---
The final bell of the day at Smallville High was less a sound and more a sensation—a physical release of pent-up academic energy that vibrated through the tiled floors and lockers. It was a Friday, and the promise of two days of freedom hung in the air, thick and sweet as honey. Robert closed his history textbook, the dry account of the Lewis and Clark expedition fading from his mind as the present moment snapped into sharp, vibrant focus.
He stretched, feeling the pleasant, phantom ache in his muscles from yesterday's football practice. It was a human feeling, one he cherished. He could have absorbed the kinetic energy of every tackle, leaving his body pristine, but where was the fun in that? Where was the living?
A shadow fell over his desk, and he looked up to see Clark leaning against the doorframe, a familiar, lopsided grin on his face. "So," Clark began, his tone light and teasing, "you finally decided to re-join us in the land of the living? I saw you zoning out during Wexler's lecture. For a second there, I thought you'd fallen into a coma."
Robert chuckled, sliding his textbook into his backpack. The truth was far stranger than his brother could imagine. His "zoning out" had been a deep, meditative dive into the cosmic ocean of power within him, tracing the currents of golden energy that had become as familiar to him as his own heartbeat since his visit with Mother. But he settled for a simpler, human truth.
"Sorry, just thinking about the game tomorrow," he said, which wasn't entirely a lie. "Coach was talking about new plays. Got a little carried away."
Clark's grin widened. "Carried away to another planet, you mean. Come on, let's go. Pete said he'd save us a seat on the bus."
They joined the river of students flowing towards the exits. The air was filled with the screech of locker doors and the excited chatter of weekend plans. As they pushed through the double doors into the bright Kansas afternoon, they were met by Pete Ross and Chloe Sullivan, who were waiting for them by the bike racks.
"Hey, guys!" Chloe said, her ever-present digital camera hanging around her neck. "Big plans for the weekend? Clark, I was thinking of doing a deep dive into the town archives for the Torch. I found some weird shipping manifests from the year of the meteor shower. Thought you might be interested?"
Clark smiled, that warm, open, and utterly oblivious smile that made Robert want to both hug him and shake him. "That sounds cool, Chloe. Maybe Monday you can tell me what you find?"
Robert watched as a flicker of something—hope, maybe, mixed with a tinge of disappointment—crossed Chloe's face before being buried under her professional, reporter's demeanor. "Sure, Monday it is," she said, her voice bright.
Pete elbowed Robert. "You thinking about Lana, man? You've got that goofy look."
Robert snapped his attention back, feigning offense. "I do not have a goofy look. I have a thoughtful and contemplative look."
"Same thing when Lana Lang is involved," Pete retorted with a laugh.
The yellow school buses rumbled to life, their diesel engines coughing black smoke into the clean air. Robert watched them for a moment, then turned to Clark. "You know what? Let's walk."
Clark didn't hesitate. "Yeah. Sounds good."
They waved off their friends, promising to call, and veered away from the parking lot, their shoes crunching on the gravel shoulder of the road that led out of town. The noise of the school faded with startling quickness, replaced by the vast, open silence of the Kansas prairie. The sun was warm on their backs, and a gentle breeze whispered secrets through the endless fields of corn, making the green leaves rustle like a chorus of gentle applause.
For a long while, they walked in a comfortable silence that only brothers who shared the world's greatest secret could share. This was their ritual, their confessional. Here, with no one for miles but the occasional red-winged blackbird, they could speak freely about the things that weighed on their minds—the strange dreams, the flicker of heat vision behind their eyes, the terrifying and wonderful burden of being more than human.
Robert let the peace of the landscape wash over him. He absorbed the solar radiation, not for power, but for pleasure, feeling it warm his cells like a gentle embrace. He could feel Clark doing the same beside him, their dual natures syncing with the rhythm of the land.
"Alright," Robert said finally, his voice soft but cutting clearly through the quiet. "Out with it. You've been chewing on something since history class. And don't say it's Wexler's pop quiz. I saw the way you were looking at that key."
Clark let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping slightly. He pulled the Kryptonian key from his pocket, letting it rest in his palm. In the bright sunlight, its alien metallic swirls seemed to shift and dance. "It's just… a lot, you know? This is it. This is the only thing I have from… from there. From my real parents." He said the last words with a mixture of reverence and sorrow. "It feels heavy. Not just in my hand, but… here." He tapped his chest over his heart.
