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Six years.
A lifetime for some. A blink of an eye for others. For me, Robert Kent, it was the foundation of everything. It was the space between one breath and the next, filled with more love, more peace, and more simple, honest joy than my entire first life had ever held.
I remember the first time I truly felt like their son. It wasn't a single moment, but a collection of them, like seeds planted in the rich Kansas soil. It was Jonathan, his large, work-roughened hands, gently teaching my tiny fingers how to hold a hammer, his voice patient as he showed me how to tap a loose nail back into the porch step. "Easy does it, Rob. Let the tool do the work." His callouses scraped against my soft skin, a feeling of safety and strength.
It was Martha, singing old folk songs in a soft, off-key hum while she kneaded dough in the kitchen, the air thick with the promise of fresh bread. It was the way she'd wipe a smudge of dirt from my cheek with her apron, her eyes crinkling at the corners with a smile that was meant just for me. It was the feeling of being tucked into bed at night, the blanket pulled up to my chin, and the soft press of her lips on my forehead. "Goodnight, my sweet boy."
And Clark. My brother.
Our days were a grand, endless adventure mapped across the 1,000 acres of Kent Farm. We were pirates, and the rolling fields of corn were our treacherous, green seas. We were explorers, and the old, gnarled oak tree by the creek was the peak of a mighty mountain. We were knights, and the rusty, retired plow discs in the barn were our shields against imaginary dragons.
Our favorite game was hide-and-seek as the evening sun painted the sky in shades of orange and purple. Jonathan would whistle, signaling the end of the workday, and that was our starting pistol.
"You're it, Rob!" Clark would shout, and he'd be gone in a blur of motion, a six-year-old streak of blue jeans and a red t-shirt. He wasn't trying to use his speed; it was just a part of him now, like breathing. I'd count to fifty, leaning my forehead against the cool wood of the barn door, listening.
I could hear the world in a way I never could before. with super-hearing, but with the sharp, attentive ears of a child completely immersed in his world. I heard the distant lowing of the cows, the frantic scratching of chickens in the dirt, the whisper of the wind through the tall grass. And if I listened very, very carefully, I could sometimes hear the faint, almost silent rustle of Clark trying to stifle a giggle from his hiding spot inside the hayloft or behind the water trough.
Finding him was a victory that felt as epic as any comic book climax.
Another of our great pastimes was architecture, of the earthen variety. Down by the creek, where the mud was thick and clay-rich, we became master builders. We'd spend hours, our hands and clothes caked in brown sludge, constructing elaborate forts and palaces. Clark, with his innate strength, could pat the walls perfectly smooth and carve out detailed windows with a stick. My designs were more complex, drawn from half-remembered images of castles and sci-fi cities from my past life.
"We need a moat," I'd declare, and Clark would set to work with furious enthusiasm, digging a channel with his bare hands that would soon fill with clear, cold creek water.
"It's the Fortress of Solitude!" he'd exclaim, proud of the name he'd learned from a previous life comic books.
In those moments, covered in mud with the sun on our backs, I wasn't a reincarnated soul. I wasn't waiting for cosmic power. I was just a kid. I was getting the childhood I'd always craved—a time of pure, uncomplicated play, and I clung to it, savoring every messy, wonderful second.
The "Clark things," as I'd come to think of them, had started subtly over a year ago. At first, it was little things. He'd run a little too fast during a game of tag, a blur that left the tall grass barely swaying. He'd lift a full milk pail that should have been far too heavy for a five-year-old, his small face a mask of casual ease.
But then, the incidents became more pronounced. I was there the day he truly discovered his strength. He'd been trying to reach a colorful ball that had rolled behind the heavy anvil in the barn. Frustrated, he gave the anvil a shove to move it. There was a groan of protesting metal, and the 300-pound block of iron slid a foot across the dirt floor as if it were made of polystyrene.
Clark had frozen, his eyes wide with shock and a little fear. He looked at me, his bottom lip trembling. "Rob… how did I do that?"
I'd acted fast, putting on my best impression of an awed brother. "Wow, Clark! You're so strong! It's a secret, though, okay? A super-secret. Like in the comics. We can't tell anyone, not even Mom and Dad. It's our special game."
The idea of it being a "game" and a "secret" appealed to him. The fear in his eyes was replaced by a spark of excitement. Our bond, already strong, was forged in steel by these shared, hidden truths.
Then came the floating. He'd been reaching for a jar of Martha's peach preserves on the very top shelf of the pantry. He stretched on his tiptoes, his fingers straining, and then, without any fanfare, his small sneakers lifted two inches off the ground. He hovered for a full second, grabbed the jar, and settled back down without even realizing what he'd done. My heart had hammered against my ribs. I was witnessing biological force.that looks so cool.
