(TSSFH) CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE - CLARK

Clark Kent watched as the television above the bar flicker with static before it stabilized again—just in time to catch the bright, gleaming smile of Max Anders filling the screen, his face framed by campaign banners and red, white, and blue bunting.

‘A New Future for Brockton Bay,’ read the slogan beneath his name.

Then the camera cut to the crowd. Dozens, maybe hundreds, had gathered in Central Park as cameras hovered on drones above the stage, broadcasting every second of the rally to every living room and corner diner paying attention. 

Anders—CEO, local philanthropist, and now mayoral candidate—stood at the podium with all the polish money could buy. His suit was immaculate, his blond hair sculpted with care. His voice, measured and charismatic, rolled out across the green.

“The people of Brockton Bay have suffered,” Anders said, lifting a hand to quiet the cheers. “Not just from the monster who tried to destroy our city. Not just from the scum who crawled out of the rubble to bleed us dry. But from the very institutions that swore to protect us.”

Clark sipped his tea, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses. His booth was tucked into the far corner of the building, out of sight. Just another face in the crowd. Just another quiet man with a lukewarm drink and tired eyes.

Anders continued, “The previous mayor’s administration bent over backward to accommodate the PRT’s expansion. And what did we get in return? Collateral damage. Death. Lies. It’s time for real accountability. It’s time to elect someone who understands Brockton Bay’s struggles.”

He let that hang.

Then, smiling, he gestured to the banner behind him: his own name bold against the backdrop of the American flag.

“But the world saw something else that day, too. They saw strength. Order. They saw the man who stopped Eidolon. A man who didn’t need laws or oversight to do what was right. Who stood, unshaken, while our so-called heroes fell apart.”

The cheer that rose from the crowd was near deafening, many supporters holding up homemade signs—a few bore crude outlines of the S-shield, stylized in Anders’ campaign colors. In the diner, a few patrons clapped along. One man raised his glass. Even the bartender gave a solemn nod as he wiped a chipped glass with a fraying towel.

Clark didn't join them.

He just watched.

Because this wasn’t just a rally. It was a narrative, carefully crafted and cleanly delivered.

Anders was using Superman. Praising and elevating him into a symbol—strong, righteous, untouchable—to be used as a political shield. 

A tool. 

It was all so familiar. Too familiar. 

Lex had said the same kind of things. Different city, different playbook, same poison. Take a failing system, point to a visible failure—Eidolon, in this case—and present yourself as the solution. A businessman. A man of the people. A voice of reason amidst chaos. And if you could leech power from the same thing you claim to admire? All the better.

Max Anders was no Lex Luthor. He didn’t have the intellect. The vision. But he didn’t need those things. He had money. He had rhetoric. And he had timing.

Resentment and fear did the rest because Brockton Bay was on edge. Tired. Suspicious. And desperate for someone to blame. After Eidolon’s public breakdown, after the countless deaths, and after the trust in the PRT crumbled, the people wanted certainty.

And Anders gave it to them.

Wrapped in patriotism. Stamped with civic duty. Backed by his credibility and near, clean image. Spoken from a podium planted just feet from where families had once huddled in fear as the worst came to pass.

It made for an admittedly powerful statement. 

Clark clenched his jaw. 

As Superman, he couldn’t interfere. Not overtly. The symbol on his chest wasn’t a political tool, and even in another world, it had to stay that way.

It had to stand for more than that. 

But Clark Kent?

He patted his coat pocket where a worn notepad and pen rested.

Clark Kent was still a journalist.

And he knew who Max Anders really was. Not just the CEO of Medhall Corporation, but the man behind Empire-Eighty-Eight’s money—the man using just enough plausible deniability to keep investigators off his back as he kept known gang members on his payroll. 

But Clark wouldn’t expose him as Kaiser. That would put too many innocents in danger—his children’s, his extended family’s, and maybe worse. 

But the money trail? The laundering? The bribes? The criminal support network?

That, he could expose.

He glanced back at the screen one last time.

A boy sat on his father’s shoulders, waving a crayon-colored sign.

In Him, We Trust.

The S-shield was crudely drawn in bright blue and red.

Clark stood, drinking the last of his tea.

Let Anders keep smiling and waving for the cameras. 

Let him keep promising false safety and strength.

In the end, the truth would come out.

And Clark Kent would be the one to write it.

And this time, if Clark Kent had anything to say about it, Brockton Bay wouldn’t make the same mistake Metropolis had.

Not if he could help it.