AM I SUPERMAN?

"This is CNN. I'm Jenny Fred, bringing you the latest updates. A few days ago, the world witnessed the emergence of alien invaders in Metropolis—and the incredible intervention of what people are now calling 'heroes.' Superman, Wonder Woman, and others stood against the threat. Some call them gods. Today, we are fortunate to have Oliver Queen, CEO of Queen Industries, with us. Mr. Queen, as a young billionaire and philanthropist, do you believe these individuals can truly be called heroes or saviors?"

The screen cut to Oliver Queen, dressed impeccably in a tailored suit. His calm, confident smile belied the intensity of the topic.

"They're gods? I wouldn't say so. But heroes? Absolutely. They saved Metropolis from destruction. I believe their actions were selfless and heroic," Oliver replied, his voice steady and measured.

Jenny Fred nodded, glancing at her prepared questions. "Your praise for these heroes is evident, Mr. Queen. However, there is another perspective being raised by many, particularly here in the United States. We are a nation of laws, governed by the Constitution and international agreements. Do you believe superheroes should be subject to the law? And if they choose not to abide by it, how should society respond?"

This question was loaded, a reflection of the unease many in positions of power felt about unchecked heroes.

Oliver's expression grew contemplative. After a pause, he replied, "That's an interesting question. Honestly, I think this concern might be a bit misplaced. From what we've seen, these heroes aren't looking for recognition or praise. They're simply people trying to do the right thing. Shouldn't we focus on their intentions rather than trying to control them?"

The interview continued, but elsewhere, Bruce Wayne watched the screen from the shadows of his study. His piercing gaze remained fixed on Oliver's calm demeanor until, with a flick of his hand, he pressed the remote and turned off the television.

The silence in the room was broken by the quiet creak of the door. Alfred Pennyworth entered, carrying a silver tray laden with food. "Master Wayne, you've barely eaten since returning from Metropolis."

"Leave it on the table, Alfred. I'm not hungry," Bruce muttered, leaning back in his chair. His voice was low, hoarse from long hours of thought and little rest.

Alfred sighed but placed the tray on the cluttered desk. With his characteristic efficiency, he began tidying the scattered papers and newspapers. His sharp eyes caught the bold headlines:

"Superman, Wonder Woman, and Others Save Metropolis!"

"Alien Invasion Repelled by Superpowered Beings!"

"Volunteers?" Alfred read aloud, adjusting his glasses. "Heroes? Perhaps saviors, even."

Bruce's expression darkened, his jaw tightening. "Heroes? They didn't save the city—they destroyed it!" His voice was sharp, his frustration palpable.

Alfred paused, regarding Bruce carefully. "Without their intervention, Master Wayne, perhaps the entire planet would have been lost. Casualties are, unfortunately, inevitable in war—even in your battles against Gotham's criminals. How many times have you inadvertently caused damage while protecting the city?"

Bruce was silent, the weight of Alfred's words sinking in. He had often caused collateral damage in his war against crime, though he always sought to minimize it. Yet, Superman and the others had brought destruction on a scale beyond anything Gotham had ever seen. Entire city blocks were reduced to rubble.

As Bruce wrestled with his thoughts, a faint, insidious whisper echoed in his mind:

"Don't trust them. Don't trust the aliens or the superpowered beings. They are not like us. They are not human."

Bruce froze, his sharp instincts immediately on alert. The voice was faint, yet unnervingly clear. His hand clenched into a fist as he tried to dismiss it as fatigue, but the seeds of doubt it planted were undeniable.

Alfred, oblivious to the whisper, continued. "Perhaps what we should ask, Master Wayne, is not whether they are heroes, but whether we are willing to work with them to prevent greater tragedies."

The whisper in Bruce Wayne's ears faded, leaving behind a dull headache that throbbed at his temples. He groaned softly, pressing his fingers to his forehead before running them over his face. When he lifted his head, his eyes were steely, colder than before.

"They're not human," Bruce muttered to himself. "I can't trust them."

He stood abruptly, turning to face Alfred, who had been silently observing him. "Alfred, where did I store the alien armor recovered from Metropolis?"

"The alien armors are secured in the Batcave, sir," Alfred replied, his tone calm and respectful. "You instructed that no one else, aside from you, should have access to them."

"Good. That was the right call," Bruce said, his tone clipped. Without another word, he strode out of the room.

"Master Wayne," Alfred called after him, glancing at the untouched plate of food on the table, "might I suggest you have something to eat before plunging into another crusade?"

Bruce didn't respond, the door closing behind him.

Meanwhile, elsewhere…

Kaius was enjoying a rare, lazy morning, still lounging in bed when a sudden explosion from downstairs shattered the tranquility. This was quickly followed by the unmistakable sound of an argument—Diana and Fiora, their voices escalating with every exchange.

With a groan of resignation, Kaius dragged himself out of bed, threw on his clothes, and trudged down the stairs, yawning. "What's going on here?" he asked, his voice groggy but firm.

The sight that greeted him was a mix of chaos and comedy. Fiora, now clad in casual clothing rather than her dark Zod Army Battlegear, stood at attention the moment she saw him, snapping a crisp salute. "General Kaius," she began formally, "I was attempting to learn how to cook!"

Kaius sighed, waving off the salute. "How many times do I have to tell you? Don't call me General. Just—" He paused, noticing James sitting at the breakfast table, staring at him with a peculiar expression.

"Never mind," he muttered. "Call me whatever you want. But how on Earth did trying to cook end up with an explosion in the kitchen?"

Diana, arms crossed and clearly annoyed, interjected. "She used her heat vision to ignite the gas stove! If I hadn't shielded the area with my divine power, she would've blown up the entire house!"

Kaius slapped a hand to his forehead in exasperation. "Fiora," he said, shaking his head, "cooking is not in your genetic programming. You're a warrior, not a chef. Diana, why would you even let her near the kitchen?"

Diana smirked, her tone dripping with playful malice. "You're the one who said she's our servant. Should I, the lady of the house, be expected to cook breakfast for the help?"

Her pointed glance at Fiora was laced with challenge, but Fiora stood unfazed. Instead, she responded with a proud lift of her chin. "I am Lieutenant Fiora of the Zod Army, and now, loyal to General Kaius and his Justice League. My loyalty is to him alone, not to you."

Diana's smirk faltered, her temper flaring. "I'm also a founding member of the Justice League. You're subordinate to the League, which means you answer to me too! Do you want me to dismiss you right now?"

Fiora's eyes narrowed, her warrior instincts kicking in. "You don't have the authority to dismiss me. Only General Kaius can decide my fate!" Her stance shifted slightly, readying herself for combat.

Diana, refusing to back down, summoned the Sword of Hephaestus into her hand. "Let's see if that loyalty survives a real fight."

Fiora stepped forward, her body language daring Diana to strike first. "If combat resolves this, then let's settle it."

Kaius groaned loudly, stepping between the two women. "Enough!" he said, his voice cutting through the tension. "You're both acting ridiculous. Fiora, you're banned from the kitchen. Diana, stop provoking her. This is not how the Justice League handles conflicts."

Both women hesitated but reluctantly stepped back. Diana huffed, crossing her arms again. Fiora resumed her rigid military posture.

"Good," Kaius muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Now, someone make breakfast without burning the house down."

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