And the heat vision… that was a scary one. He'd had a nightmare, a bad one. He'd sat bolt upright in his bed, his eyes squeezed shut, and two thin, red beams of energy shot out, scorching two black lines across the wooden headboard before he snapped them open. The smell of ozone and burnt wood filled our room. He'd cried then, terrified of what he was. I'd climbed into his bed and hugged him, telling him it was just a special kind of dream, that everything was okay, that I was there.
Through it all, I felt… nothing. No surge of power, no hidden strength. As Clark's abilities blossomed, my own silence felt louder. The cosmic being's gift felt more and more like a cruel joke. The fear that I had been scammed, that I was just a normal boy living in the shadow of a god, became a cold, hard stone in my gut. I hid it behind smiles and games, but in the quiet of the night, the doubt was a relentless whisper.
Until today.
It was a perfect, golden afternoon. We were playing a particularly intense game of tag. Clark was "it," and he was a phantom, his laughter echoing from everywhere at once. I was running, my lungs burning with honest exertion, a grin plastered on my face as I dodged behind the big red tractor.
I skidded to a halt, pressing my back against the warm, oily metal of the engine block, trying to catch my breath. And that's when it happened.
It started as a tingle, a faint buzzing in the very marrow of my bones. Then it grew, a warmth that had nothing to do with the sun on my skin. This was an internal sun, kindling to life deep within my core. It was a pulling sensation, a profound and greedy absorption. I could feel it—the raw, life-giving radiation from the star 93 million miles away. My body, my cells, every atom of my being, was drinking it in after a six-year-long thirst.
It wasn't a violent surge; it was a rising tide. A subtle, undeniable strength began to seep into my muscles. I didn't feel like I could throw the tractor, but I felt… unshakeable. Denser. As if my feet were roots digging deep into the earth.
I stepped out from behind the tractor, my movements feeling strangely deliberate and solid.
Clark froze mid-stride, twenty yards away. His head cocked, his super-hearing or some other innate sense picking up on the change I felt radiating from myself.
"Rob?" he called out, his voice laced with confusion. "You okay? You feel… different. You sound… louder."
He could feel it. The stone of doubt in my gut shattered into a million glittering pieces of relief and pure, unadulterated awe. It was real.
My mind, both a child's and an adult's, raced. This changed everything. I walked towards him, each step feeling more sure than the last.
"Clark," I said, my voice low and serious, the way I did when we were sharing our most important secrets. "You can't tell Mom and Dad. Not about this. Not about how I feel."
His face, so open and trusting, crumpled with confusion. "Why? They'd understand. They love us."
"I know they do," I said, putting a hand on his shoulder. I felt the solid strength in his small frame, a strength I now mirrored. "But they already worry about you, Clark. They worry that you'll get hurt, or that someone will find out and take you away. If they know I've got… something… too, that worry will get twice as big. We don't want to make them sad or scared, do we?"
I saw the internal struggle on his face. He loved our parents more than anything. The idea of causing them more worry was a powerful deterrent. Finally, his shoulders slumped in resignation, and he gave a slow, solemn nod. "Okay. It's our secret. A brother secret."
"Good." A wild, exhilarating idea took hold. I needed to know what this feeling meant. I needed a test. "Clark, I want you to punch me."
His reaction was instantaneous. He recoiled, his eyes wide with horror. "No! I can't! I'll hurt you! I… I bent the steel bar on my bed last month when I had a bad dream! I can't punch you!"
"I know you're strong," I said, keeping my voice calm and reassuring. "But I feel really, really strong right now. I promise, it's okay. Just a little punch. Right here." I tapped my cheek with a finger, feeling the solid bone beneath the skin. It felt like granite.
He hesitated, his little fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. The conflict between his desire to trust his brother and his fear of causing harm was a war on his face. "I don't wanna," he whispered, his voice small.
"Trust me, Clark. Please? For our secret."
He took a deep, shaky breath, his entire body tensing. He pulled his fist back, and I saw him consciously trying to hold back, to use only a fraction of his power. The punch came forward. It wasn't slow. To any other person, it would have been a blur, too fast to even see.
BAM!
The sound that erupted wasn't the slap of flesh on flesh. It was a deep, resonant thud, like a sledgehammer striking a solid oak tree.
Clark yelped and stumbled back, clutching his hand. "Ow! Rob, your face is like a rock!" He stared at his reddening knuckles, then back at my completely unfazed face, his expression a mixture of pain and utter bewilderment.
But I was more than fine. I hadn't even flinched. My head hadn't snapped back. My feet hadn't shifted an inch in the dirt. When his fist connected, I didn't feel pain. I felt a transfer. A jolt of raw, vibrant energy flowed from the point of impact, coursing through my body like a shot of adrenaline. It was warm and harmless, merging seamlessly with the solar energy I was still absorbing. I had taken the kinetic force of his super-powered punch and made it my own.
