The Kansas sunrise spilled over the Kent farmland, casting a golden glow across fields of green and amber, like a morning after a grand festival. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of dew-soaked earth and fresh grass, a quiet hum of crickets and birds filling the countryside. The smoldering crater from the night before was hidden beyond the cornrows, but its presence lingered, a reminder of the strangers who'd fallen from the sky.
Inside the Kent household, warm with the smell of brewing coffee and old wood, two beings from another world were waking to their new reality. They weren't just visitors—they were Kryptonians, carrying burdens heavier than the stars they'd crossed.
Kara sat by the window in the guest room, her knees pulled to her chest, her blonde hair catching the soft light. The endless Kansas sky stretched before her, vast and blue, but her mind was trapped in shadows.
She saw Krypton's red skies, swallowed by fire. Heard her mother's voice, fading in the chaos. Felt the weight of her father's final command: Protect Kal-El. Her home was gone, her people dust, and she'd been too young, too weak, to save them.
Her fingers dug into her knees, nails biting skin. She'd failed her parents, her world. But she wouldn't fail him.
Her blue eyes drifted to the crib across the room, where Kal-El lay, wrapped in a soft blanket Martha had tucked around him. His tiny chest rose and fell, peaceful, untouched by the grief that clawed at Kara's heart.
He was her last link to Krypton, her only family. At first, protecting him had been a duty, a promise made in desperation. But now, after a sleepless night watching his small breaths, something fiercer stirred inside her. He wasn't just her cousin. He was hers—her responsibility, her purpose, her reason to keep going.
Kara rose, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor. She leaned over the crib, brushing a gentle hand across Kal-El's forehead. His skin was warm, almost glowing under the morning light. "You're safe now," she whispered, her voice soft but edged with steel.
Her touch was tender, but her eyes burned with a possessive fire. No one would take him from her. Not this world, not its dangers, not anyone.
Kal-El's bright blue eyes stared at the ceiling, tracing the grain of the wooden beams. To the Kents, he was just a baby—helpless, innocent, barely aware. But inside, Clark's mind was a storm of thoughts, sharp and alive.
He'd spent the night sorting through his new reality. The Kents' kindness, the quiet farm, the strange weight of his infant body—it was all so different, yet oddly familiar. But what consumed him most was the whisper in his mind, a nagging instinct that wasn't his own.
It was Krypton's will, or maybe Superman's legacy, etched into his very cells. Rebuild. Repopulate. Restore. It pressed against his consciousness, relentless, like an itch he couldn't reach.
Clark sighed inwardly. Did he care about Krypton? Not a bit. He hadn't asked for this cosmic duty. He'd chosen this life for power, freedom, a chance to live big—maybe with a few beautiful women by his side. But the will wouldn't shut up, tugging at his thoughts like a pesky cousin.
So, like any practical man, he'd solved it in one night.
If Krypton needed repopulating, he'd do it himself. Why chase lost Kryptonians across the multiverse when he could father a new generation? It was efficient, straightforward, and—let's be honest—pretty damn enjoyable.
A smirk flickered in his mind, though his baby face stayed still. Problem solved. He'd start when he was older, when this tiny body caught up to his ambitions. For now, he'd watch, plan, and enjoy the ride.
His tiny fingers curled, and he drifted back to sleep, satisfied. "This'll be fun," he thought.
Not everyone in this universe slept as soundly as Kal-El.
In a classified SHIELD facility, buried deep underground, rows of analysts hunched over glowing screens. Data streamed in from orbital satellites, red alerts flashing across monitors. The room buzzed with tension, keyboards clacking like a summer rain.
One analyst, sweat beading on his brow, turned to his supervisor. "Sir, we've got a situation," he said, voice shaky.
Nick Fury stood at the room's center, his black coat stark against the sterile white walls. His one good eye scanned the report, his jaw tightening. An unidentified object had crashed in Kansas—composition unknown, origin extraterrestrial. The energy signature was off the charts, nothing like anything they'd seen before.
"Alien," Fury muttered, his voice low. First Captain Marvel, now this. The universe was getting too crowded for his liking.
He crossed his arms, his mind racing. "Keep this off the books," he ordered. "I want a team on the ground by dawn. No leaks, no chatter. If this is another goddamn alien problem, we handle it quietly."
The analyst nodded, fingers flying over the keyboard. Fury turned back to the screen, the crash site's coordinates glowing red. Something told him this was bigger than a stray spaceship.
Far across the world, in the mystic halls of Kamar-Taj, the Ancient One sat in silent meditation. Golden strands of energy swirled around her fingers, tracing the threads of fate. The air hummed with power, the scent of incense heavy in her chambers.
She'd felt it—a ripple in reality, a tear that didn't belong. Her eyes flickered open, piercing the veil of the universe. She saw glimpses: a girl, fierce and grieving; a child, carrying a destiny too vast to grasp.
Her focus narrowed on the child—Kal-El. He was a void, a blank spot in the tapestry of fate. Unpredictable, unreadable, like a storm waiting to break.
"Who are you?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
She saw futures shift, countless paths twisting like festival kites in a gust. One truth stood clear: this child would reshape the universe, for better or worse.
The Ancient One's hands stilled, the golden strands fading. She rose, her robes whispering against the stone floor. Whatever this child was, he was here now. And she would watch.
Kal-El let out a tiny yawn, curling deeper into the blanket's warmth. The morning light spilled through the window, painting the room in soft gold.
Right now, he was just a baby in a crib, safe in a quiet farmhouse. His job was simple: adjust to this life, observe the Kents, and plan his next steps. And, of course, enjoy the little perks—like Martha's warm embrace when she'd check on him later.
His tiny lips twitched upward, a faint smile. "This isn't so bad," he thought, drifting back to sleep.
Outside, the Kansas fields stretched under the rising sun, peaceful and unaware of the legend beginning within their borders.