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The yellow school bus groaned to a halt in front of Smallville High, its shuddering frame a stark contrast to the vibrant, chaotic life it disgorged. Robert was among the first to step out, his movements fluid and silent, a stark contrast to the jostling, shouting river of adolescence that flowed around him. He stood for a moment, a solitary sentinel on the cracked pavement, allowing the world to settle into his perception. The shrill cries of laughter, the scent of diesel exhaust and cheap perfume, the latent heat of the sun on the red brick—it was a symphony of mundane details he cherished, each one a note in the song of the normal life he'd been granted.
Clark appeared at his shoulder, a familiar, solid presence. "Chloe was trying to explain the social ecosystem of the cafeteria to me again on the bus," Clark murmured, his brow furrowed in a look of genuine, endearing confusion. "It sounds more complex than the instructions for assembling the new tractor."
A ghost of a smile touched Robert's lips. His brother, who could see the molecular structure of steel, was perpetually baffled by the opaque rituals of high school. "The principles are the same, Clark. Identify the necessary components, understand their functions, and apply them without causing an explosion."
Clark chuckled, the sound easy and warm. "You make it sound so simple."
"For you, it should be," Robert replied, his gray eyes scanning the crowd with a quiet intensity that saw more than just faces. "You just have to be yourself. It's everyone else who complicates it."
They moved with the tide toward the school's main entrance. For Robert, the walk was a study in restraint. His senses, dialed to a preternatural acuity, could track every whispered secret, every racing heartbeat, every flicker of emotion on the faces around him. He could feel the kinetic energy stored in the slamming of a car door, the faint radiation leaking from a student's watch, the thermal signature of a hundred different bodies. It was a constant, buzzing hum at the edge of his consciousness, a tapestry of data he had learned to acknowledge but not engage with. To do otherwise would be to drown in the noise of a world not meant for such scrutiny.
The morning classes were a lesson in this same discipline. In Biology, as Mrs. Gables meticulously diagramed the process of cellular respiration on the whiteboard, Robert felt the truth of it humming in the very air. The wilting spider plant on the windowsill was a desperate, silent struggle for water and light, its chloroplasts straining. The paramecium dancing under the microscope's lens was a universe of frantic, purposeful activity. He could, with a thought, accelerate its life cycle, grant the plant a vigor that would make it burst its pot. He kept his hands folded on the scuffed laminate of his desk, his power a deep, still ocean beneath a placid surface. He was not here to command life; he was here to observe it, to learn its mundane, beautiful rules.[When we are at 8th or 9th stander we have Biology class with our Madam 😏😏😏only legend can understand 😂]
When the lunch bell finally chimed, a palpable wave of relief swept through the student body. But the call today was not for the cacophony of the cafeteria. The bright, inviting sun had dictated a different destination: the football field.
A pickup game was being organized, a primal, straightforward release of pent-up energy. Robert felt a familiar anticipation stir within him. This was another kind of practice, another test of control far more delicate than any exam.
He and Clark were quickly drafted onto opposing teams. A silent understanding passed between them, a pact forged in years of shared secrets and careful practice. They would play, but they would play with a cage built around their true selves. Their strength would be that of two exceptionally gifted athletes, their speed merely breathtaking, their durability the stuff of local legend, not alien biology or cosmic power.
The game began, and Robert fell into the rhythm of it. He was a defensive player, a position that suited his nature. He didn't chase the glory of a touchdown; he sought the quiet satisfaction of a perfectly executed interception, the structural integrity of an unbreakable defensive line. When a hulking junior came barreling toward him, Robert didn't brace with unyielding mass. Instead, he calculated the angle, absorbed the kinetic impact with a subtle shift of his weight, and redirected it, sending the player stumbling past him in a harmless sprawl. The energy of the tackle flowed into him, a faint, warm buzz that joined the reservoir humming in his core. It was like catching a falling leaf, a exercise in perfect, minimal force.
