Midnight.
The wind whispered through the wheat fields. A boy named Steve sat alone in the open, rusted tailgate of an old pickup truck. His eyes were fixed on the vast, starlit sky above.
Around him, the sprawling farmland was silent except for the soft rustle of the leaves. The nearby woods cast tall, ominous silhouettes under the pale glow of the moon, and the red leaves drifting from the trees gave the illusion of glowing embers falling from the heavens.
In the cup holder beside him sat a cheap tin mug filled with black coffee—bitter and half-cold.
From an old radio resting on the truck bed, a steady voice crackled through the static:
> "Good evening, folks in Kansas. This is DJ Mike from K-Star FM, reminding y'all that the Geminid meteor shower will peak at exactly midnight tonight. Grab a blanket, lean back, and enjoy the best celestial show in ten years!"
Steve glanced at the old watch on his wrist. 11:55 PM.
Five minutes to go.
He reached over and shut off the radio with a muttered sigh.
Romantics loved this kind of thing—laying under the stars, holding hands, whispering wishes into the night sky. But Steve?
He wasn't here to be romantic.
He was here on business.
Because this meteor shower was linked—somehow, some way—to his fate.
See, once upon a time, Steve wasn't Steve.
He had been a regular guy from Earth—just not this Earth.
Back in his old world, he'd been born and raised in the Celestial Empire. Life wasn't glamorous, but it was stable. Decent apartment, boring job, nagging girlfriend. The usual.
Then, one cold winter night, while watching a meteor shower with his girlfriend, a flaming chunk of cosmic death rock had chosen him as its target. One direct hit later—
—he woke up in America. In the body of a guy named Peter Patrick.
A ranch kid with no house, no car, no parents, and nothing to his name except a bankrupt farm and an ocean of unpaid debt.
No cheat system. No golden finger. No dramatic prophecy that declared him "the Chosen One."
Just a new name, a crumbling ranch in Kansas, and a fresh set of problems.
So why was he sitting outside now, under the freezing sky?
Because tonight was the anniversary of that original meteor shower.
Maybe, just maybe, another celestial miracle might undo the first one. He could go back. Or get a do-over.
Or... something.
He raised his mug and downed the last of the cold coffee.
"Hell," he muttered. "If I had the ability to change fate, I wouldn't have died as a minimum-wage ironworker in the first place."
But fate didn't wait for sarcastic remarks.
Because just as he looked up again...
FWOOOOOSH!
A fiery streak carved across the heavens, blazing through the atmosphere like a divine spear. It wasn't alone. Dozens more followed, trailing gold and red light across the night sky.
Steve stood up.
The meteor shower had arrived.
And it was beautiful.
Until—
BOOOOOOM!
The earth shook.
A deafening roar exploded across the farmland, followed by a ripple that knocked Steve off balance. Dust filled the air.
"What the—?!"
He turned.
A meteor—an actual damn meteor—had just slammed into the field less than 100 yards away.
The impact had sent dirt flying in all directions. Worse, one of the soybean silos had caught fire.
"Damn it!"
Steve sprinted into the barn, grabbed the closest fire extinguisher, and bolted back. The flames licked high, devouring the soybeans. He yanked the pin and sprayed white foam across the burning crops until the fire finally hissed out.
Panting, soot-covered, he looked toward the crater.
Steam rose from the center.
And nestled in the smoldering pit... wasn't a rock.
It was a spaceship.
A small, silver spacecraft, sleek and seamless, glowing faintly in the moonlight.
Steve blinked.
"...I've officially lost my mind."
He rubbed his face, then slapped his cheek.
Still here.
Still real.
He ran back into the barn, grabbed the old shotgun he kept for coyotes, and jogged cautiously toward the pit.
The craft was silent. Its metal body shimmered like liquid mercury. Then, with a soft click-click-click, a hatch slid open.
Steve raised the shotgun instinctively.
He expected alien tentacles. Little green men. A horror movie with no budget.
But instead...
...a baby.
A tiny, golden-haired baby lay inside the ship, wrapped in a thin white blanket, sucking its thumb.
Steve froze.
"A... baby?"
The child blinked up at him, eyes sparkling, and let out a soft, adorable coo.
Then the kid rolled forward—straight toward the edge of the platform.
"Whoa!"
Steve tossed aside the shotgun and dove forward, sliding down the crater's slope just in time to catch the baby in his arms.
The little one giggled.
Steve stared at him in disbelief.
White blanket. Farm. Kansas.
Baby. Spaceship.
Oh no.
"Oh HELL no."
His eyes widened.
"Is this... is this SUPERMAN?!"
He looked down at the baby. The golden hair. The starry-eyed innocence.
This had to be it.
This had to be that moment—the one every comic fan knew by heart.
He wasn't just in the U.S. anymore.
He was in the DC Universe.
And this child in his arms? The one smiling like sunshine?
Might be Clark Kent.
Kal-El. The Man of Steel.
Superman.
Steve's heart pounded.
If he raised Superman himself, he could be set for life. No more debt. No more worries. Just his own personal god-child to lift tractors and pay off mortgages.
His mind raced through possibilities: "Hey son, can you laser that barn into shape?" "Hey kid, need a new roof? Fly me to Lowe's!"
Then—
Something gleamed in the corner of his eye.
Inside the cockpit was a strange silver wristband.
Cautiously, he reached for it.
The moment his fingers brushed the surface—
CLACK!
The wristband came alive. Silver tendrils whipped out and latched onto his wrist, tightening with a hiss of air.
"Whoa, hey! What the—?!"
Pain flashed through his head.
He stumbled, clutching his skull as a flood of information downloaded directly into his brain.
Two minutes later.
Steve sat frozen, baby still in his arms.
His expression? Shell-shocked.
That… that wasn't Superman.
This kid...
...was Homelander.
The other golden boy from the stars.
The wrong one.
The one who burned people with his eyes when they upset him. Who threw tantrums by leveling cities. Who drank milk like a psychopath.
Steve stared down at the smiling baby.
"Oh. My. GOD."
And then the next message from the wristband came through:
> "You are now bound to this infant. If the child dies or is abandoned before adulthood, you will also be terminated."
"What?! This is—this is an intergalactic parenting contract?!"
He looked at the wristband, horrified.
It was glowing softly.
Then the needle on the dial began to move—one slow tick.
A system voice echoed in his head:
> "Countdown to next meteor shower: 365 days. When completed, new extraterrestrial infants will arrive."
So...
He would have a chance next year.
A chance to draw a better card.
Maybe Superman. Maybe Martian Manhunter. Maybe someone normal.
But for now?
He looked down at the baby again.
The infant giggled, cooed, and reached up to pat Steve's soot-covered cheek.
Steve
sighed.
"...Alright, kid. Looks like we're stuck with each other."
He raised the child in his arms and said firmly, with a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth:
> "Call me Daddy."
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