Chapter 17: A Dinner in Smallville
The artificial sun of the pocket dimension had begun its slow, programmed descent, painting the nebula sky with intense shades of orange and violet that no natural sun could replicate.
The air was cooling slightly, and the aroma of the afternoon tea seemed more intense.
From the porch of his small shop, the universe seemed a little calmer, a little more prone to revealing its secrets.
Urahara Kisuke was in his usual spot, pruning with infinite patience a bonsai whose leaves were not leaves, but tiny miniature galaxies that spun slowly.
Beside him, Kara had set aside her data tablet.
Her attention was fixed on one of the holographic screens that floated lazily in the air, showing a live feed.
It was not a cosmic crisis or a stellar battle.
It was an image of painful simplicity: the golden fields of Kansas at sunset, the wind gently swaying the wheat, a small and lonely farmhouse in the distance.
There was a nostalgia so palpable in her gaze that Urahara could almost feel it, a strange fluctuation in the air.
Finally, she turned to him, her blue eyes filled with a nervous resolution.
"I want to go home for a while," she said, her voice a murmur. "To see my family."
She paused, gathering the courage for the next part. "And... I'd like you to come with me."
Urahara stopped his pruning shears. The request was unexpected.
His internal monologue, however, was not one of surprise, but of a sudden and delicious curiosity.
'Ah, the "meet the parents" chapter. What a charmingly domestic turn of events. It wasn't in my projections for this saga.'
Outwardly, however, he adopted an expression of lazy reluctance.
"I'm flattered by the invitation, Kara-san," he said, resuming his pruning. "But I have a shop to tend to. The responsibilities of a humble merchant never end."
Kara rolled her eyes, a gesture she had perfected in recent weeks.
"Your shop is in a pocket dimension that only exists where you are," she retorted, her tone a mixture of exasperation and affection. "You don't have customers. I want you to meet my family. Please."
The "please" was the key.
It was not an order or a challenge.
It was a genuine request, an invitation into her world, into her story.
Urahara sighed, a theatrical sound from a man whose quiet workday had just been interrupted by the complications of social life.
He set the shears aside.
'I suppose even the humblest shopkeeper can't escape these kinds of stories,' he thought to himself with an internal smile. 'And this one... this one promises to be particularly interesting.'
"Alright, Kara-san," he said aloud, standing up and stretching. "I'll go. But if your 'mother' tries to make me eat something too... healthy, just know that I reserve the right to make a tactical retreat."
.....
The portal Urahara opened was not a violent tear in reality, but a clean, silent cut, like a sharp blade slicing through silk. He opened it not on the farmhouse's front lawn, but discreetly in the gloom of the barn, a gesture of respect for the family's privacy. On the other side, the air smelled completely different.
They stepped out of the sterile ozone of the pocket dimension and into a world of rich, earthy sensations. Urahara inhaled deeply, his senses, accustomed to analyzing abstract concepts, were flooded with an avalanche of simple, honest data. The air smelled of dry hay, fertile earth, the gentle scent of animals, and the promise of dinner cooking in the house. It was... an honest smell.
'Fascinating,' Kisuke thought, a genuine curiosity on his face as he watched a ray of sun filter through the barn's planks, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air. 'Such a complex and vibrant ecosystem. Every scent tells a story. The story of life, growth, and decay. Very different from the silent purity of space.'
Kara, at his side, seemed to transform. The cosmic warrior vanished, replaced by the farm girl. A genuine, relaxed smile spread across her face as she breathed in the air of her adoptive home. "Come on," she said quietly. "They'll be waiting for us."
They walked out of the barn into the bright light of the Kansas afternoon sun. Hearing the creak of the door, four figures stepped out onto the porch of the white house. A tall, broad shouldered man with a kind smile. A dark haired woman with a sharp, intelligent gaze who sized him up instantly. And an older couple, a man with hands calloused from work and a woman whose face was lined with kind wrinkles. Clark, Lois, Jonathan, and Martha Kent. The heart of Superman's story.