On the other side of the ball, Clark was a force of nature playing at being human. He moved with a fluid grace that made the impossible look effortless. He would leap for a pass, hanging in the air for a fraction of a second too long, making the catch look difficult, almost lucky. When he was tackled, he fell with a convincing, dramatic roll, the earth accepting his weight with a soft thud instead of a crater.
The game roared on, a whirlwind of shouts, thudding bodies, and the sweet smell of torn grass. The score seesawed, and the intensity grew, but the balance never broke. Robert watched his brother, a fondness swelling in his chest. Clark was in his element, not because of the game, but because of the connection. He was laughing, clapping his teammates on the back, his face open and joyful. He was, in these moments, perfectly and completely Clark Kent.
The final play came down to a Hail Mary pass toward Clark's end zone. Robert saw it all unfold in slow motion: the quarterback's desperate heave, the arc of the ball against the blue sky, Clark positioning himself amidst a cluster of players. He jumped, a clean, vertical spring that was just plausible enough, and his fingertips brushed the leather. He could have caught it with ease. Instead, he tipped it, ever so slightly, just enough to send it spiraling harmlessly out of bounds.
The whistle blew. A draw.
A collective groan mixed with cheers of relief echoed across the field. Players collapsed onto the grass, chests heaving, sweat-sheened faces split with grins. The ritual was complete.
Clark was immediately surrounded, the center of a boisterous group dissecting the game's highlights. He caught Robert's eye over the heads of their classmates, a question in his gaze. Robert gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head and a wave of his hand. Go on. I'm fine.
He watched his brother get swept away toward the water fountain, then turned his back on the dissipating crowd. The vast green expanse of the field was now his alone. He fetched a lone football from the sidelines, its pebbled leather cool against his palm.
He placed it on the forty-yard line. Silence descended, broken only by the distant cry of a hawk and the whisper of the wind through the goalposts. This was his true practice. He could, with the barest flick of his will, send this ball into the stratosphere, accelerate it until the atmosphere tore it to atoms. Instead, he focused on the perfect spiral, the precise transfer of kinetic energy from his foot to the pigskin. He took three steps back and two to the side, his body moving through the practiced motion.
Thump.
The connection was clean, solid. The ball shot forward, rotating in a perfect, tight spiral, arcing high before dropping squarely through the center of the uprights. No sound but the net swishing sixty yards away.
He retrieved the ball, walked back to the fifty, then the sixty. Each kick was a meditation. Each was perfect. In the controlled, repetitive motion, his mind, usually a fortress of observation and calculation, was allowed to wander into its own uncharted territories.
Lana Lang.
Her name surfaced in the quiet, a soft, persistent frequency amidst the silence. He had felt her eyes on him throughout the game, a warm, focused pressure he had deliberately ignored. For years, he had maintained a respectful distance, building a wall of polite indifference. He had refused to use his telepathy, to violate the sacred, unspoken privacy of her thoughts. To know her mind without her consent would make her just another piece of data in his cosmic awareness, and she was more than that.
But why this rigid abstinence? He was a being who had stared into the heart of a dying star in the void between deaths, who held galaxies in his gaze. Was he so fragile that the simple, complicated humanity of a teenage romance could threaten the peace he guarded so fiercely?
A wish for a new dawn, he thought, the ball sailing through the posts once more with a whisper of net. A wish for a life. If I spend all my time building fortifications around that life, am I truly living it? Or am I just its warden?
The power he wielded was a tool for preservation, yes. But it was not meant to be a cage. To feel joy, nervousness, anticipation, even heartbreak—these were not vulnerabilities. They were the point. They were the salvation he had been granted.
The calculus, when he finally allowed himself to consider it, was stunningly simple. If she felt something for him, and he found the idea not just agreeable, but… intriguing, then his inaction was illogical. It was a failure to engage with the very world he sought to protect.
