Tom Welling sits across from Joe Jukic in the dimly lit recreation room of the psych ward — the one with the broken foosball table and the humming fluorescent light. The TV in the corner plays Smallville reruns on mute.
Tom Welling: (grinning faintly) You know, Joe… I made a lot of money playing Superman. More than I ever dreamed. But you—Red Son Joe—you made sweet nothing.
Joe Jukic: (smirks, leaning back in his chair) Yeah, well, that’s the difference between playing Superman and being one. I didn’t need a contract — I had consequences.
Tom: (chuckles) You talk like you lived through an alternate script.
Joe: I did. In mine, Superman didn’t fall from the sky — he fell from grace. Red Son, they called him. Not from Krypton… but from Croatia.
Tom: That sounds more like a psych ward mythos than a comic.
Joe: That’s the thing, Tom. The ward is the mythos. This place is Arkham for the unacknowledged heroes — the ones who didn’t get syndication deals.
Tom: (sighs, thoughtful) Maybe that’s why I’m here too. You play Superman long enough… you start believing you can save people. Then one day, you realize you can’t even save yourself.
Joe: (nods) Welcome to the Red Son reality, brother. No cape. No glory. Just truth serum and cafeteria coffee.
(They share a quiet laugh. The nurse passes by, eyeing them like two overgrown kids who still believe in miracles.)
Tom: So tell me, Joe — what’s next for Red Son?
Joe: I’m writing the sequel in my head. Superman joins the psych ward… and learns what it really means to be human.
INT. PSYCH WARD – NIGHT
The lights flicker again. Joe Jukic sits on the bed, sketching a sigil that looks like the Superman “S,” but cracked down the middle. Tom Welling leans against the wall, eyes distant.
Tom Welling:
You remember, Joe? That night in your basement of solitude… when we broke the seal?
Joe Jukic:
How could I forget? I thought it was a game at first. You called it the Masonic lock. Said the world was built on it.
Tom: (half-smiling)
And when it cracked, man… you said we’d opened the vault of truth.
Joe:
You were the witness. That’s all I needed. Somebody who saw it, who wasn’t afraid.
Tom:
I helped all I could. I didn’t know how deep it went back then. I thought we were just playing mythologists — Superman and the Red Son decoding the world’s symbols.
Joe: (staring through him)
We were. But the symbols were real.
(Tom sits beside him, lowering his voice.)
Tom:
My old man — the one who played my dad on Smallville — he told me things before he died. He said history’s not what it looks like. That the towers, the fall, the fire — it was a controlled burn. A demolition of truth, not just buildings.
(Joe listens in silence. The hum of the fluorescent light turns into a low, almost sacred tone — the kind that makes the air feel alive.)
Joe:
And you believed him?
Tom:
I didn’t want to. But once you’ve seen the seal break, you start seeing the cracks everywhere else.
(Joe closes his notebook. The sigil glows faintly under the light — a reflection, or maybe something more.)
Joe:
Then maybe the psych ward isn’t punishment, Tom. Maybe it’s initiation.
Tom: (smiles faintly)
You always had the better script, Red Son.
(They sit in silence, the TV playing muted images of Superman flying — but now it looks like surveillance footage. A nurse walks by, turns the volume up just a little, and the theme music echoes faintly through the hall.)
INT. PSYCH WARD – NIGHT
The rain taps against the barred window. The muted Smallville episode on TV shows Clark Kent discovering his powers for the first time. Tom and Joe sit side by side, both staring at it like it’s a memory.
Tom Welling:
You know, Joe… people forget where Superman really came from. He wasn’t born under a red sun or blue sky. He was born between wars. Back when the world was still arguing over what a “super man” should mean.
(He looks down, voice quiet.)
In Nazi Germany, they twisted the idea — made it about bloodlines, perfection, strength without mercy. Their Superman was a god without grace.
Joe Jukic:
And America made him a savior in tights.
Tom: (smiling sadly)
Yeah. They polished him up. Truth, justice, the American way. But even that can turn into propaganda if you stare too long.
(He turns to Joe, sincere now.)
You know what I’m glad about? That I met you here.
Joe:
In the ward?
Tom:
Yeah. Without this place… there wouldn’t have been Red Son.
(Joe tilts his head, curious. Tom continues.)
It came out a year after we talked about your family — your parents fleeing Yugoslavia, leaving everything behind. I told one of the writers about your story, about a world where Superman doesn’t land in Kansas but in a field somewhere east of Zagreb. A place where the people believed in sharing, not hoarding.
Joe: (smiling faintly)
A Superman who gives till it hurts.
Tom:
Exactly. A man who doesn’t belong to one flag. A man who shares the light. That’s what Red Son was about — a tribute, in a way, to you… and to them.
(Joe nods, his eyes glinting with emotion.)
Joe:
My old man would’ve liked that. He used to say, “The real superman is the one who lifts others.”
Tom:
Then he already understood it.
(They both look at the TV again — Clark Kent standing in the sunlight, uncertain but brave. The light from the screen flickers over their faces like firelight.)
Joe:
Funny, huh? Two guys locked up in here talking about saving the world.
Tom:
Maybe that’s where all the real heroes start. Not in a fortress of solitude… but a ward of truth.
(They share a quiet, knowing laugh. The nurse switches off the TV. Darkness returns, but the mood is warm — a small victory between two fallen heroes who still believe in something greater.)