"I know," Robert said, his voice full of empathy. "It's a door, Clark. To your past. And opening doors can be scary, even when you know you need to see what's on the other side."
"But what if I don't like what I find?" Clark's voice was barely a whisper, filled with a vulnerability he never showed anyone else. "What if… what if I'm not who I think I am?"
Robert stopped walking and turned to face his brother, his expression utterly serious. "Listen to me, Clark. Your past might be from diffrent planet , but your family is in Kansas. Your father is the man who taught you how to bale hay and the value of a hard day's work. Your mother is the woman whose love is baked into every pie she pulls from the oven. Your brother is the guy standing right in front of you. Nothing you find in that ship, nothing you ever learn about where you came from, will ever change that. You are Clark Kent. That is your truth."
The tension in Clark's frame seemed to melt away. He nodded, a genuine smile finally returning to his face as he slipped the key back into his pocket. "Thanks, Rob."
"Anytime," Robert said, clapping him on the back as they resumed their walk. "But that's not the only thing on your mind, is it?"
Clark looked at him, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
Robert gave him a knowing look. "I'm talking about the brilliant, intrepid reporter who can't seem to take her eyes off you. I'm talking about Chloe."
Clark's brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "Chloe? What about her? Is she in some kind of trouble?"
Robert couldn't help but laugh, a warm, hearty sound that echoed in the open space. "Oh, little brother. Your perception is super, but your perception is… not. Clark, she likes you. I'm talking heart-emoji, doodle-your-name-in-her-notebook, gets-a-little-flustered-when-you're-near likes you."
Clark came to a complete halt, his face a perfect mask of stunned disbelief. "What? No. No, she doesn't. That's just… that's how she is. She's friendly. She's outgoing."
"See? This is exactly what I'm talking about," Robert said, his tone shifting from amused to deeply sincere. He stepped in front of Clark, forcing his brother to meet his gaze. "Feelings like that, Clark… they aren't casual. They're precious. They're fragile. When someone gathers up the courage to offer you a piece of their heart, even silently, even from a distance, it's a gift. You don't have to accept it. You don't have to feel the same way. But you must be kind. You have to handle that trust with care. To do anything less would be a dishonor, not just to her, but to yourself and the good man our parents raised you to be."
He let the words hang in the air between them, heavy with meaning. Clark looked down at his feet, kicking at a clump of dirt. The lesson was settling, not as a simple piece of advice, but as a fundamental principle.
"I… I never thought of it like that," Clark admitted, his voice soft with dawning realization. "I would never want to hurt her, Rob. You know I wouldn't."
"I know," Robert said, his smile returning, softer now. "Just be aware. Open your eyes. And remember, care about those feelings. In a world full of chaos and powers and alien artifacts, they are one of the few things that are truly, purely magical."
The rest of the walk was quieter, both brothers lost in their own thoughts. The white fence of the Kent property came into view, a welcome sight that always felt like a warm embrace.
---
The Kent farm was a portrait of peaceful, coordinated industry. The scent of blooming honeysuckle and rich, turned earth filled the air. As they approached the farmhouse, the screen door squeaked open and Martha Kent stepped onto the porch, wiping her hands on a checkered apron.
"Perfect timing, you two," she called out, her voice the very definition of home. "Robert, I'm behind on the salad and these potatoes won't peel themselves. Clark, your father's trying to get the tractor serviced before dark. He could use your strong back."
"On it, Mom," Robert said, taking the porch steps two at a time. He dropped his backpack by the door and headed straight for the kitchen sink, washing his hands with the practiced ease of someone who had performed this ritual a thousand times.
The kitchen was Martha's domain, warm and fragrant. Robert found a sense of profound peace here. The simple, repetitive act of peeling potatoes, of chopping vegetables for a salad, was a grounding counterpoint to the cosmos that swirled within him. This was real. This was what he fought for.
Through the window over the sink, he could see Clark and Jonathan out by the barn. Clark, without being asked, slid under the tractor beside his father, holding a heavy gearbox in place with one hand while Jonathan tightened the bolts. They worked in a comfortable, wordless symphony, a language of shared labor and mutual respect that needed no translation. Robert felt a surge of fierce, protective love for this simple, perfect scene.
