Marvel:SuperHero

i found myself in space pondering.

As I floated amidst the endless expanse of space, the silence was deafening. Stars burned bright and distant, their light a constant reminder of how small I was in the grand scheme of the universe.

Lost in the black void of space, I couldn't help but question my identity as a hero.

what can of hero am i?

Was I truly selfless?

My gaze was torn between the endless expanse of stars and the depths of my own consciousness, desperately seeking an answer to the unspoken doubt that lingered within me.

to a question I could not quite voice.

I clenched my fists, watching as the stars around me seemed to blur in the wake of my movements. Strength without direction meant nothing. Speed without purpose was just chaos. And here I was, stranded in a reality not my own, carrying the weight of expectations placed upon me by a truck with a crown.

Truck-kun believed in me, sure. But did I believe in myself?

Was I the kind of hero who swooped in to save the day at the last second, basking in the cheers of a grateful crowd? Or the kind who worked quietly in the shadows, ensuring peace without ever being noticed? Could I even be a hero at all?

Then, suddenly,

i knew the answer.

it came from deep within.

i was selfish

i wanted to help other purely because it made me feel better about myself.

i didnt hate myself when i was useful to others.

it wasnt about the people i helped.

it was about how it made me feel.

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut, leaving me breathless even in the vacuum of space. I was selfish. My desire to help others, to be a hero, it all stemmed from a need to feel good about myself. To feel useful. To not hate the person staring back at me in the mirror.

For a moment, I felt lost. If my motivations were selfish, did that make me unworthy of these powers? Of the title 'Superboy'?

But then, as I floated there among the stars, another thought occurred to me. Maybe... maybe that was okay. Maybe being a little selfish didn't make me a bad person. After all, wasn't I still helping people? Did it really matter why I did it, as long as good was being done?

With a deep breath, I closed my eyes and focused on the sounds of the world below. My enhanced senses picked out voices, cries, laughter, and even the whispers of the wind across the oceans. Each sound was a thread in the tapestry of this reality. And woven among those threads were voices in pain, in danger, calling out for help.

I opened my eyes, resolve hardening in my chest.

Maybe I didn't have all the answers. Maybe I never would. But if I could ease even one person's pain, save one life, or make one difference—then that would be enough.

I turned, angling myself toward the Earth below, and felt gravity's pull.

"Alright," I muttered, a small smirk tugging at the corner of my lips. "Time to see if this Superboy has what it takes."

And with that, I looked downward, ready to embrace the unknown and the role I was destined to play.

my super vision easily seeing the world laid bare before my eyes

and i saw it a plane somewhere over what i assumed was america lost an engine it was going to crash

and there was no hero to save it.

exept me.

I didn't hesitate. In an instant,

I rocketed towards Earth

I was streaking through the atmosphere, a sonic boom echoing behind me as I pushed my newfound speed to its limits.

the atmosphere igniting around me

The wind whipped past my face, but my eyes remained locked on the failing plane below. The plane's distress signals blared in my enhanced hearing, a desperate cry for help amidst the chaos.

The ground was rushing up to meet them, promising a fiery end.

Not on my watch.

"Alright, Superboy," I muttered to myself. "Time to earn that name."

I positioned myself beneath the massive aircraft, The weight of the massive aircraft crushed down on my shoulders, threatening to buckle them under its immense bulk. Gritting my teeth, I dug my feet into the ground and pushed upward with all the strength my Kryptonian DNA gave me. Every muscle in my body strained against the force of gravity as I fought to slow the plane's descent.

But then disaster struck. The section of the plane's underbelly that I was holding onto suddenly snapped off, sending me hurtling away from the aircraft. As I tumbled through the air, I watched in horror as the plane continued on its deadly trajectory towards a packed football stadium below.

Refusing to give up, I pushed myself even harder, determined to stop this catastrophe from happening. With a burst of speed, I raced after the plummeting plane. The ground rushed towards me at an alarming rate, but I ignored it, focusing all of my energy on reaching the nose of the aircraft in time.

My heart pounded with adrenaline and fear as I closed the gap between us. The terrified faces of the people in the stadium below seemed to freeze in time as they watched their impending doom approach closer and closer.

With a final surge of strength, I collided with the front of the plane, my hands digging into its metal exterior as I pushed with every ounce of power I had left. The metal groaned and buckled under my grip, but I refused to let go.