"Kara!" Clark exclaimed, his face lighting up at the sight of her, and in a blur of speed that Urahara appreciated for its efficiency, he crossed the yard and wrapped her in a hug that would have pulverized a normal human.
As the family gathered around Kara, Urahara stayed one step behind, observing the scene with a quiet smile. He was not a scientist analyzing data. He was a reader watching his protagonist reunite with her supporting cast. It was a good scene. Heartwarming.
After the hugs and hurried questions, the attention finally turned to him, the stranger in the hat. Kara, a little nervous, made the introductions.
"Family, this is Kisuke Urahara," she said. "Kisuke, these are my cousins, Clark and Lois, and my aunt and uncle, Jonathan and Martha."
"It's a true pleasure to meet you all," Urahara said, performing a polite bow that seemed a little out of place in the middle of Kansas.
Jonathan Kent stepped forward, his eyes kind but appraising, those of a man accustomed to judging character. He held out a calloused hand. "Welcome to our home, Mr. Urahara." The handshake was firm, that of a man who makes his living from the land. Urahara returned the shake with respectful strength.
It was then that Martha, with the direct and disarming simplicity of a mother, smiled broadly. "Kara, dear," she said, her voice full of genuine warmth. "You didn't tell us you were bringing your boyfriend."
The air seemed to freeze for an instant. Kara's face flushed a Kryptonian red so intense it almost rivaled her heat vision.
"Martha!" she stammered, completely flustered and waving her hands. "No! He's not... we're not...! He's just my friend! My... associate! It's complicated!"
Urahara, for his part, did not lose his composure. In fact, his smile became even more charming. He gave another slight bow, this time to Martha.
"Urahara Kisuke. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Kent. And no, unfortunately I do not have that honor," he said, his tone perfectly polite, but there was a mischievous glint in his eyes that only Kara could see, which made her blush even more. "Kara-san and I only have a strictly professional relationship."
Jonathan chuckled, and Lois raised an eyebrow, clearly filing that interaction away for later interrogation.
Martha, completely ignoring the embarrassed tension, simply patted his arm. "Well, 'associate' or not, you've arrived just in time. I was about to put dinner on the table. And we won't take no for an answer. Come in, come in. You must be starving."
.....
As Martha and Jonathan headed to the kitchen, their voices mixing in a familiar murmur about the chicken's cooking time, Clark motioned for Urahara to enter the house.
"Please, come into the living room," he said, his tone that of a gracious host, but his eyes held the unmistakable vigilance of Superman. "Make yourself comfortable."
The Kent living room was the epitome of warmth. A stone fireplace crackled cheerfully in one corner, and the sofas, though old and a bit worn, looked incredibly comfortable. It was filled with family photographs, books, and the kind of cozy clutter that only accumulates over a lifetime of love and happiness. Urahara sat in an armchair, feeling the soft sinking of the cushions, a stark contrast to the formality of his own porch.
Lois wasted no time. She sat on the sofa opposite him, leaning forward with the intensity of a predator that has just cornered the story of the century. Clark sat beside her, looking more like a concerned bodyguard than a co participant in the interrogation.
"So, Kisuke," Lois began, her smile sharp and without a trace of dinner warmth. "Where are you from, exactly? Kara mentioned something about traveling, but your accent is... hard to place."
Urahara smiled, a calm, disarming smile. "I've been many places, Lois san. You could say I'm an avid traveler. My original home is quite far from here."
"And what do you do, besides being Kara's 'associate'?" she pressed.
"I'm a simple shopkeeper," he replied with practiced ease. "I sell sweets and curiosities. It's a quiet business."
'A top tier journalist,' Kisuke thought with a pang of admiration. 'She doesn't beat around the bush. This is much more entertaining than negotiating with infernal bureaucrats.'
Lois narrowed her eyes, clearly not satisfied with the evasions. She decided to change tactics and went straight for the kill. "Are you human, Kisuke?"
