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guspartenza · 11 days ago

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CLARA KENT BEFORE SUPERWOMAN

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March 18, 1939

Smallville, Kansas

The cold days seemed to have passed. A radiant sun streamed through the windows, filling the room with warmth. Clara had known since childhood that she was almost indifferent to heat and cold. What she truly loved was light—she felt more alive, more joyful when the sun shone… and stronger. What had once been a source of wonder, something that made her feel special, had also been a cause of frustration, confusion, and, at times, sheer horror. Now, it only brought her pain. She turned away from the window. The pain was sharp, relentless.

Two weeks before her birthday, she returned to the barn’s basement—to that strange, metallic object her parents had told her was the vessel that had brought her to Smallville. She wept bitterly as she thought of her father. Three years since he passed away. In a fit of anguish, she struck the thing. And then, a metal sphere inside transformed into something else—some kind of machine, a mechanical being. It spoke first in an unfamiliar language before shifting to her own, revealing the truth she had never imagined. It told her where she came from, who her real parents were. The revelation was unbearable.

Clara saw images—two figures dressed in strange, regal garments, reminiscent of something ancient, almost Egyptian, yet more alien. They spoke to her in her own tongue, calling her by a name that sounded distant and foreign—Kalah-El… or something like that. They spoke of a place called Krypton. She couldn’t take it anymore. Enraged, she lashed out, pounding her fists against the machine until it closed in on itself, shrinking back into a lifeless metal sphere. She wept bitterly in her mother’s arms. And then she made a mistake.

Pete, her fiancé, had always known she was different—special. But he had never truly grasped just how different. Only a handful of people did: her parents, her uncle Seamus, Dr. Baxter, Lana… Pete had spent years by her side—classmates, friends, three years as a couple, two months engaged. They were just kids, barely 21. They never should have gotten engaged.

He couldn’t handle her confession. Clara had tried to show him, to share her secret, to demonstrate what she could do. But the look in his eyes said it all—fear, horror, nearly madness. Pete saw her as something unnatural. She was. He tried to hide it, tried to pretend for a few days, but the unease was too obvious.

So she broke off the engagement before he could. It hurt, but she told everyone that he had ended things—that they were too young, that they didn’t understand each other. Pete accepted the excuse with quiet relief. Lana, however, distanced herself in a way that stung more than Clara had expected. The three of them had always been inseparable—Clara, Pete, and Lana. Now, that bond was shattered.

In Smallville, the reaction was mixed. Some showed her kindness, even esteem. Others whispered behind her back—calling her reckless, unfeminine, an unsuitable wife. They gossiped about how she had refused to go to university after her father’s death, despite having enough money for at least two years, and how she could have paid for the rest by mortgaging the farm.

Laura Baxter, daughter of Dr. Baxter and the school nurse, noticed the sorrow in Clara’s eyes and offered a tentative smile.

“It’s a beautiful day, Clara. If you’d like, we could go for a walk later. The Grahame brothers just got back from Kansas City!”

“Oh, I can’t. I must tutor the third graders in math. I also have a class later at the parish school.”

Clara forced a smile, appreciating Laura’s kindness but unwilling to be seen with any young, unmarried man—not now. Besides, she truly did have lessons to teach. She wasn’t certified to work at the public school, but she spent her afternoons tutoring at the parish school and the town hall.

“Oh, right! No worries, another time.” Laura nodded, then shifted to work mode. “Alright, let’s go over the vaccination list. We’ll get the official records in two weeks—measles and tetanus. The kids are already talking about it. I have a list of those whose parents have raised objections or who have medical concerns. We need to review it with the principal and my father. Would you mind typing it up?”

“Of course.”

Laura flipped through her notebook while Clara’s fingers moved swiftly over the typewriter keys.

“You know, Clara,” Laura mused after a moment, “you’re really good with that typewriter. Have you ever considered working at the town hall or over at Potter’s factory? You’d make a lot more than you do here—or as a tutor.”

Clara shrugged. “This is fine. I think if I work five years as a nurse’s assistant, I might be able to shorten the practical training and just go to Kansas City to take the exams. It’d be easier for me and my mother—less money, and I could stay in Smallville.”

