Three years had slipped by since the night Clark had plummeted into the lives of Jonathan and Martha Kent. In the eyes of the town, he was a miracle—a healthy, bright-eyed four-year-old with a shock of dark hair and a smile that could melt the Kansas frost. To the Kents, he was simply their son, a gift they cherished every single day. But to Clark, who carried the memories of a past life and a year spent on the dying world of Krypton, the world was a puzzle that didn't quite fit.
The first cracks in his understanding appeared when he began to study the world beyond the cornfields. One rainy afternoon, Clark dragged an old, dust-covered atlas from the bottom shelf of Jonathan's study. He spread it across the rug, his small fingers tracing the outlines of the United States. He was looking for anchors—places he knew should be there.
Metropolis. Gotham. Central City. Star City.
His brow furrowed as his eyes scanned the Northeast, then the West Coast. Nothing. He checked the index, his heart beginning to thrum a nervous rhythm against his ribs. He found New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles, but the titans of the DC landscape were nowhere to be found.
"Dad?" Clark called out, his voice small in the quiet room.
Jonathan leaned against the doorframe, a mug of coffee in hand. "Yeah, son?"
"Where's Metropolis?" Clark asked, pointing at the map. "Or Gotham? I thought they were big cities."
Jonathan walked over, kneeling beside him. He looked at the map, then back at Clark with a puzzled smile. "Metropolis? Sounds like something out of a sci-fi flick, Clark. And Gotham... isn't that a nickname for New York in some old books? We've got Wichita and Kansas City nearby, but I've never heard of those others."
The answer sent a chill through Clark. Over the next few weeks, he became an information sponge. He watched the evening news with an intensity that worried Martha. He listened for names that should have been household staples. Lex Luthor. Maxwell Lord. Simon Stagg. STAR Labs. Wayne Enterprises.
They didn't exist. There was no LexCorp dominating the skyline of a city that didn't exist. There were no masked vigilantes in the night or speedsters in the headlines.
I reincarnated as Superman, Clark thought, staring at his reflection in the hallway mirror. But I didn't reincarnate in the DC Universe.
The realization was isolating. He was a singular anomaly in a world that seemed startlingly mundane. It wasn't just an alternate universe; it was a universe that seemed tailored specifically to the mythos of Superman, stripped of its peers. Who knows? He might be the only "super" in a world of regulars.
—---------
The summer Clark turned four, the empty farmhouse down the road finally saw signs of life. A moving truck rumbled past the Kent farm, kicking up plumes of red dust.
"New neighbors," Martha noted, wiping her hands on her apron as she watched from the porch. "A woman named Helen Lang and her granddaughter. Poor thing... Helen mentioned over the phone that the girl's parents were lost in a crash recently."
The name jolted Clark's memories. Lana Lang? Could it be?
A few days later, the Kents walked over with a fresh peach cobbler. Helen was a woman who wore her sixty years with a quiet, weathered grace, though her eyes were clouded with recent grief. But it was Lana that drew Clark's attention. She was standing beside her grandmother, a tangled mess of vibrant red hair.
"This is Lana," Helen said softly, placing a hand on the girl's shoulder. Lana didn't speak; she just stared at her shoes, her small hands balled into fists.
While the adults talked on the porch, Clark wandered toward the large oak tree in the Langs' yard. Lana had retreated there, sitting in the thick shade, her back against the trunk. She looked hollow, like a shell washed up on a beach.
Clark stopped a few feet away. He knew what it was like to feel out of place, though his reasons were cosmic and hers were tragic. He didn't try to overwhelm her. He simply sat down on the grass, a respectful distance away.
"I'm Clark," he said quietly.
Lana flinched, her shoulders jumping. She looked at him, her eyes red-rimmed. She didn't say anything, but she didn't run away.
Clark reached into his pocket and pulled out a smooth, blue river stone he'd found by the creek. He held it out in his palm. "I found this today. It's the color of the sky right before it gets dark."
Lana looked at the stone, then at Clark's face. He gave her a small, hesitant smile. Slowly, she reached out, her fingers brushing his as she took the stone. A tiny, almost imperceptible spark of curiosity flickered in her gaze.
"Lana," she whispered.
"Do you like trees?" Clark asked, looking up at the canopy. "This one is good for hiding."
Lana nodded slowly. "It's quiet."
"Yeah," Clark agreed. "Quiet is good sometimes."
That was the day the seed was planted. Over the next two years, that seed grew into a bond that became the anchor of Clark's childhood.
—---------
By the time they were six, Clark and Lana were inseparable. They attended Smallville Elementary together, sharing lunches and secrets. With Clark's steady, calm presence, Lana began to bloom again. The hollow look in her eyes was replaced by a vibrant glint, and her laughter became a frequent sound at the Kent farm.
But as Lana grew stronger, Clark began to struggle.
It started as a dull hum in his ears, a static that wouldn't go away. Then came the headaches. He would be sitting in class, trying to focus on Mrs. Gable's lesson on subtraction, when the world would suddenly sharpen into a painful, jagged clarity.
One Tuesday morning, the hum turned into a roar.