The question hung in the warm air of the room. Clark visibly tensed beside her.
Urahara let out a soft chuckle. "Despite this very attractive appearance, no, I am not."
The admission was so casual it left them speechless for a second.
"I'm over two thousand years old," he added, as if commenting on the weather, "though I think I've held up quite well, don't you think?"
Clark and Lois exchanged a look of pure astonishment. They had met immortal Amazons, New Gods, and beings from other planets, but the idea that the quiet, young looking man sitting across from them was two millennia old was hard to process.
"That... explains a lot," Lois murmured, her journalistic mind working at full speed. "What are you, then?"
"I'm a type of spiritual being, if you need a label," Urahara explained patiently. "Where I come from, my kind is quite common. And this body," he said, tapping his chest lightly with the tip of his closed fan, "is an invention of mine. A Gigai. A temporary shell, so to speak. It allows me to interact with the physical world indefinitely. Very convenient for shopping."
Lois, seeing a golden opportunity for a story that would shake the foundations of science, leaned in even further. "Spiritual being? So ghosts exist?"
"Oh, absolutely," he confirmed with a smile. "And they are terrible for business. They never pay their bills."
"And you're a ghost?" Clark asked, his curiosity finally overcoming his caution.
"Not exactly," Kisuke replied. "But you could say we live in the same conceptual neighborhood. Let's just say I have a long term lease, and they are more like... squatters."
Lois felt she was on the verge of a monumental discovery. If ghosts were real, then... "What about Heaven and Hell? Are they real?"
Urahara smiled, a genuine grin from someone about to share a delicious secret. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone.
"Well, it's complicated. You see, the structure of the afterlife isn't so much a matter of morality as it is of..."
"Clark, Lois! Dinner's ready!"
Martha Kent's warm, authoritative voice echoed from the kitchen, cutting off the conversation at the most crucial moment.
"Tell your friend to come to the table before it gets cold!"
.....
The revelation hung in the air, a promise of cosmic secrets about to be unveiled in a Kansas living room.
Lois leaned in even further, her mental recorder working at full speed.
Clark, meanwhile, seemed to have forgotten how to breathe.
Urahara smiled, a genuine grin from someone about to share a delicious, universe scale piece of gossip.
"Well, it's complicated. You see, the structure of the afterlife isn't so much a matter of morality as it is of..." he began.
"Clark, Lois! Dinner's ready!"
Martha's warm, authoritative voice echoed from the kitchen, cutting the tension with the efficiency of a sharp knife.
"Tell your friend to come to the table before it gets cold!"
The spell was broken.
Lois let out a sigh of journalistic frustration, while Clark seemed immensely relieved.
Urahara shot a look at Kara, who had been watching from the doorway with a mixture of amusement and panic.
His look was pure mischief, a silent "saved by the bell."
Dinner in the Kent's kitchen was a symphony of normality.
The aroma of roast chicken and garden vegetables filled the air.
The wooden table, worn by decades of family meals, was covered with a checkered tablecloth.
Kara sat between Clark and Kisuke, feeling flooded by a sense of warmth that had nothing to do with her powers.
It was the feeling of being home.
Kisuke, to everyone's surprise, fit in perfectly.
He set aside his air of a cosmic scholar and became the most charming guest the Kents had ever had.
He praised Martha's chicken with the seriousness of a food critic, describing the cooking as "a perfect balance between the caramelization of the skin and the retention of internal moisture, a true culinary work of art."
Martha blushed, delighted.
But it was his conversation with Jonathan that left everyone fascinated.
"So, Kisuke," Jonathan said, as he served himself a portion of mashed potatoes. "Kara says you travel a lot. You must have seen all sorts of crops."
"Indeed, Kent-san," Urahara replied with genuine interest. "But I must say, the soil composition in this region is particularly fascinating. The nitrogen concentration is ideal for this type of corn. Have you considered crop rotation with legumes from the Antares system? Their root nodules have a symbiosis with bacteria that fix nitrogen much more efficiently."
