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"So... uh... I know this may sound weird, but I need to touch you intimately. And squeeze some parts of you to, uh... ya know?" Kyra muttered, ruffling the cow's coarse fur in a clumsy attempt to placate and soothe the stubborn creature standing before him.
Tasked with what should have been a simple chore, he was utterly baffled by how things had spiraled into this absurd standoff. The sun hung low over the Kent farm in Smallville, casting long golden shadows across the dusty barn floor, where hay bales loomed like forgotten sentinels and the air hung thick with the earthy scent of manure and fresh straw.
It all traced back to that chaotic debacle at the Watchtower. They'd poked and prodded him relentlessly, even using translators( supergirl )to interrogate him in Kryptonian—did you know Batman speaks it fluently? Neither did I, until I snapped "fuck you" in Kryptonian, and the Dark Knight shot back, "The feeling's mutual," in perfect freaking Kryptonian! The man glared at me through those narrowed eyeholes in his mask, his white lenses like twin voids sucking in the light. It pissed me off—especially when he started droning on about supervising me, labeling me a "threat." Boom, motherfucker talked back in my own tongue! Gotta admit, the dude's got drip, though— that cowl, that cape, it's all iconic.
Anyway, after the dust settled, Clark—Superman—stepped in and took me under his wing, bringing me to his folks. Yeah, I mean both Jonathan and Martha; they're alive here. Whew, guess this is the comic verse, not some grim movie universe. But that also means shit's gonna hit the fan harder soon enough—Darkseid, Doomsday, the whole cosmic roster waiting in the wings.
It took me a while to iron out my English accent; the language itself clicked fast since I was a native speaker in my past life.
Everything's still a jumbled mess, though. I'm wrapping my head around the fact that "X-ray vision" literally means X-ray—like, I can't see through clothes! Come on, isn't that every pervert's dream? I can't even grill Big Blue about it; he talks to me like I'm his little brother, all protective and earnest. The Kents are genuinely nice, too—Martha's apple pie could melt steel hearts, and Jonathan's got that quiet wisdom that cuts through the noise. Still, all I can do is peer at internal body parts: rippling muscles, sturdy bones, pulsing arteries... Waaw, bones. I can see bones. I'm no criminal, but ahem, if you've got the tools, why not play around a bit? Leaving that aside for now...
As you can imagine, I'm out here on the farm, and Mama Kent just handed me the milking duty. Would've been straightforward if not for this damn animal bolting for her life every time she spots me. Like, dude, I ain't gonna rip your head off! I mean, I might—I'm still green at this "holding back" gig. But this bio-electricity thing? It's a godsend, like an instinct wired deep into my Kryptonian core. Gotta channel it just right.
It's kinda the opposite of the aura those knights used in old tales—instead of empowering, it dampens my strength, making it easier not to pulverize everything I touch. Speaking of which, that whole shitshow where I fought the Justice League and won? Pure bullshit. I don't even know why I lost my temper, but damn, I bitch-slapped *the* Batman! Hahaha... Now *that's* a story for my kids someday—if I ever settle down enough to have any.
Of course, I know they were holding back; no ego trip here. Honestly, they operate more like a bureaucratic organization than heroes—everyone slotted into roles, following protocols and systems to the letter. It feels so... dead. Like, I get it's not a game, but all those rules and regulations? Where's the spark, the raw thrill?
So yeah, hero life? Hard pass for me. We all fantasize about being a superhero, adored by the masses, right? Ehhhh, wrong. I'm not the first Kryptonian—Supes is the poster boy, the golden child. Plus, with endless rules and higher-ups to obey, where's the fun? Freedom's the real prize.
My goal? Or rather, my plan? *Nothing.* Why bother? Plans? Sure, loosely. Getting stronger? Why? In every comic and show, the beefier you get, the bigger the monsters that spawn to smack you down. Why chase that cycle? Honestly, I don't even vibe with this world yet—it still feels like they're comic book characters, not flesh-and-blood people. If they dropped dead tomorrow, would it scar my psyche? Doubt it. Kara's nice, though... *blushing a bit from the memories*—her laugh, that fierce spark in her eyes. I'd probably lose it if she got hurt. But in the end? I dunno. I feel lost here, no strings attached, no responsibilities weighing me down. I'm free, floating in this bizarre limbo.
But I know these powers come with strings—invisible ones. When shit hits the fan, they'll expect me to swoop in. An extra Kryptonian is like a living bomb: you can drop it on enemies or hot-potato it back at them. Lmao.
Back to the present... The cow—Bessie, I think Martha called her—eyed me warily from the stall, her massive brown eyes flickering with bovine suspicion. The barn creaked softly in the evening breeze, and the distant lowing of other animals mixed with the rhythmic chirp of crickets starting their nightly chorus. "Uhhh, hey Bessie, mind staying in one place? Just for a sec?"
Bessie flipped her head back with a defiant snort, tail swishing like a whip. "Yeah, I knew you had attitude—everyone else ran from me, but not you, huh?" Kyra sighed, slumping against a wooden post, the weight of superhuman strength feeling oddly useless against one pissed-off cow.
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