"You… you look so young," Martha said softly, stepping closer. "You must still be in school."
"I'm the same age as your son," I replied with a wry smile.
"What? You're just eight?" she gasped, eyes widening. "No… that can't be right."
Even Bruce glanced up at me in shock.
"Well… that should be my age right now. At least I think so," I muttered the last part under my breath. The truth was, I had no idea how long my journey from Krypton had taken, or how it might have affected my aging.
"Then those things you did that night—catching a bullet, fighting that man—why?" she asked, disbelief and concern mixing in her voice as she came nearer. "Why would you put yourself in such danger? Do your parents even know what you've been doing?"
"Age doesn't matter," I said firmly, looking her in the eye. "I have this power. I should use it for something good—for saving more families like yours."
I was mentally far older than I appeared anyway, and after what had happened with Thomas Wayne, my resolve to better utilize my powers had only grown stronger.
"Oh, you poor child…" Martha's voice broke. She suddenly pulled me close, pressing my head gently against her bosom. "You shouldn't have to carry the weight of the world yet. You deserve to enjoy your childhood."
I let her pull me close, though I was still shocked to suddenly find my face resting in this heavenly soft place. It seemed that me being the same age as her son had struck a soft spot in her heart.
Even in this moment, my heightened senses were in overdrive — I caught the faint trace of her perfume and the warmth of her skin. It took quite an effort to stay still, not to move my head in order to feel them more, as that would just come off as creepy. I also couldn't help but notice and compare in my head how the two Martha's differed in this department.
Just then, Alfred entered the room, pushing in a trolley laden with delicious-looking dishes.
"Lunch is ready, ma'am. Shall I serve?" he asked, completely unfazed by the scene he had just walked into.
"Sniff… This is Alfred," Martha said, gently pulling me back and wiping at her eyes. "He's practically family. You don't need to worry about him knowing your identity. We'll all keep your secret, alright?"
"I trust you all," I said with a small smile. It wasn't something I said lightly—trust, especially in this world, was more like a calculated risk.
"That's sweet of you," Martha replied warmly. She gave my hand a light squeeze. "Come, join me and Bruce for lunch. I'd like to know more about Clark Kent."
The meal, in contrast to the earlier snacks, was far more reserved. Alfred—who immediately began addressing me as Master Kent after hearing my name—served one course after another, from soup to the main dish and finally dessert. Everything was rich, perfectly prepared, but I couldn't find much appetite, because the hosts themselves were hardly eating.
Bruce barely touched his food, and Martha only ate when I urged her to take a few bites—spending most of the time encouraging both of us instead. Their grief sat heavy in the room, unspoken but suffocating.
I can't even begin to imagine their mental states so I tried to distract them, talking about myself. And it worked—at least a little. Martha leaned in with genuine interest, asking question after question: about my alien heritage, my current parents, our farm in Smallville, school life, my friends. It was as if she wanted to piece together every part of me.
Bruce stayed quiet for the most part. Even when I tried to bring him into the conversation, he rarely answered. But his eyes never left me—listening, quietly with interest.
Just as I finished my second helping of the brownie-ice cream pastry—it was far too delicious to say no to—I noticed Martha watching me, hesitant, as though something weighed on her mind.
I set my spoon down and met her eyes, waiting.
"Clark…" she began softly, "I'm honoured that you've shared so much with us. But I have to ask—why? Why reveal your secret to our family?" Her gaze was steady, though tinged with worry. "You're clearly an intelligent young kid, maybe even a genius. You must understand how valuable anonymity is for someone like you—someone with alien heritage and such vast power at such a young age. Weren't you afraid we might expose you? To the wrong people… or even the government?"
Her words carried the weight of both caution and concern. Bruce, too, was staring at me now—curious, searching for my answer.
It wasn't an easy question. In truth, these past few days after Thomas Wayne's death, I had been thinking about little else. Not just about the Waynes—but about the future of this world.
If both of Bruce's parents had died, he would have walked the path I already knew—the dark vow in the alley, the crusade against Gotham's underbelly, the Batman!
If neither had died, he likely would have followed in Thomas Wayne's footsteps, trying to heal Gotham with money and influence instead of fists and shadows.
But what happens when only one of Bruce Wayne's parents dies? Like now, with his father gone — what path will he take?
The answer came from my meta knowledge, I remembered a newer Batman run where the same situation occurred. Even with Martha Wayne still alive, Bruce still chose the path of the Bat.
Although that didn't guarantee the same thing would happen here in this world, but the possibility was high. And that gave me a strange sense of relief — the world might still have its Batman!
However Bruce wasn't the only one I was worried about. Martha Wayne had also just lost her husband. In most cases, that wouldn't raise a red flag. But this wasn't my world, and I had no idea which continuity I was living in. That uncertainty opened doors to some darker possibilities.
One of the worst? Martha's potential bloodline connection to the Arkham family — the family that built Arkham Asylum, a family with a long history of mental illness. In some continuities, it gave Bruce's own drive and darkness a deeper, more tragic shade.
It didn't mean it was the case here, of course, but I couldn't ignore the chance. Especially when the internet wasn't yet detailed enough for me to dig up much on Martha's lineage.
Thomas Wayne's death had already taught me the cost of neglect. If Martha was connected to the Arkhams, then even with Bruce in her life, she might still spiral into madness — and in some of the darkest continuities, she had even become the Joker herself.