Clark sat at his desk, his pencil trembling in his hand. Suddenly, the wooden desk in front of him wasn't solid anymore. He could see the grain of the wood, then the fibers, then the nails holding it together. He blinked, and his vision punched through the desk, through the floor, into the plumbing beneath the school.
He gasped, lurching back. He looked up, and the classroom was a nightmare of skeletons. He saw the pulsing hearts of his classmates, the rhythmic expansion of their lungs, the flow of blood through their veins.
"Clark? Is everything alright?" Mrs. Gable's voice was like a physical blow, a thunderclap in his sensitive ears.
"I... I don't feel good," Clark choked out. He clamped his hands over his ears, but it didn't help. He could hear the heartbeat of every person in the room, the scratching of pencils, the ticking of the clock, the distant rumble of a tractor three miles away. It was too much. The world was screaming at him.
"You look pale, dear. Should I call your—"
Clark didn't wait. He bolted. He shoved past the desks, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. He heard Lana call his name, her voice sharp with worry, but he couldn't stop. He scrambled into the hallway and dove into the boys' restroom, slamming into a stall and locking the door.
He collapsed onto the tile floor, clutching his head. Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop.
The walls weren't there. He could see through the bricks into the playground. He could see the birds in the trees. And the noise—it was a cacophony of a thousand lives.
Then, a new sensation. A searing, bubbling heat behind his eyes. It felt like his skull was filled with molten lead. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the heat only intensified. He felt the urge to scream, to let the pressure out.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Clark? Are you in there?" It was Lana. She had followed him. "Clark, you're scaring me. Please open the door."
He could see her through the stall door—a glowing orange silhouette of heat and bone. Her heart was racing, a frantic thump-thump-thump that echoed in his skull.
If I look at her, I'll hurt her, he realized with a jolt of pure terror. The heat behind his eyes was reaching a breaking point.
"Go away, Lana!" he yelled, his voice cracking. "Please, just go!"
"No! I'm staying right here until you come out!"
Clark felt a tear escape his closed eyelid, and where it touched his cheek, it hissed. He had to control it. He remembered his mother's voice—Focus on one thing, Clark. Find the center.
He focused on Lana's voice. Not the heat of her body or the sound of her heart, but the rhythm of her words.
"I'm not leaving," she said, her voice trembling but firm. "I'm sitting right here."
He heard the rustle of her denim skirt as she slid down to sit against the stall door. Clark took a shuddering breath. He forced himself to breathe in for four seconds, hold for four, out for four. Slowly, the X-ray vision began to recede. The world regained its opacity. The roar in his ears faded to a dull throb. The heat behind his eyes simmered down, leaving them stinging and raw.
Minutes later, the heavy outer door swung open. The familiar, heavy tread of Jonathan's work boots echoed on the tile.
"Lana? Where is he?"
"He's in there, Mr. Kent. He won't come out."
Jonathan knelt by the stall. "Clark? It's Dad. It's okay, son. We're here."
Clark waited a moment, testing his vision. The door stayed solid. The voices stayed at a distance. He reached up and flushed the toilet—a classic cover—then unlatched the door.
When he stepped out, Martha was there, instantly pulling him into a hug that smelled of flour and sunshine. Lana stood by Jonathan, her eyes wide and brimming with tears. She reached out and grabbed Clark's hand, her grip surprisingly tight.
"I thought you were dying," she whispered.
"Just a really bad headache, Lana," Clark lied, his voice raspy. "I'm sorry."
—---------
The drive home was silent. Jonathan drove with a grim focus, while Martha kept her arm around Clark in the backseat. Once they were inside the farmhouse, the "sick" act dropped.
"It happened, didn't it?" Jonathan asked, sitting at the kitchen table.
Clark nodded, staring at his hands. "I could see through the walls. I could hear everyone's hearts. And my eyes... they felt like they were on fire, Dad. I almost... I almost hurt her."
He looked up at his parents, his expression haunted. "Remember that movie we saw once? About a kid from space who came to Earth? He had powers, but he wasn't a hero. He was a monster. He burned things. He killed people."
"That's just a story, Clark," Martha said firmly, though her eyes were troubled.
"Is it?" Clark asked. "I'm stronger than everyone. I can see things through. If I lose my temper, or if I just blink the wrong way... BOOM…Brightburn sequel. I could be the end of everything."
Jonathan reached across the table and took Clark's small hand in his calloused one. "You have a choice, Clark. These things you can do... they're just tools. A hammer can build a house, or it can tear one down. It's the hand that holds it that matters."
"But I don't know how to hold it yet," Clark whispered.
"Then we learn," Jonathan said. "Starting tomorrow. We'll go out to the south pasture. We'll figure out how to dial it back, how to focus. You aren't going to be a monster, Clark. Because you've got us. And you've got Lana. You've got people who love you, and that's a power all its own."
Clark looked out the window toward the Lang house. He thought of the blue stone in Lana's pocket and the way she had sat by the door when he was struggling inside.
He had to get his powers in check. Not just for himself, but for the world that didn't even know he was there.