CHAPTER THREE - AMY

Amy Dallon’s hands trembled as she pressed them against the gaping wound of the latest survivor. The heat of her power surged through her palms, knitting flesh, stopping blood flow, restoring life. It felt mechanical now—routine, almost—but the ache in her chest never faded.

The screams of the injured, the sounds of the Leviathan’s onslaught in the distance, and the sheer weight of expectation bore down on her like the tidal waves that had swallowed Brockton Bay. They all looked at her like she was a miracle worker. And in a way, she was. But miracles came with a cost.

She had no time to rest, no time to process. As soon as she finished with one survivor, there was another. And another. Each person brought before her carried desperation in their eyes, hope clinging to them like a lifeline.

And then there was him.

Superman.

The first time he’d arrived, carrying a bloodied man in his arms, she hadn’t known what to think. He’d said his name simply, calmly, like it was just a fact of life. Superman.

She’d been too busy stabilizing the man to respond, but the absurdity of it had lingered in the back of her mind. Who even called themselves that? Yet the way he carried himself, the way he spoke—so steady, so sure—made her think that maybe he was allowed to.

Now, he kept returning, each time carrying someone else who needed her. And every time, that name echoed in her mind like a beacon she couldn’t ignore.

“Amy,” he said again, his voice cutting through the chaos like it always did. He was holding a child this time—a boy no older than eight, unconscious, his face pale. “He’s breathing, but barely.”

“I’ll take care of it,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. She snatched the boy from his arms, her movements brisk, almost angry.

Superman didn’t flinch. He never did. He simply gave her a nod and turned to leave.

“Wait,” she snapped, her hands already working over the boy’s fragile chest. “What are you doing? Why do you keep bringing them to me?”

He paused, turning back to face her. His expression was calm, but there was a warmth in his eyes that caught her off guard. “Because you can save them.”

The simplicity of his words made her stomach twist. Because you can save them. As if that was all it took. As if her power didn’t come with the crushing weight of obligation, the unspoken demand to always do more, always be better.

“I can’t save everyone,” she muttered, more to herself than to him.

“You’re saving enough,” he replied, his voice unwavering. “That matters.”

Something about the way he said it—like it was a universal truth, unshakable and undeniable—made her want to scream and cry at the same time. She didn’t want to believe him. She couldn’t afford to. Because if she did, if she let herself believe that what she was doing was enough, she might stop pushing.

She didn’t look up as he left again, vanishing back into the storm to find more people for her to save. She didn’t have to. He’d be back, she knew. He always came back, carrying another life for her to mend.

And every time he did, she hated him a little more—for believing in her, for seeing something in her that she couldn’t see in herself. For making her feel like, somehow, it was all going to be okay.

. . . . .

Amy didn’t even look up at first, her focus locked on the boy under her hands, his chest rising and falling as her power coaxed life back into him. But when she heard that voice again—deep, steady, unshakable—her stomach twisted.

“Amy,” Superman called, his tone softer this time but still cutting through the chaos around her.

She glanced up reluctantly, exhaustion etched into every line of her face. But whatever sharp retort she had died on her lips when she saw who he was carrying.

Dean.

Her heart clenched as she took in the state of him. His armor was warped and cracked, scorched in places, the silver plates barely recognizable under the grime. Blood streaked his face where his helmet had cracked open, and his breathing was shallow, laboured. For a moment, Panacea forgot everything else—the injured boy on the ground, the cries of the wounded and healing surrounding her, even the looming presence of Superman.

“Dean,” she whispered, the name catching in her throat. Her hands trembled as she gestured frantically. “Put him down. Here. Now.”

Superman moved without hesitation, kneeling to gently lay Dean on the ground. His movements were deliberate, careful, as though he were handling something fragile. It was strange, seeing someone so impossibly strong treating her friend with such care.

“He saved Vista’s life,” Superman said, his tone quieter now. “Almost at the cost of his.”