With so many doubts and unknowns, I couldn't just walk away from the Wayne family. If I left them alone, and something terrible happened, I would only blame myself again for doing nothing when I could have acted.
Of course, I couldn't tell them any of these meta-theories or suspicions. Instead, I had to give them a simpler, truer reason for being here.
"Obviously, we would never do that," Martha said, gripping my hand tightly. "You have nothing to worry about. I give you my word—your identity is safe with us. And if you don't wish to tell us your reasons, that's fine too."
"No… it's not that," I said with a quiet sigh. "After learning about… the death, I've spent the last few days thinking. Some things just felt… off. And I've ended up with some theories—wild ones, with no proof. I don't think it's a good idea to share them with you."
Martha looked at me, understanding what I was getting at.
"Bruce, dear… will you give Clark and me a moment, please?" she asked gently, offering him a small smile.
"No. I want to hear it too," he said gruffly, his hands gripping the chair tightly as he stared down at the floor.
Martha let out a soft sigh. "Alright then. Please, Clark. Tell us." She still held my hand, her fingers warm but tense.
"You attended a very public event with your entire family," I began gravely. "And on the very same night, there were two attempts on your lives—two incidents just hours apart, both made to look like accidents. I know this is Gotham, the city with the highest crime rate in the country, but even here… that's more than coincidence."
I took a breath. "Couple that with the fact that the late Mr. Wayne was running for mayor on a platform to take on Gotham's crime families… it doesn't paint a good picture."
Martha's eyes narrowed. "…Are you saying Thomas was murdered?"
I could hear Bruce's heartbeat spike, his fists clenching at his sides, his breath coming faster. His eyes flicked up—wide with a mix of fear and anger.
"These are just wild speculations," I clarified quickly, looking between the two of them. "Almost a conspiracy theory. From what I've heard, the gang member who fired that shot testified that he just opened fire on the car without knowing who was inside. There's no actual proof to my theory—not yet."
Martha bit her lip, a flash of pain in her eyes. "…You're not the only one whose thoughts went in that direction," she admitted quietly.
"Regardless of whether it's true or not," I continued, my tone firm, "I can't shake the feeling that there's more going on. And if there is a mastermind behind this, then neither you nor Bruce are safe."
I hesitated only a moment before finishing. "That's why I told you my identity. If I can come here openly—as Bruce's friend, or even just a familiar face—I can keep an eye on your family. Make sure this kind of tragedy isn't repeated."
It was the truth. My main reason for revealing my identity was to get closer to the Waynes. It was the simplest and easiest way to do so. And if I became a regular presence in their lives, I would be able to eventually mark their heartbeats, track them if needed, and—if danger struck again—reach them in time. It was also the only way to watch over both Bruce and Martha without arousing suspicion.
"You are such a thoughtful and gentle child," Martha said, standing up and pulling me into her embrace once again, pressing my head against her bosom. "I can't believe you've been thinking so much about our family," she whispered, brushing her hand gently through my hair.
"I just… don't want to regret not doing more," I murmured into the fabric of her dress, letting out a muffled sigh while enjoying the softness.
"You shouldn't carry so much weight on your shoulders," she said softly, giving me a tender smile. "Even with your strength, it isn't healthy to try to bear every burden alone. There are things best left to the adults. But still…" she turned, glancing at Bruce, "I think this is a good idea. I'm sure Bruce would love to have a friend like you. Isn't that right, Bruce?"
Bruce kept his head bowed, saying nothing, his silence heavy in the room.
"Bruce has always wanted more friends of his own age," Martha continued gently, smoothing over his lack of response. She lifted my chin from her chest, her smile still kind, and I nodded quietly in return.
Soon after, I bid them farewell, knowing the Waynes still had a long day ahead. Before leaving, I promised Martha that I would come by again on the weekend when school wasn't in the way.
I also couldn't stop myself from warning her—more than once—not to do anything reckless, and to leave the case to the police while focusing on keeping herself and Bruce safe.
"Master Kent," Alfred said as he bowed deeply, his voice carrying genuine gratitude, "thank you for saving young Master Bruce and Madam. This old man will forever remain in your debt."
"There's no need for that, really," I said quickly, shaking my head.
Alfred straightened and gave me a respectful nod. "Shall I arrange a car to take you home?"
I waved my hand with a small smile. "No need."
And with that, I dashed away in a blur, leaving Wayne Manor behind me.
It had been a memorable day. I still carried some apprehension about more people knowing my identity, but it was my decision, and I would face whatever consequences came of it.
I had planned to visit the Waynes over the weekend, but apparently, they had different ideas.
The very next evening, an expensive car pulled up outside our humble farmhouse, its polished black frame looking out of place against the dusty road and weathered fences of Smallville.
When Ma opened the door, she was greeted by a graceful, well-dressed woman and a boy at her side.
"Hello—you must be Martha Kent," the woman said warmly, extending her hand. "I'm Martha Wayne, and this is my son, Bruce. We've come after hearing from the school about a certain genius student named Clark Kent."
Martha Wayne smiled gracefully as Martha Kent shook her hand, still looking more than a little bewildered.
From beside me, Selina stared at me with wide eyes, silently demanding an explanation. But I was just as stunned as she was.
What exactly was Bruce's mother planning?