Even as my feet touched the ground and I skidded across the field, I held firm against the force of impact. And finally, after what felt like an eternity, the plane came to a shuddering halt.

The ground shook beneath us as debris flew in all directions and a deafening boom echoed through the stadium. But above it all, there was a moment of silence as everyone processed what had just happened.

I could feel every muscle in my body screaming in pain and exhaustion, but I knew that I couldn't let go yet. The fate of those innocent lives below still hung in the balance.

"Hold together," I growled through gritted teeth, my arms trembling with effort. And then, as if by a miracle, the plane's engines sputtered to a stop and the smoke cleared from its damaged fuselage.

I collapsed onto the ground, gasping for breath and relief flooding through me. I had done it. I had saved them all.

I took a shaky breath, my chest heaving, and glanced upward. The passengers inside were safe—terrified, no doubt, but alive. That thought alone was enough to steady me.

The roar of cheers erupted from the crowd in the stadium, a wave of relief washing over everyone. My ears picked up snippets of the ecstatic shouts:

"He saved them!"

"Who is that?"

"It's like something out of a movie!"

I let the words wash over me as I gently set the plane down on the ground. My cape—now tattered and singed from the descent—hung limply at my back as I stepped away from the aircraft, trying not to collapse from the sheer exhaustion that now set in.

Paramedics and emergency crews swarmed the scene, tending to the passengers and ensuring no one was hurt. A woman in the crowd, her face streaked with tears, shouted, "You saved us all!" Her words struck a chord deep within me.

For a moment, I just stood there, catching my breath. Then, finally, I glanced at the crowd and gave them a nod. I didn't feel like a hero—I felt like someone who had barely made it in time, someone who'd almost failed.

But then I heard a young boy's voice cut through the noise. "That was awesome!! Like a SuperHero!"

My heart twisted at the comparison. I wasn't a Superhero. I wasn't even close. I'd just gotten lucky this time.

But looking around at the lives I'd saved, at the people who were hugging each other in gratitude, I realized something. Even if I didn't feel like a hero, I had made a difference today.

And maybe that was enough.

Across America, news outlets erupted with the incredible footage. The videos, shaky and hastily recorded on phones, told the same unbelievable story from different angles. A fiery streak cutting through the sky. A teenager bracing against the nose of a massive aircraft as it descended toward a packed football stadium. The ground beneath him cracked and cratered as he stood firm, preventing the disaster by sheer force of will and strength.

Every major network played the clips on loop, accompanied by headlines that blared in bold letters:

"TEEN HERO STOPS AIRLINER CATASTROPHE!"

"MYSTERIOUS SUPERHUMAN SAVES THOUSANDS!"

"REAL-LIFE SUPERHERO? PLANE CRASH AVERTED IN MIRACULOUS RESCUE!"

In one particularly clear clip, captured by a bystander in the upper bleachers of the stadium, the crowd's panic transformed into awe. Cheers erupted as the plane ground to a halt, its massive nose crumpled but intact, thanks to the lone figure beneath it. The camera zoomed in, trying to get a better look at the mysterious hero, but his face was distant and with a blur of motion He vanished.

At the same time, in a quiet diner miles away from the chaos, the same footage played on a small television mounted in the corner. Patrons sat glued to their seats, leaning forward as if being closer would make the story more real.

"That's not CGI, right? That's real? He actually caught the plane?" one man said, his voice tinged with disbelief.

"No way it's fake. Look at the cracks in the ground," another added, pointing at the screen. "Who is this guy?"

In a corner booth, a hooded teenager sipped his coffee in silence, his face mostly hidden. He kept his head low, avoiding the curious glances of the other customers. To them, he was just another kid on the road, nothing more. But the slight tension in his shoulders betrayed his awareness. He could hear everything they were saying—every whisper, every theory, every wild guess about his identity.

"Maybe he's one of the Avengers?" a waitress speculated as she refilled a customer's cup.

"Doesn't look like any of them I've seen," another replied. "What if he's... y'know, not from around here? Like, at all?"

The hooded figure gave a faint smirk at that, but said nothing. The television droned on, showing the same footage again, followed by analysts speculating about his origins. The diner buzzed with theories, excitement, and gratitude, while the hero in question remained a quiet, unassuming presence in their midst.

Elsewhere, across the vast expanse of the Marvel Universe, the news of the young hero stopping the plane crash spread like wildfire, sparking reactions from some of the most iconic figures, both hero and villain alike.

