heavy footsteps, burst into the business class with a face contorted with rage, clutching his gun so tightly that his knuckles turned white...

***

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