---
Miles away, in her softly lit bedroom above The Talon, Lana Lang was floating on a cloud of her own giddy anticipation. She lay on her bed, a well-worn copy of "Wuthering Heights" forgotten beside her, staring at the ceiling where the fading light cast long, dancing shadows.
Tomorrow. The word was a melody, a promise, a thrilling secret. My date with Robert.
A slow, secretive smile spread across her face, and she rolled over, burying her burning cheeks in the cool cotton of her pillow. Her imagination, freed from the constraints of the school day, began to paint pictures more vivid than any dream.
She thought of them walking through the Smallville flea market, laughing at some bizarre antique, their shoulders brushing. She imagined his hand, strong and sure, finding hers, their fingers lacing together as if they were made to fit. But then, as the evening deepened in her mind, her thoughts turned… warmer. More intimate.
She pictured the end of the night. Him walking her to the back door of The Talon. The way the single porch light would cast dramatic shadows across his face. The way he would look at her—not like the boy she'd known for years, but like a young man seeing the woman she was becoming. Her breath hitched as she imagined his gaze, intense and focused, dropping to her lips.
The thought of kissing him—really kissing him, not a quick, shy peck goodbye, but a deep, slow, exploring kiss—sent a jolt of pure lightning straight through her core. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, joyful rhythm. She let herself imagine the feel of his hands, not just holding hers, but tangling in her hair, cupping her face, pulling her closer. She could almost feel the solid, lean strength of his body as he leaned in, the whisper of his breath on her skin a moment before…
A sudden, warm flush bloomed deep within her, a liquid heat that pooled low in her belly and made her shift restlessly against the sheets. A soft, involuntary gasp escaped her lips. God, just thinking about him… She was embarrassingly, undeniably wet, her body reacting with a fierce, primal urgency to the sheer want her mind had conjured.
She pulled the pillow over her head with a muffled groan, trying to smother the frantic beating of her heart and the blush she knew was spreading down her neck. This was new. This was terrifying. This was incredible.
To distract herself, her mind, still floating in the hazy, pleasant aftermath of her fantasy, drifted to a completely different, yet strangely parallel, thought.
Wouldn't it be amazing, she mused, to have a special, secret place to keep things? Not a diary, but something… more. She pictured a magical storeroom, a pocket of reality just for her, where time stood still. A place where she could keep every movie ticket stub from their dates, every silly, sweet note he might pass her in class, the perfect dress she found but had no occasion for yet. A private, infinite collection of precious things and possibilities, a treasure trove for the memories she was desperate to make. It was a silly, romantic thought, but it comforted her, grounding her intense, physical yearning back into something sweet and enduring.
With that peaceful image cradling her heart, her breathing finally evened out, and the frantic pulse in her veins slowed to a steady, hopeful thrum. She slipped into a sleep filled with dreams of tomorrow.
---
Back at the Kent farm, the dinner table was a scene of comfortable chaos. Platters of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, and fresh-baked rolls were passed around amid lively debate about the upcoming harvest festival and the high school football team's chances.
Robert watched it all, a deep sense of contentment settling in his soul. This noise, this simple, human clutter of life and love, was the anchor that kept him from drifting into the cold, vast emptiness of his power. He participated fully, teasing Clark, complimenting his mother's cooking, discussing crop rotation with his father.
After the plates were cleared and the kitchen was spotless once more, the family dispersed. Jonathan settled in with a farm equipment catalog, Martha with a novel. Clark lingered for a moment, looking at Robert.
"You heading up?" Clark asked.
"In a bit," Robert replied. "Just gonna… clear my head."
Clark nodded, understanding the unspoken need for solitude that sometimes gripped them both. "Don't stay out too late."
Once alone in the quiet house, Robert ascended the stairs to his room. The familiar space—the worn wooden floor, the poster of the Milky Way on the wall, the stack of comic books by his bed—felt different tonight. It felt like the calm before the storm. His mother's words echoed in his mind, not as a warning, but as a challenge: "Your power's potential is immeasurable... you must find opponents to fight to truly understand and temper your abilities."
But the idea of seeking out conflict felt crude, antithetical to the peace he cherished. He wasn't a warrior seeking glory; he was a guardian. And a guardian didn't just react to threats; he built foundations to prevent them.
An idea, absurd and magnificent, sparked in his mind, born from a lifetime of absorbing Earth's pop culture and a ability to warp reality itself.