The knowledge clicked into place in my mind, a gift from the cosmic being or perhaps buried deep in my DNA. Kinetic energy absorption. It was one of the Sentry's fundamental powers. He could absorb any form of energy—light, heat, radiation, electricity, and pure physical force. That's why I felt nothing. I'd just consumed the entire energy of Clark's blow.
A giddy, almost hysterical laugh bubbled up in my chest, but I swallowed it down. It was real. All of it was real.
From Clark's perspective, this was a world-shattering event. He looked from his sore hand to my unmarked face, his eyes wide with a new, dawning understanding. His brother, the boy he'd always had to be careful with, was no longer fragile. He was… immovable. The look of lonely confusion he sometimes wore seemed to lessen, replaced by a spark of camaraderie. He wasn't alone in his strangeness.
I had a sudden, absurd impulse to replicate the iconic "Serious Table Flip" from One-Punch Man, using the very ground beneath us as the table. But the thought was instantly quashed by a surge of rational fear. First, I highly doubted I had that level of raw power yet. This was a trickle, not a flood. Second, and far more importantly, upending a quarter-acre of Kansas farmland would be somewhat difficult to explain to Jonathan and Martha over meatloaf.
My senses were also dialing up to eleven. The world became a cacophony of input. I could hear the gurgle of water deep underground, the scratch of a field mouse a hundred yards away, the hum of the power lines running along the distant road, and Martha's quiet conversation with a neighbor on the phone from inside the house nearly a mile away. It was overwhelming, a tidal wave of sound. But with a conscious effort, a mere thought, I could focus, filtering out the noise, dialing it back to a manageable level. The control was there, instinctual.
What other powers did I have? Super strength? I flexed my arm, but couldn't gauge it. Flight? Matter manipulation? For now, the profound reality of energy absorption and this new, solid strength was enough. It was a foundation. A promise of what was to come.
"We should go home," I said to Clark, who was still flexing his fingers in wonder. "Mom's making meatloaf."
The walk back to the farmhouse was different. I saw the world with new eyes. I felt the sunlight not just as warmth, but as fuel. I felt the earth under my feet not just as dirt, but as a source of stability. Clark walked beside me, quieter than usual, but he kept sneaking glances at me, a small, secret smile playing on his lips.
Dinner that night was a symphony of normalcy that I cherished more than ever. The kitchen was filled with the rich, savory smell of meatloaf and roasted potatoes. We sat around the worn wooden table, and Jonathan led us in saying grace, his hand resting on my shoulder.
"So, what did my two best farmhands get up to today?" Martha asked, passing the basket of warm, freshly baked rolls.
"We built a big fort by the creek!" Clark announced, his enthusiasm returning. "It has a moat and everything!"
"It's a masterpiece," I added, smiling. "The best one yet."
Jonathan chuckled. "Well, just make sure you don't divert the whole creek. I need that water for the north field." He then told us about the stubborn bolt on the tractor's engine he'd finally managed to loosen, his face smudged with grease but triumphant.
I looked around the table—at Jonathan's kind, tired eyes, at Martha's loving smile as she watched us eat, at Clark, now trying to sneak a green bean onto my plate when he thought I wasn't looking. A fierce, protective love surged in my chest, so strong it almost stole my breath. This was my family. This was my home.
The thought came to me again, as it often did. The farm provided, but it was a constant, quiet struggle. I saw the worry in Jonathan's eyes when he talked about equipment repairs or the price of seed. I saw how Martha saved fabric to mend our clothes. They worked so hard, for us. I wanted to help. With my knowledge from another world, and now, with this nascent power… maybe there was a way to ease their burden. But that was a problem for another day. For now, I was just a six-year-old boy, happy and full after a good dinner.
Later, Clark and I lay in the dark of our shared room. The moonlight streamed through the window, painting silver stripes on the wooden floor. I could still feel it—a faint, steady, comforting trickle of energy, even from the moon's reflected light. My body was still drinking it in, storing it, growing.
"Rob?" Clark's voice was a soft whisper in the darkness.
"Yeah, Clark?"
"Are you… are you like me?"
I turned my head on the pillow to look at his silhouette. "I think so, Clark. Just a little different. But we're brothers. No matter what."
He was silent for a moment. "Okay. Goodnight, Rob."
"Goodnight, Clark."
As I closed my eyes, I felt the hum of potential within me. The power was awake. It was no longer a question. The quiet life on the farm was about to get a lot more interesting. I was Robert Kent, brother to Clark. And I was finally, finally, something more.
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[I have stone kidney so give me stone😅😅] {word count:2957]