SHIELD

Medical Facility, New Mexico

Clark's world was a haze of confusion, pain, and fragments of memory.

When he finally regained some sense of awareness, it felt like emerging from the depths of an endless nightmare. His body was a broken shell—limbs that felt like lead, skin too tight, muscles that refused to move. Pain washed over him in waves. But there was something else, too—something alien, yet strangely comforting.

The sun. A yellow star that was not Earth's. And its rays—blinding and warm—were slowly working their way through his body, healing him. But the process was agonizingly slow.

His skin felt like it was stretching to accommodate the sun's energy, like his very cells were being rewritten. Every movement was excruciating. His bones ached, his muscles screamed in protest, and his head throbbed with a relentless pain that blurred his thoughts. The kind of pain that made him wish he were still numb.

The sterile, metallic air around him was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the hum of machines. Voices echoed softly nearby—urgent whispers, unsure tones. He wasn't alone, but who were they? What were they? The words were lost on him.

Clark tried to open his eyes, but the light was too bright. When he finally did, the first thing he saw was a harsh ceiling of fluorescent lights—far too bright, far too clinical. This was not Kansas. This wasn't home. His gaze flitted across the room, landing on a group of figures in white coats, moving in sync with machines he didn't understand. They stared at him, their eyes wide with curiosity and concern, as though he were some kind of puzzle they couldn't solve.

A woman stepped forward—a doctor, her voice shaky yet professional. "Sir, can you hear me?" Her tone was calm but filled with an unspoken fear. "We need to know who you are."

Clark's throat felt raw, his voice barely more than a rasp. "I… I don't know," he croaked, unable to grasp the words, let alone the truth of who he was. He closed his eyes again, struggling to summon any trace of memory. It was all a blur. The pain, the fire, the destruction... where had it all gone? What had happened?

The woman hesitated, exchanging a brief, anxious look with her colleague. They seemed unsure of how to proceed. "Can you give us your name?" she asked, softer this time, almost pleading. "Do you know your name?"

He tried to remember. He should have remembered. A name floated just out of reach, like an echo from somewhere deep inside.

Finally, it came. "Clark… Kent."

The doctor looked at him, confused, her pen hovering over her clipboard. "Clark Kent," she repeated, almost as if testing the name on her tongue. "Okay. We'll write that down."

Before she could continue, a new presence entered the room—sharp, commanding. A man in a dark suit, his posture straight, his demeanor all business. It was Nick Fury, and his gaze locked onto Clark like a hawk sighting prey.

"Clark Kent?" Fury's voice was skeptical, the words low and cautious. His one good eye scanned Clark's prone figure with a piercing intensity, sizing him up. "You're sure that's your name?"

Clark nodded weakly, his body trembling from the effort. "I think so… It feels right. But…" He trailed off, his voice faltering, as the weight of the situation settled over him. His mind felt fractured, memories slipping like sand through his fingers.

Fury's gaze didn't waver. "You don't remember anything else? Nothing about who you are, where you came from?" His voice was sharp, the concern in his tone more apparent now. "You've got a body that's unlike anything we've ever seen. Heals faster than anything we've got a name for, and your skin… It's like it's made of metal. You're not human. And yet here you are. What does that tell us?"

The doctors exchanged uneasy glances. One, an older man, spoke up hesitantly, his voice thick with disbelief. "His physiology is… beyond anything we know. We've run every scan we can think of, and the results are... incomprehensible. His cells are regenerating at an exponential rate. His skin is so dense, we couldn't even get an IV into him. No matter what we do, he keeps getting stronger."

Fury's expression darkened. His mind raced as he processed the information. He'd dealt with threats before—alien, human, mutant, you name it—but this… This was something else entirely.

"You're telling me he's healing faster than you can keep up with him?" Fury's voice dropped an octave, the sharpness of his words underscoring his frustration.

The doctor nodded. "Yes, but… it's slow. Very slow. His body is adjusting, but it's like his cells are still recovering from something. Whatever happened to him before he arrived here... it wasn't good."

Fury's gaze remained fixed on Clark, who was still barely conscious, struggling to piece his own identity together. "Tell me something, Kent. You say your name's Clark Kent. You don't know where you're from, but you're clearly not human. So what *are* you?"

Clark tried to respond, but his throat constricted. He opened his mouth, but no words came. All he knew was that he had failed. He had failed everyone. He had tried to save them all, but it was too late. He had destroyed everything. And now, wherever this place was, whoever these people were, he didn't belong here either.

Fury leaned in, his voice quieter but no less intense. "You may not remember who you are, but I need to know *what* you are. Where did you come from, and why are you here? We're sitting on the edge of something huge, and I need to know if you're a threat."

Clark's head throbbed as he tried to focus, but his mind was a blank canvas. He couldn't explain. He couldn't form the words to describe the destruction, the grief, the burden that weighed on him. He couldn't even remember how he'd gotten here. The last thing he remembered was fire, pain, and a blinding light—nothing more.

Before he could respond, the door clicked open, and another man entered. He was more subdued than Fury but no less focused. It was Phil Coulson.

"Director," Coulson said, his voice steady as always. He scanned the room and looked at Clark, his gaze briefly flickering with concern. "What's the status?"

Fury didn't look at him. His eyes were still locked on Clark. "His name's Clark Kent, but there's no record of him anywhere. No previous medical history, no public records. This guy showed up from God-knows-where, with a body that heals itself and skin tougher than steel. And he's got no memory."

Coulson nodded slowly, his expression hard to read. "What do you want to do with him?"

Fury finally tore his gaze away from Clark, his face hardening as he spoke. "Keep him isolated. For now. We don't know what we're dealing with, and I'm not going to risk it. We need answers, Coulson. The kind of answers we can't get until we're sure about him. Until I'm sure."

Back in the medical wing, Clark lay still, fighting to stay conscious as days bled together. His body had begun to heal—slowly but surely—but the emotional scars ran deeper than anything he had ever known. The rays of the sun outside were powerful, but still not enough to fully undo the damage.

One thing was clear to him now, as he lay there, struggling to put his shattered memories back together: He wasn't just lost in his mind. He was lost in this world, too.

And the world had already changed.

But the man he once was? He wasn't sure if he could ever find him again.