Panacea bit her lip hard enough to taste blood. She didn’t have time to let her emotions get the better of her—not now. Her hands hovered over Dean’s chest, her power flaring to life as she delved into the damage.

Broken ribs. Internal bleeding. A concussion. The injuries unfolded in her mind like a grim checklist, and it was all so much, but it wasn't beyond her. Not yet. 

Under her guidance, bones were knitted back together and ruptured blood vessels were repaired. The world around her faded, and even Superman’s quiet presence beside her was blocked out as her focus narrowed. And as she worked, she tried not to think about the last time she’d spoken to Dean. Tried not to think about the guilt she’d carried ever since. Tried not to let the anger she’d felt earlier at Superman for bringing her more people to heal overwhelm her now that he’d brought her someone she needed to save.

When Dean’s breathing evened out, when the bleeding stopped and his ribs were whole again, Panacea let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her hands fell to her sides, exhaustion evident in the slump of her shoulders. 

The only thing keeping her moving was the thought of saving just one more person, just one more life, but even she had her limits—and she was quickly approaching it. 

“He’s stable,” she murmured, her voice hoarse. She didn’t know if she was talking to Superman or herself.

Superman crouched beside her, his gaze steady. “You did well.”

Panacea didn't look at him. She couldn't. The warmth in his voice made her feel seen in a way she wasn’t prepared for.

“Don’t tell me that,” she muttered, her voice low. “Just… take him somewhere safe. I can’t—” She cut herself off, shaking her head. There were still too many others waiting for her, too many lives depending on her.

Superman didn’t argue. He nodded, lifting Dean with the same care he’d shown when he first brought him in. 

“I’ll make sure he’s taken care of,” 

“And after?” she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

“I will face Leviathan and end this,” 

Panacea froze at his words, her fingers mid-motion over the next patient. She turned her head sharply, staring at Superman. His calm, unyielding expression didn’t waver as he adjusted Dean’s weight in his arms.

“Are you serious?” she asked, her voice low and incredulous.

“I am,” he said simply, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

She wanted to laugh, to scoff at the absurdity of it. Leviathan wasn’t just a natural disaster in the shape of a monster. He was devastation incarnate, the Endbringer that drowned cities and shattered the strongest capes like glass. And yet here was this man, speaking about facing him like it was just another challenge to overcome.

Panacea shook her head, forcing herself to return her focus to the patient under her hands. “You don’t understand,” she said, her voice sharper now. “You can’t beat him. He’s not just some villain or monster you can punch until he gives up. He’s… unstoppable.”

Superman crouched slightly, lowering Dean to a nearby cot with practiced care. He turned back to Panacea, his expression calm but resolute. “I’ve faced unstoppable before,” he said quietly.

His words hung in the air, and for a moment, she faltered. The sheer conviction in his tone made her stomach twist. “That’s what everyone says,” she muttered, her voice bitter. “Until they’re the ones who don’t come back.”

Superman didn’t flinch, didn’t try to argue. Instead, he took a slow step closer, his gaze steady and unshakable. “What would you have me do, Amy?” he asked. “Stand by while others fight and fall? Wait until there’s no one left to stop him?”

Panacea clenched her jaw, her hands trembling again as she finished healing the woman before her. “You don’t have to throw yourself at him,” she snapped. “You’ve already done enough—saving people, bringing them to me. That’s more than most capes here can say.”

His expression softened slightly, but there was no hesitation in his voice when he replied. “It’s not enough. Not while Leviathan is still out there, still destroying everything and everyone in his path.”

She wanted to argue, wanted to tell him he was a fool for thinking he could make a difference against something as incomprehensibly powerful as an Endbringer. But when she looked at him—at the unshakable determination in his eyes, the calm resolve in his posture—she found she couldn’t.

Instead, she lowered her gaze, exhaustion and frustration weighing her down. She didn’t believe in miracles, not anymore. But for the first time in what felt like forever, she almost wanted to.

Almost.