The Sanctum Sanctorum – Greenwich Village, New York

Doctor Strange watched the footage in silence, his fingers stroking his chin thoughtfully. The chaotic energy from the crash was still fresh in the air, even through the screen, but the teenager's calm demeanor under pressure was remarkable.

"Interesting," Strange murmured. "This one's powers resonate with the energy of an otherworldly force. I must admit, his control is impressive for someone so young." He leaned back, his eyes narrowing. "I sense something... different about him. Not just power, but something deep within his soul."

He turned to Wong, who had been quietly observing from the doorway.

"You think he's a threat?" Wong asked cautiously.

Doctor Strange shook his head slowly. "Not yet. But we must be vigilant. A power like his... it could attract unwanted attention."

Latveria – Dr. Doom's Private Throne Room

Dr. Victor Von Doom sat upon his throne, a towering, obsidian structure made of dark metal and mystical alloys. The room was dim, lit by flickering torches casting shadows over the vast chamber. His face, concealed beneath his metal mask, remained impassive as he watched the news footage on a holographic screen in front of him.

At first, he thought little of it—a mere display of a child with powers beyond the average human's comprehension. A trivial incident, surely. But as the footage continued to unfold, showcasing the teenager's remarkable feats of strength, Doom's eyes narrowed, his attention fully captured.

The moment the plane teetered dangerously close to crashing, Doom's fingers flexed at his side, and the air around him grew heavier. The teen, flying at an impossible speed, positioned himself beneath the aircraft, pushing against its massive weight. Doom's mind worked quickly, analyzing the situation, assessing the capabilities of the child.

Impressive. Doom's thoughts were calculated, his voice still cold and emotionless, yet there was something more behind his usual composure. The teenager's speed, his ability to match the plane's trajectory, his physical strength—it all displayed a power that threatened Doom's very sense of superiority.

"This... child," Doom muttered, his voice low and tinged with both awe and contempt. "What manner of being possesses such strength? To stop a falling aircraft with nothing but sheer strength...

He leaned forward, his hands clasped together tightly, the dark metal of his gauntlets creaking under the pressure. His sharp, calculating mind had already begun to plot.

Could he be a threat? Doom pondered. No mere child should wield such power without consequence. No, he must be controlled. His power could serve a greater purpose... mine.

Doom stood abruptly, his heavy cloak flowing with the movement. He moved towards the glowing console at the edge of the chamber, a cold fury simmering beneath his usually unflappable exterior.

"Who is he?" Doom's voice grew darker, more menacing. "Where did he come from?"

His mind raced, considering every possible avenue of action. Doom was not one to tolerate the existence of beings who threatened his dominance over Earth. This boy,represented both a potential ally—and a monumental risk. Power such as his could be useful in securing Doom's place at the top of the world's hierarchy. But it could also become a grave threat if allowed to grow unchecked.

"Latveria has always been the cradle of true power," Doom growled, eyes flashing with an inner fire. "But this… this child possesses the raw strength that even I must acknowledge. I will not let such potential go untapped."

A smile, almost imperceptible, curled at the corners of Doom's mouth as he made his decision. It was a rare moment of satisfaction for him—a rare acknowledgment of another's strength. But in the same breath, it was a moment of plotting, of calculating how he might seize that strength for his own ends.

"Find him," Doom commanded, turning to his trusted Doom-bots, who stood motionless at the edges of the room. "I will not let him become a pawn of the Avengers or any other misguided 'hero.' I will be the one to shape his destiny."

The Doom-bots clicked into action, setting out on their mission to locate this new player on the world stage.

"I will offer him the world," Doom continued, his voice growing colder, more resolute. "But only if he bends to my will. If he resists... he shall be crushed."

With that, Doom turned back to the holographic screen, watching the footage once more. The teenager had certainly earned his place in history. But as far as Doom was concerned, history belonged to him—and anyone who dared stand in his way would soon learn the price of defiance.

In his mind, Doom had already won. It was only a matter of time before the boy would realize that his fate was no longer his own.

The Watcher's Observatory – A Silent, Infinite Watcher

High in the vast reaches of space, hidden beyond the boundaries of Earth, the Watcher sat in his celestial observatory. His ancient eyes, deep and infinite, gazed upon the ever-changing tapestry of the universe. He was a being who had witnessed the rise and fall of countless worlds, the unfolding of history across the cosmos. Yet, something about this new event, this boy with the power to stop a falling plane, caught his attention in a way few things had before.