He felt her then. A soft compression of grass, a unique bio-rhythm approaching, a scent of strawberries and shampoo cutting through the earthy smell of the field. He didn't need to turn; his awareness painted her presence in perfect detail. He took one last, pointless kick, the ball flying true, before slowly turning to face her.
"Hi, Robert."
Lana stood a dozen feet away, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, knuckles white. The afternoon sun set her auburn hair ablaze, creating a halo of light around her head. She was the picture of Smallville beauty, yet there was a tension in her frame, a brave vulnerability that was far more compelling than any superficial perfection.
"Lana," he said, his voice calm, a neutral shore for the wave of her nervousness.
She took a shaky breath, her courage a physical thing she had to gather from the air around her. "I... I need to tell you something." Her eyes, wide and the color of rich earth, met his. "I like you. I really, really like you."
The universe, for all its infinite complexity and the cosmic laws that bound it, held no surprise quite like the raw, unguarded confession of a brave young woman. For a single, suspended heartbeat, Robert Kent ceased to be the reincarnated otaku, the cosmic Sentry, the guardian of a future hero. He was simply a boy, stunned into absolute stillness by three simple words that carried the weight of a world he was still learning to call his own.
The moment shattered as he drew a breath. The surprise melted from his features, not into arrogance, but into a slow, genuine smile that transformed his often-too-serious face. It reached his gray eyes, lighting them from within, revealing a warmth he usually kept guarded. Why was he holding back? The thought was suddenly absurd. This was life. This was the point.
He closed the distance between them, his steps silent on the grass. He didn't reach for her, but leaned in, his movement fluid and deliberate, reducing the world to just the two of them. He brought his lips close to her ear, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register that was for her and her alone.
"So," he murmured, the word a soft vibration in the space between them, laden with a newfound, easy confidence. "Does this mean we're girlfriend and boyfriend now?"
For Lana Lang, the world dissolved. The football field, the school, the distant sounds—all of it faded into a meaningless blur. Her entire existence was the sound of his voice, a low rumble that felt like it was resonating in her very bones. It was the proximity of his body, the clean scent of him—soap, fresh air, and something else, something uniquely Robert that she couldn't name but had always associated with him. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a violent, joyful, terrified percussion that stole her breath and made her legs feel weak. Speech was impossible. All she could manage was a jerky, eager nod, her eyes wide and locked on his.
He leaned back, his smile turning playful, a hint of the charm he had never before permitted himself to reveal. "Good."
He could see the effect he was having—the dazed happiness, the deep blush that colored her neck and cheeks. It was… delightful. It was human.
"Then why don't we go on a proper date tomorrow?" he suggested, the plan forming with a simple, clear logic. "We have the weekend. We could go into Metropolis. See a movie. Get something to eat."
"Yes," she breathed out, the word a sigh of pure relief and elation. "I'd love that."
They walked back toward the school building side-by-side, a new and thrilling energy crackling in the space between them. For Lana, it was as if she were floating several inches above the grass, every step lighter than air. A giddy, disbelieving happiness bubbled up inside her, so potent she felt she might simply burst into a shower of light. The gray-haired, quiet boy she had admired from afar for so long was not just accessible; he was… everything she had imagined and more.
For Robert, a different, quieter warmth settled in his chest, a profound and solid satisfaction. He had faced the abyss and claimed a god's power. He guarded a future legend. But this—the nervous flutter in his own stomach, the shared smile, the simple, terrifying, wonderful promise of a first date—this was the dawn he had truly wished for. He was not just protecting his life from the shadows; he was finally, bravely, stepping into its light.
As they parted ways at the corridor that led to their respective classes, a final, shared glance passing between them, Robert Kent knew a truth as certain as any cosmic constant. This peace, this fragile, beautiful human connection, was a power worth more than any he possessed. And he would move heaven and Earth to keep it.
(Tell me how was that with this character infraction😅😅)