Chapter 57: Midnight in the Suburbs of Moscow

A faint awkwardness lingered in the middle of the living room, while a brand-new topic was visibly rising between the two of them.

Superman had mingled in human society for so many years, coming into contact with people from all walks of life. Of course, he could tell that Elia was reluctant to delve deeper into the matter. But the topic was clearly related to him. How could a sentient being restrain his curiosity when it concerned himself?

So he endured repeatedly, then couldn’t help but piece together the conversation Elia had cut off: “What do you mean not alone? Mr. Hathaway, have we met before?”

Simon, who was wedged between the crack of the wall and the back of the sofa, didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he slowly crawled out of the shadows. First, he pressed himself against the leather sofa, becoming like a painting on its surface. Then, shifting along the z-axis in this three-dimensional space on this two-dimensional plane, he finally reached the top edge of the sofa cushion, pulling himself out of the flat surface with a sudden flick. During this process, the lines forming his body gleamed faintly, with an invisible “chain” connecting him to the Book of Fate.

“Perhaps we have met…” Simon hesitated as he stood atop the sofa back, brushing off imaginary dust from himself. “I’m not sure if counterparts in parallel universes count as the same person. In fact, I can’t even confirm if that was truly your counterpart. Probably only the great Master of Fate can give a definitive answer.”

Superman couldn’t help but glance at Elia, whose face was stern, then turned back to Simon and asked again, “Then what did you mean when you said ‘definitely not alone’…”

“Oh, I meant that you don’t have the memories of us knowing each other.” Simon waved his hand. “After all, the Superman I knew spoke Russian. Even though he learned English in about ten minutes on the battlefield, he didn’t like to use it much.”

More question marks seemed to sprout one after another above the head of Metropolis’s Son of Tomorrow. If question marks could materialize, they would have already drowned them all. Elia watched as Superman looked uncharacteristically uneasy, as if wanting to ask but uncertain whether he should. His fingers slowly tapped together on his lap. The cape hung from one shoulder like the simple yet weighty garment of an ancient king crowned in battle, lending a solemn dignity to the usually approachable superhero.

Seeing the genuine confusion written across his face, Elia suddenly felt a bit embarrassed. Though he had limited empathy for the “Master of Fate” who constantly observed Superman, given the situation, discussing “id, ego, superego” with him seemed futile and evasive. Regardless, the observed Superman deserved to be informed.

After a moment of consideration, Elia said to Simon in the language of the Book of Fate, “Summarize for Superman the key points of what you told me earlier.”

“Got it!” Simon slid down from the sofa cushion to the coffee table and sat cross-legged. He began, “It was a snowy winter day…”

Elia: “…”

Where’s the summary?! Where’s the key point?!

Despite the appearance of a lengthy, three-thousand-word preamble, Elia realized that Simon had indeed refined much of the information. He omitted the details about “fate,” focusing instead on the origins of the parallel universe’s Red Son, his growth, and how Simon and “Elia,” two outsiders, came to know him.

Superman was an attentive listener. He listened intently without interrupting Simon’s narration, and during Simon’s pauses, he seized the opportunity to ask questions:

“So, ‘I’ had a pair of Soviet human adoptive parents and lived on a farm in Ukraine for twenty years?”

“Paradise Island established diplomatic relations with ‘us’? Diana is a peace ambassador? Oh, I’m glad she’s still my friend… though I suspect my other friends have become my enemies in this worldview.”

“America was engulfed in war and famine for half a century, yet refused ‘my’ aid due to social and political differences, only resolving internal issues after Lex Luthor became president…”

“No, Mr. Hathaway, I don’t think you’re lying, nor am I angry or upset.” Superman said thoughtfully. “In fact, I find this so-called ‘parallel universe’ quite interesting. Please forgive me for not being able to simply call it better or worse, so I have to use a somewhat frivolous word to describe it.”

“Ah, don’t mind that,” Simon said. “I know you have no interest in politics. Even if one day you’re dragged into the whirlpool, it will surely be because of others’ suffering.”

Superman’s expression had been serious, but he laughed at Simon’s words. “You think highly of me.”

“I’m just being honest, and it’s not only me who thinks so.” Simon shrugged and glanced back at Elia. His deceased friend and guide sat motionless, seemingly not listening to their conversation, but gazing deeply with ocean-blue eyes at some point in the air, lost in thought.