His voice, soft but carrying the weight of countless ages, reverberated through the vast emptiness of the observatory.

"The Last Son of Krypton," he murmured to himself, his voice filled with a tinge of sorrow. "A child of a world lost to time, a world eaten by Galactus, the devourer of worlds.

"

The Watcher's face, if it could be called such, was an ever-changing mosaic of celestial symbols and cosmic energy. He blinked slowly, contemplating the implications of this young man's arrival on Earth, his powers, and his connection to a long-dead world.

"For generations, I have observed the fragile lives of humanity, the heroes and villains that emerge. But this boy is different." His voice resonated with an ancient wisdom, a knowingness that could not be easily explained. "His power comes from a place long gone. His home was consumed, swallowed whole by the hunger of Galactus."

The Watcher's gaze lingered on the scene unfolding on Earth—the teenager, pushing the plane upward with strength and determination, the lives of innocent people hanging in the balance. It was clear to the Watcher that this was no ordinary boy. This was someone who bore the weight of a lost world within him.

"The last of his kind," the Watcher continued, his thoughts deeper now, tracing the boy's lineage, his heritage, and the legacy of Krypton. "Born on a world that no longer exists. His parents, long gone. His people, extinguished. And yet, here he stands—defying fate, saving lives."

The Watcher's tone darkened slightly, his voice taking on a solemn quality as he continued to reflect on the boy's future.

"But the path ahead will not be easy for him. He carries the legacy of a world that was consumed by Galactus, and that destruction still hangs over him. His power is both a blessing and a curse. Will he use it for good? Or will he become the instrument of his own undoing, as so many others have before him?"

A deep sigh echoed from the Watcher, a sound that seemed to reverberate across the vastness of space itself. His eyes, heavy with the knowledge of countless futures, turned back to the boy as he struggled with the plane.

"His actions today may seem heroic," the Watcher said, his voice filled with a quiet reflection.

The Watcher's mind drifted for a moment, as he considered the boy's place in the grand scheme of the multiverse. "He may never fully understand the consequences of his existence. He may never know the depths of the sacrifices made by his people. But one thing is certain—his destiny is intertwined with the fate of Earth. And I, as always, will watch."

The Watcher paused, his ancient eyes casting one last glance at the young hero. "The last son of Krypton... a survivor of a world that no longer exists... will he rise above the legacy of his fallen people, or will the darkness that consumed his world claim him as well?"

With that, the Watcher fell silent, his gaze returning to the vast cosmos. Time would tell. But for now, he would continue to observe, as he always had—an ancient being who knew all, but could never intervene.

Deadpool's Hideout – A Dirty Apartment in the Middle of Nowhere

Deadpool was sprawled out on a stained bean bag, binge-watching cat videos on his phone while devouring a mountain of chimichangas. His eyes darted back and forth between the screen and the snacks, clearly unimpressed at first. But as he stumbled upon footage of a teenage superhero stopping a plane with his bare hands, Deadpool sat up, nearly choking on his chimichanga.

"Holy guacamole! Did that kid just... pause a freaking plane? With his tiny little hands?" he exclaimed, wiping hot sauce off his Deadpool mask. "I gotta get me one of those."

He leaped to his feet, tossing the empty chimichanga wrappers aside and began pacing around the room, talking to himself.

"I mean, seriously, have you ever seen anything cooler? This kid is like Superman's mini-me mixed with The Hulk. And that fashion sense? On point!"

Deadpool stopped mid-pace and struck a pose, mimicking the teenager's heroic stance. "I need to meet this guy. Maybe we can team up and be the ultimate dynamic duo – Deadpool and Super Teen Savior! We'll save the world and make bank at the same time!"

He did some air punches and danced around the room before coming to a sudden halt.

"Wait... what if he becomes too powerful? Like, starts thinking he's invincible and causes major chaos? Ugh, forget it. I'll just have to teach him how to handle his power and make amazing chimichangas. That's what real heroes do."

With determination in his eyes, Deadpool grabbed his signature katanas and headed out the door.

"Super Teen Savior, I'm coming for you! And if you're

reading I'm offering a fair deal – 75% of the cut for me, and 25% for you. Trust me, it's a steal."

As he dashed out the door, Deadpool turned back with a wink. "And if you're reading this, kid, just remember – when life gives you superpowers, make chimichangas!"