Laura shook her head. She didn’t know Clara Kent well, but she had genuine affection for her. She admired her maturity, intelligence, and quiet strength—though perhaps she was too stubborn, and utterly uninterested in vanity or flirtation. That was probably why that fool, Pete Ross, had let her go.

A sudden commotion outside the school’s administration building pulled them from their conversation. A thunderous mix of voices rose from the street below. Clara, despite herself, picked up every word in an instant. She tried not to use that unnatural ability—the one that allowed her to hear things from impossible distances, even whispers. It felt invasive, unacceptable. But sometimes, it simply happened.

“Hey! We’re trying to work here!” Laura shouted, half-exasperated, half-amused. “This is a primary school—there are children in class! What’s with all this racket?”

She strode to the window, and Clara followed. Below, nearly a dozen men had gathered alongside three cars and a truck.

“Ma’am, forgive us,” one of the men called up urgently. “We’re heading north, near Nemaha—there’s about to be a disaster!”

“What the hell is going on?” Laura demanded, her amusement vanishing.

“The Neuchatel Railroad Bridge—it must’ve collapsed, or at least part of it! Vincent Jensen’s cousin called us—he lives nearby. There’s a train coming from Kansas City, a big one, always passes around noon. We have to stop it! It’s packed with people, ma’am, always is. We need to get there in time.”

"We’re closer than the folks in Nemaha, but they’re on their way too. There aren’t many people in Neuchatel—God, they’ll do what they can, but if it’s one of those modern locomotives, they might not even listen to them.”

“If that train derails, it’s going to be a damn catastrophe,” someone muttered. “There must be at least two or three hundred people on board.”

Laura bit her lip, trying to steady the men with encouraging words. Then, instinctively, she turned toward Clara—But Clara was gone.

Her glasses and purse sat abandoned beside the typewriter.

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***

Clara was running. She ran faster than anyone could imagine, cutting across fields at an impossible speed for a human. She had once covered twenty miles between her farm and the town in barely seven minutes. If she leaped high, pushed herself harder, she could go even faster. She darted through crops, weaved through trees, vaulted over fences.

To anyone who might catch a glimpse of her, she was nothing more than a blur—another one of those strange, fleeting visions whispered about in Smallville. She hadn’t hesitated. She couldn’t hesitate. She could reach the bridge before the men in their cars. She was stronger. If she climbed onto the locomotive, she could warn the engineers, plead with them to stop. But would they listen? Would they see her face and take her seriously? Would she be strong enough to stop the locomotive herself? She had never tested herself against something like this.

Doubt gnawed at her as Clara ran. Why did I do this? She had never revealed herself so openly before. Her father had warned her countless times. But when she heard there were hundreds of lives at stake, she had acted without thinking. Instinct had taken over. She adjusted her path, veering north. Closer to the northwest. The railway line to Smallville came from the east. If she got turned around, she’d lose precious time.

Clara kept running, rehearsing what she would say to the train engineer. Then she sharpened her hearing, forcing herself to pick up even the faintest sounds. It took nearly two minutes, but at last, she heard it—the steady, rhythmic churning of a locomotive. The sound came from the north-northwest, not the east. Good. It wasn’t the Smallville train. It had to be the Nemaha line. She ran toward the sound, praying she wasn’t too late. Then she saw it. A massive locomotive, older in design—easier to board. Twelve cars. Four cargo, eight passenger. She focused her vision, seeing through the metal and wood, counting the people inside. At least two hundred. Please, God, let me help them.

Clara sprinted toward the train, and with a single leap, she hurled herself onto the locomotive’s side. Metal groaned beneath her impact, the door denting inward as she grabbed hold. Inside, three engineers turned in shock

“Please, open up! Stop the train! Stop the train! The Neuchatel Bridge has collapsed—please, you have to stop!”

The roar of the locomotive drowned out her voice. The engineers inside didn’t dare speak; they couldn’t hear her. All they saw was something—someone—slamming against the door, trying to tear it open.

