[ EU ] WWIII breaks out . A young Clark Kent is drafted .

Dad always had me lie low. It's instinct now. At Basic I tied a pair of tube socks around my knee and made a show of favoring it every time we ran. 
 
 `` You're back of the pack, Pvt. Kent!'' my CO called out. I let a smile slip, tried to cover it by faking a grimace, and as his eyes widened I made a show of tripping as my knee buckled. 
 
 `` Dammit, Kent. Get going!'' 
 
 As I ran by the I heard the CO mumble, `` damn kid, must be some old football injury. Or he's skinnyfat. Looks like he could outrun them all.'' 
 
 No promotions. No recognition. 
 
 First deployment was Colombia. Our force was tasked with retaking the construction grounds for the ISS elevator. It was an international money pit, but with more solar and nuclear generation than the rest of the continent. Regaining control would destabilize the Rushina sympathizers. 
 
 I grabbed my issued xM-1, keyed in my fingerprint and activated the headcam. I had the sat radio pack for the squad. Back of the pack had stuck as my nickname, `` Backpack Kent''. I slung the 40 pounds of gear and marched behind my dozen squadmates, as a glorified wifi hotspot. 
 
 We took the transport from Bogota to Baranquilla. As we dropped on the beachhead the drone mines rose up from just beyond the breaking waves. They detached from solar lilypads and buzzed toward our squad. 
 
 We dropped to the sand and began firing on the incoming mines. I took aim with my rifle, but it was simply easier to laser them with my eyes. Practicing a few years ago on the porch in Kansas, I could pulse a laser before anyone could see any visible beam. 
 
 And these drones were small. I popped two. Resendez hit one with a long burst from his rifle, and the others shot wildly into the surf. The hand grenade size targets were powerful enough to rip up half the dozen squad members and we had more than 50 targets still incoming. 
 
 I could n't fly out or zap them all without a continuous beam. No promotions. No recognition. But we were about to blow to bits. 
 
 I took a deep breath and dropped my headcam face down into the sand. I blew pulsing breaths into sand around us, creating a miniature tornado and blinding my squadmates. I hovered up above the sandcloud, blowing 100 mph winds down on them each time a head popped up. 
 
 I eyed the incoming targets, thought through their trajectory, and arced my laser vision across them. Only one left remaining. As it hummed toward me, I shed my dogtags and uniform. Unslinging the backpack, I held it up as a shield before the incoming drone mine. It exploded over my squad's heads, raining down the scraps. 
 
 Backpack Kent died on that beach. It was time for Superman to go to war. 
 
 
 

