(TSSFH) CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT - CHRISTIE

Christie hadn’t screamed when the building came down.

She remembered that, distantly—how strange it was, how quiet she’d been as the world crumbled around her. The windows blew inward first, shards of safety glass glittering like confetti under the sunlight. Then the floor lurched sideways. Then the walls groaned, and the ceiling gave out, and gravity took her.

They pulled her out four hours later. Broken arm. Concussion. Dust so thick in her lungs it took three days to stop coughing. But she lived.

Most didn’t.

She’d seen Eidolon before it happened. Hovering in the sky, arms folded like some judgmental god. Heard him too—muttering to Superman, louder than he realized, words caught on every phone mic and broadcast feed. Something about feeling useless. About how his powers weren’t what they used to be. How Superman, by existing, made him obsolete.

That was the part that stuck with her. Not the collapse, not even the pain that came after. Just that, to Eidolon, it wasn’t about saving lives. It was about mattering. About being the most powerful. About winning.

Christie had always known the PRT wasn’t the shining beacon of Justice the Saturday morning cartoons made it out to be. Her older brother, Mitch, had said it first—after a botched sweep through their neighborhood had left a tenement riddled with holes and a girl in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. “They got rules,” he’d said, “but it’s still just people with too much power pointing guns and enforcing their own brand of ‘peace’.”

She hadn’t wanted to believe him. Had told him he was being unfair. After all, she’d joined the PRT as a field agent to help people. To be part of something bigger. Had gotten her orientation packet and memorized it. Learned about classification protocols, media discipline, mandatory de-escalation training.

She’d believed in the organization—tried to, at least.

But pinned under that collapsed slab of concrete, blood trickling from her scalp, aware of the strongest parahuman unfolding insecurities—yeah. That had been the moment. That was when she stopped pretending. When she finally understood.

The PRT wasn’t a shield. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.

They were just another gang. One that happened to be aligned with the government.

But Superman?

He’d held the building up long enough for people to crawl out. He’d flown through the wreckage, carrying the wounded to safety. He’d refused to fight until there was no other option. Even when Eidolon came at him with everything—with powers she didn't even know he had access to—even then, he never struck to kill. Not once.

Afterward, Christie watched him from the paramedic cot, standing beside the crater where the street used to be, soot-streaked, breathing hard, his cape torn and boots scorched. He didn’t look angry. He looked tired. Worn down, not just by the fight, but by the weight of this world—by Earth Bet’s constant crises, its endless need, its grim refusal to give anyone a moment to breathe. It had drained him. And still, he stood.

The world didn’t need Eidolon. It didn’t need the PRT.

It needed that.

Weeks passed. The funerals came—small, quiet, and grim affairs marked by too many names and not enough answers. Then came the protests as grief turned outward. People were angry, hurt, scared, and disillusioned. Some screamed for justice. Some demanded accountability and reforms. Others just wanted someone to blame.

And amid it all, the signs began to appear.

The S-shield, stylized and superimposed with a cross and a halo. “In His Light, We Are Saved,” many banners read.

The Church of Superman. 

Christie had tried to stop it, once. Tried to remind people through sponsored content that Superman wasn’t a god, that he didn’t ask for worship. She and her coworkers had torn down those makeshift shrines and religious effigies, and did their best to discourage the budding cult. But now… now she understood.

Because Superman wasn’t just a cape to her anymore. He was something sacred. The one who stood when everyone else failed. When the heroes who were supposed to protect them started to fracture.

He was the only one who couldn’t break.

So she stayed quiet.

Let them rage. Let them mourn. And let them believe. 

He had earned that much. And so had they.

She saw it clearly now: it had never been about the system or protocols. Not about public opinion polling.

It was about choices. About what people did when there were no cameras, no orders, no one left to impress.

Eidolon had made his choice. Tried to prove he still mattered. Drained countless parahumans of their ability to feel powerful again, according to reports.

Superman had made his, too. He had tried to stop it, even when it meant taking blow after blow. Protected everyone he could. Refused to kill—even when killing might have been easier.

One of them needed to be right.

The other just needed to do the right thing.

So when the recruiters came knocking at her door—PRT suits trying to stabilize what was left of the scrambling organization—Christie turned them away. Politely, but firmly.

And when the community organizers in her neighborhood started talking about forming their own patrol groups—no capes, just average people trying to look out for one another—Christie showed up. Splinted arm and all.

Because the world didn’t need gods in the sky.

It didn’t need men chasing glory or bureaucracies packaging repackaging safety as brand deals.

It needed someone who would stay.

It needed someone who would care.

It needed Superman.

Only Superman.