Superman didn’t pay attention to Elia—or rather, pretended not to. He pointed to his chest, full of curiosity, and asked, “How did you come to know ‘me’? I mean, ‘I’ was already quite prominent then, right? Was it Phosphor or Elia who came to Moscow to find me?”

Simon faltered. Then he looked back at Elia again.

Elia made no response.

Simon hesitated for a few seconds, then restarted: “Just think of it as Elia. It was a snowy winter day…”

Superman: “Wait, it’s still snowing?”

“The northern country has lots of wind and snow,” Simon said. “When we arrived in Moscow, it was a harsh winter, and when we left, it was the same.”

He roughly recounted how Elia and he transformed from “capitalist spies” captured by Wonder Woman into close friends of Superman.

Halfway through, Superman felt only one thing—loneliness.

The last Kryptonian in the universe, the greatest solitude that other species could not comprehend, always seemed buried beneath a vast expanse of white snow. Clark Kent, who grew up in a small town in Kansas, placed his fortress on the frozen northern plains. When he opened his eyes within the solid glacier, all he saw was an eternal dusk overhead or an endless long night. Meanwhile, his parallel universe self stood alone on frostbitten land, with the world hostile to him except for Diana.

Of course, the Superman Simon spoke of possessed unshakable will, never wavering in the face of hatred or attack. Yet he was still a “man” who had staggered step by step from the heart of the snowfield, drawn by distant, faint fires and warmth.

If the present Superman was merely curious and fond of Elia, he could imagine that the parallel universe’s “Red Son” was far more passionate, like a colossal dragon circling the sky suddenly plunging into colors too dazzling for him.

This made him suddenly feel a trace of… discomfort.

The secret place deep within his soul, beyond his control, was ripped open and laid bare.

He even wanted to blame his parallel self for not hiding his nature more when interacting with Elia, so he wouldn’t feel so awkward now. To ease this embarrassment, Superman cleared his throat, deliberately avoiding Elia’s gaze, and fixed his eyes on Simon. “And then? You stayed there for five years. Nothing else happened during those years?”

“Lots happened, but my knowledge is limited.” Simon didn’t notice Superman’s emotional shift. “Elia wouldn’t deliberately avoid me, but when you two whisper, I can’t exactly eavesdrop all the time. It would be awkward.”

“…”

Great, even more awkward.

Superman finally couldn’t hold back and glanced at Elia, who was engrossed in the half-finished painting of Ophelia on the coffee table, as if it were an exhibit in the Louvre.

“You,” he stammered slightly before quickly composing himself, “Mr. Hathaway, just tell me what you know, please.”

“Oh… alright then.” Simon recalled seriously. “As far as I know, Elia was somewhat troubled by the trajectory of fate back then. You know, although the great Master of Fate is undoubtedly great—”

“Simon.” Elia, still staring at Ophelia’s painting, interrupted without looking up. “I said, ‘summarize.’”

“Ahem,” Simon coughed. “I mean, he was mostly a bystander. Even if the ending made him unhappy, he did nothing. And the future of the Red Son… Elia once told me it was ‘destined to end in tragedy.’”

“Ah.” Superman smiled again, a little relieved, as if Simon weren’t speaking about his story. “I’m truly sorry.”

“Why apologize? Elia told me it wasn’t the ‘Superman’s’ fault, nor anyone’s fault. Although from the perspective of a single universe’s development, countless wrong choices led to his failure, from the macro view of fate, the conclusion was different: the world needs a failed Superman.”

Hearing this, Superman shook off some indescribable emotion and asked, “What does that mean?”

Simon shook his head. “I don’t know.” He looked at Elia beside him. “What about you, friend?”

Superman couldn’t help but follow his gaze, noticing Elia deep in thought, faint silver light flashing briefly in his eyes before vanishing.

After a moment, he said, “I’m not sure.”

He had some scattered thoughts but needed more information—intelligence related to Superman himself before making a final judgment.

This made him more eager than ever to uncover what the Master of Fate discussed with the Red Son during those five years in Moscow. Those conversations surely contained insights about the “future” and “fate,” but Simon was still an independent individual then, unbound to the Book of Fate, and knew very little of the details.

Superman felt a bit disappointed. He sensed Elia hadn’t disclosed all the information, perhaps because it wasn’t convenient… or because their relationship wasn’t yet close enough for mutual trust.

But was the Soviet Superman any different?

Was there such a gulf between them?

He gathered himself, banishing the inexplicable disappointment, and asked Simon, “Did that ‘me’ also hear from Elia that the ending was ‘destined to end in tragedy’?”