Five years had passed since the Kryptonian ship crashed into the Kansas fields, and for Clark, they'd been a strange mix of wonder and torture. The Kent farmhouse stood as steady as ever, its white walls glowing under the morning sun. Cornfields swayed in the breeze, their golden tips catching the light like a festival banner. The air was fresh, filled with the scent of hay and damp earth, like a village waking up after a quiet night. Chickens clucked in the yard, and a distant tractor hummed, blending into the peaceful rhythm of the countryside.
Inside the house, Clark—now a toddler with dark curls and bright blue eyes—was learning to navigate a world that saw him as helpless.
His body was small, his steps wobbly, but his mind was sharp, carrying the full weight of a man reborn. And that, he'd found, was its own kind of hell.
Clark liked to think he was patient. He could wait out years, plan for power, dream of worlds he'd one day rule. But nothing tested him like bath time.
It wasn't the warm water or the soap that got to him. It was Martha and Kara. Their gentle hands, their soft voices, their complete ignorance of the war raging in his mind. To them, he was just a kid, innocent and needy. To him, every bath was a battle of willpower.
Martha's touch was the worst. She'd scrub his back with that warm, motherly smile, her golden-brown hair falling over her shoulder, her green eyes full of care. Clark's mature mind screamed to appreciate every curve, every glance, but all he could do was splash and babble like a toddler. It was humiliating, like being a king trapped in a jester's costume.
And Kara? She was no better. At 12, she'd often hop in to help, her growing frame unaware of the torture she inflicted. Her laughter, her casual closeness—it was too much for a mind that saw her not as a cousin, but as something else entirely.
The worst part? They thought he was just a baby. Clark had to grit his mental teeth and remind himself: Wait. Just a few more years. His time would come.
Beyond the torment of baths, Clark had earned a reputation in the Kent household: he was a little terror. Not out of spite, but because he hated being caged. Cribs were climbed in seconds. Playpens? He'd slip out like a cat. Locked doors? He'd wiggle them open with tiny, clever hands. It wasn't rebellion—it was pride. He wasn't fragile, even if his body was.
Martha didn't see it that way. "Clark Kent, you get back here right now!" she'd shout, her voice sharp but loving. He'd lost count of how many times she'd caught him mid-escape, her firm grip pulling him back to safety. Her punishments were brutal: no cookies, no bedtime stories, or worst of all, the dreaded corner, where she'd fix him with a stare that could make a god feel small. Each one stung his pride more than any cosmic threat ever could.
Jonathan, though, took it in stride. "Boys will be boys," he'd say, chuckling as he ruffled Clark's hair. His weathered face would crease with amusement, his calloused hands gentle despite their strength. Clark liked Jonathan's easygoing nature, but Martha's discipline was a force of nature. And arguing back? Not an option when all he could manage was toddler gibberish.
While Clark wrestled with his toddler life, another issue was growing: Kara's attachment. At first, it had been sweet. She'd watch over him, hold his hand, keep him close. The Kents thought it was adorable—a big sister protecting her little cousin.
But over the years, it turned into something else. Kara, now 15, was always there. She'd hover, her blue eyes sharp, her grip on his hand tight. If another kid at the park tried to play with Clark, she'd stare them down, her expression cold until they scurried off. At night, she'd sleep in his room, curled up on a cot, her arm draped over him like he might vanish.
Jonathan had tried to lighten the mood once. "What are you, Clark's personal bodyguard?" he'd teased, his grin wide.
Kara's smile was sweet, but her words were firm. "Of course. He's mine to protect."
Martha and Jonathan had exchanged a look, worry flickering in their eyes. This wasn't just protectiveness—it was something deeper, something that might grow stronger as Kara got older. They didn't know what to make of it, but Clark did. He felt her intensity, and part of him—a small, pragmatic part—wondered how it would shape his plans.
The real shift came when Kara's powers woke up. She was 12, Clark 2, and it started like any other day. The sun was high, the fields buzzing with summer heat, like a village market in full swing. Kara was helping Jonathan haul water for the crops, her blonde ponytail bouncing as she worked.
Jonathan handed her a heavy bucket, expecting her to struggle. Instead, she lifted it with one hand, like it was a feather. She froze, staring at the bucket, her eyes wide. Jonathan raised an eyebrow, but before he could speak, Kara's curiosity took over.
She jumped—and soared fifty feet into the air.
For a moment, she hung there, the wind whipping her hair. Then panic set in. She flailed, plummeting back to earth with a crash that shook the ground. The impact sparked a fire, flames licking across the dry field like a wildfire in a drought.
Jonathan shouted, grabbing a shovel to beat back the blaze. Martha ran from the house, scooping Clark into her arms, shielding him as embers flew. By the time they doused the fire, the field was a blackened scar, smoke curling into the sky.
Kara sat in the wreckage, trembling, her eyes glowing red with heat vision she couldn't control. Tears streaked her face, her hands shaking as she stared at the destruction she'd caused.
Clark, cradled in Martha's arms, watched with a mix of amusement and curiosity. Kara's powers were here, raw and wild. She was scared, lost, but he wasn't. This was just the start.
SHIELD hadn't missed it. Deep in a hidden facility, screens lit up with data from satellites tracking the Kansas anomaly. For years, Nick Fury had kept a file on the two kids who'd fallen from the sky. They'd seemed normal—odd, but harmless. He'd left them alone, watching from a distance.
This changed everything. The heat signatures, the energy spike—it was no accident. These kids weren't human.
Fury stood in the command room, his black coat stark against the glowing monitors. His one good eye narrowed as he studied the satellite images: a scorched field, a girl at its center, and a toddler nearby. He exhaled, his jaw tight.
"The universe is getting messy," he muttered. "We need eyes on them. Now."
He turned to an analyst, his voice sharp. "Tighten surveillance. No contact, no leaks. If they're what I think they are, we can't afford to spook them."
The analyst nodded, typing furiously. Fury stared at the screen, the image of Clark and Kara burning into his mind. Whatever they were, they were his problem now.