Clara struck again, harder this time, but still holding back. She didn’t want to hurt them. The metal nearly gave way. Then, one of the men, eyes wide with terror, pulled out a revolver and fired. Gunshots rang through the cab. Some bullets slipped through the warped door and ricocheted, bouncing harmlessly off Clara’s body.

She froze. For the first time in her life, she watched, stunned, as bullets flattened and rebounded from her skin. She had no time to process the shock. Turning, she focused on her vision, scanning ahead. They were close—just two, maybe three miles from the ravine. The men from Smallville never would have made it in time. A dozen figures stood at the bridge’s entrance, a truck parked hastily across the tracks. The bridge—wood and brick, supported by three arches—had collapsed at the last span.

Would those men be enough to stop the train? Inside the cab, the engineers were panicked, too afraid to react rationally. There was no time to explain. No time to convince them.

Clara leapt from the side of the locomotive and sprinted ahead. She had stopped heavy objects before—fallen beams, tree trunks on the farm. But this… She inhaled sharply, trying to steady herself. She positioned herself directly in front of the locomotive, turning her back to it. Then she reached up, hands pressing against the train’s metal face, bracing herself.

She had no idea if she was strong enough. She had no idea if she was too strong. The ground trembled beneath her feet. The shrill whistle of the train pierced her ears as the engineers, shouting in blind terror, pulled uselessly at the controls. She turned her head just enough to see it—The bridge, rising ahead like a sentence of death. Less than two miles. No hesitation. No room for doubt. Clara clenched her jaw, pushing against the train. At first, it was like pressing against a moving wall—unyielding, unstoppable.

Then the metal groaned. Her feet touched the ground, skidding against the dry earth. Her shoes disintegrated as her heels dragged through the railroad bed. The wooden ties snapped under her weight, splintering beneath her sinking legs. The rails bent. If the train didn’t stop soon, it would derail before it even reached the bridge.

Clara pushed harder, her entire body locking in resistance. She braced her back against the locomotive, using her feet to fight the relentless momentum. The steel around her arms began to warp. Drops of steam and tar hissed from the overheated engine, falling over her skin. The train screamed in defiance. She clenched her teeth, muscles coiling under the strain. It wasn’t enough. The locomotive shuddered in her grasp, but its sheer momentum kept driving it forward. The weight of the train, the force of its inertia—it threatened to crush her beneath its will. Inside the cab, the engineers were still shouting, still pulling at the controls. The passenger cars swayed violently, filled with terrified cries.

She clenched her fists, digging her feet deeper into the broken earth. The metal warped around her back and arms. The front of the locomotive crumpled beneath her hands. The wheels screeched. The entire train lurched. For a breathless second, it felt like the world itself might snap apart. And then—The train began to slow. The engine let out one final shriek before jolting forward in protest. The first car rocked. The second wobbled dangerously on the tracks. The ravine was just ahead. Clara exhaled, feeling the locomotive's movement finally give way beneath her back.

And then—the train stopped. Steam hissed from the crippled engine. The train sat motionless on the tracks, just a few hundred yards from the collapsed bridge. Clara took a step back, her breath heaving. She looked down—her dress was shredded, her arms smeared with soot and tar. The passenger cars were tilted, voices rising in confusion and fear, but—miraculously—no one seemed hurt.

The men from the bridge were already sprinting toward them. With a crash, the engineers kicked open the cab door and leapt to the ground. The eldest among them staggered forward, his face streaked with soot. And then, he stopped. Staring in disbelief, he turned his eyes to the front of the locomotive. A massive dent stretched across the metal. A dent, in the exact shape of a person. Slowly, hands trembling, the man made the sign of the cross.

Clara, hidden behind the underbrush, swallowed hard. Fear and adrenaline tangled in her chest. She couldn’t stay. With one last look at the stunned crowd, she turned—and with a single leap, vanished into the trees. Behind her, a train sat saved, a town stood in awe, and the impossible had become real.

The official story? The train had hit a fallen log—one massive enough to slow it down before being hurled off the tracks. A log that was never found.

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