Jonathan stared at him, blinking, before letting out a hearty laugh. "I don't know what half of those words mean, son, but I like how you think! Let's talk fertilizer..."
And so, for the rest of dinner, the two thousand year old being and the Kansas farmer had a lively, in depth discussion about farming techniques, weather patterns, and soil health, leaving Clark and Lois exchanging looks of utter disbelief.
The highlight of the evening, however, was Martha's apple pie.
Urahara took a bite, closed his eyes, and was silent for a moment.
'Ah,' he thought, a genuine wave of pleasure washing over him. 'So this is it. "Home cooking." It's not just the combination of ingredients. It's the intent. The care. The family history baked into a flaky crust. Fascinating. This flavor... this is a datum that cannot be replicated.'
"Mrs. Kent," he said finally, opening his eyes. "This pie is, without a doubt, one of the most conceptually perfect creations I have ever had the pleasure of experiencing."
The dinner ended with laughter and the promise of another visit.
As they sat in the living room, the fire crackling, Kara watched Kisuke chat with her family.
He wasn't the exiled genius, or the cosmic strategist, or the mysterious shopkeeper.
In that moment, under the warm glow of the Kents' living room lamp, he was just Kisuke, a slightly weird friend who knew too much about agriculture and appreciated a good dessert.
And Kara realized that this was the version of him she liked the most
.....
Later that night, long after the dishes had been washed and the house had settled into a quiet stillness, Kisuke found himself alone on the farmhouse's front porch.
The Kansas night was vast and dark, sprinkled with a million stars that shone with a clarity rarely seen on more populated worlds.
The air was cool and smelled of earth and the promise of rain in the distance.
He leaned against one of the wooden porch posts, hands in the pockets of his haori, his hat tilted back.
He watched the soft glow coming from the living room window, where Kara and her family were talking in low voices, sharing stories.
His mind, normally a whirlwind of conceptual equations and long term strategies, was unusually quiet.
He was processing the evening, not as a strategist, but as a reader who has just finished a particularly moving chapter.
'Fascinascinating,' he thought, a genuine smile of wonder on his face. 'Absolutely fascinating. The most powerful being on this planet, a man who can move worlds and challenge gods, was not forged in the heart of a neutron star, nor in a genetic laboratory, nor through an ancient ritual of power.'
'He was forged here. In the warmth of this kitchen. In the patience of a farmer. In the unconditional kindness of a mother. The greatest story often has the humblest beginning. What a wonderfully simple and elegant lesson.'
He thought about his conversation with Jonathan Kent about crop rotation.
The man's honesty, his deep connection to the land, was a form of knowledge as valid and as complex as any of the arcane scrolls in his library.
And Martha's apple pie... that wasn't just a dessert.
It was a story in itself, a recipe passed down through generations, an edible time capsule filled with love and tradition.
It was data that could not be quantified, and for that very reason, it was priceless.
His reflection inevitably drifted to Kara.
To Martha's question, and his own, strange answer.
'Unfortunately, I do not have that honor.'
Why had he said "unfortunately"? A simple denial would have been sufficient. More efficient.
'Curious. An illogical choice of words. Was it a simple slip? Or was it an accidental truth?'
'It's obvious that Kara-san is attracted to me, but it could be for various reasons, for saving Krypto, her only anchor to Krypton besides Clark, for saving Comet, or even for helping her discover herself in these months.'
Kara's story, he realized, kept introducing unexpected twists into his own.
He had come here as a favor to her, a detour in his research.
But as he watched the warm light from the Kent farmhouse, he realized that this quiet little planet, with its kind hearted heroes and its calloused handed farmers, was not a detour at all.
It was one of the most interesting stories he had come across in centuries.
And for the first time, he wasn't just reading it.
He was beginning to feel like a character in it.
A very, very interesting idea.