Why don't I create an AllSpark?
The thought wasn't just a whim; it was a solution. With a source of creation like that, he wouldn't need to rely on unpredictable allies or fragile technology. He could build protectors. Laborers. A silent, unwavering foundation for the life he loved. He could create Transformers.
He sat on the edge of his bed, closing his eyes. This wasn't about unleashing power; it was about focused, precise creation. He reached not outwards, but inwards, into the limitless well of golden energy that was the core of his being. He visualized not just the object, but its nature: a font of creation, a spark of life for machinery, bound by an unbreakable, foundational law of absolute loyalty. He would not recreate the fickle, betraying artifact of fiction. His creation would be an extension of his own will. What he made, would be his, completely and eternally.
The air in the room grew thick, charged with ozone and potential. A point of light, no bigger than a pinprick, appeared in the center of the room. It swirled, drawing in golden motes of energy from the very atmosphere, growing, condensing. It pulsed with a slow, rhythmic thrum, like a cosmic heartbeat. With a final, soft thump of displaced air, it was done.
Floating before him was a cube, about the size of a small crate. Its surface was not inert metal; it was a swirling, liquid tapestry of light and intricate, ever-shifting mechanical runes. It vibrated with contained power, humming with a bass note that he felt in his bones. This was his AllSpark.
A slow smile spread across Robert's face. Now for the test.
He picked up the cube. It was warm and heavy in his hands, not with physical weight, but with the density of the power it contained. Slipping silently out of his window, he landed on the soft grass without a sound and moved like a shadow towards the barn.
There, parked in its usual spot, was his father's old pickup truck—a faithful, rust-spotted workhorse that smelled of oil, hay, and decades of honest labor. This was perfect.
He held the pulsating AllSpark out and touched it to the truck's fender.
The effect was instantaneous and violent. Raw, brilliant energy, the blue of a lightning strike and the gold of his own soul, erupted from the cube and arced over the vehicle. The truck shuddered violently. Metal screamed, not in agony, but in ecstatic rebirth. The sound was a symphony of a thousand moving parts—gears grinding, pistons shifting, plates of steel folding and reconfiguring with terrifying speed and precision.
The hood crumpled inwards, forming a massive chest plate. The tires split and folded, becoming powerful, articulated feet and hands. The cab compressed, the windshield darkening into a broad, armored visor. In less than ten seconds, where a simple farm truck had stood, now knelt a giant of polished, rugged metal, standing 3.5 meters tall. Its design was blocky and functional, etched with the scars of its former life, but undeniably powerful. Its optics glowed to life, a steady, intelligent blue, and it bowed its head deeply.
"What can I do for you, Master?" its voice was a deep, resonant rumble, like granite grinding together.
A thrill of pure, unadulterated awe shot through Robert. He had created life. Intelligent, loyal life. "Not bad," he whispered, his voice full of wonder. "Your primary duty is to protect this family and this land. You are to remain hidden. Your presence must not be detected, and the family must not feel anything suspicious or amiss. You are a silent guardian. Is that understood?"
"Understood, Master. Protection and secrecy. The directive is clear." The robot's voice was unwavering.
One by one, Robert moved through the moonlit farmyard, touching the AllSpark to the other vehicles—the hulking green tractor, the dusty combine harvester. Each one underwent the same violent, beautiful metamorphosis, rising from their mechanical slumber as titans of metal and loyalty, each with a slightly different build but the same unwavering purpose in their glowing blue eyes.
He now had a small platoon of guardians. But then he looked at the AllSpark, still thrumming in his hand like a captive star. Where am I gonna put this?It'd be a waste to destroy it… and frankly, too much of a hassle.
Another idea, simpler this time, came to him. Well then, let's create a dimensional storage. Every good system has one.
Again, he focused his will. This was a different kind of creation—not giving life, but folding space. He envisioned a pocket, a bubble of non-reality, attached to the core of his own existence. He defined its rules: timeless, airless, accessible only by his will, a perfect preservation field.
With a thought that required less effort than snapping his fingers, he felt the new dimension snap into existence, a silent, dark void waiting to be filled. He held out his hand, and a shimmering, vertical tear in reality appeared before him. It wasn't a flashy portal, but a silent, heat-haze distortion, rippling with faint, ethereal light, revealing an infinite, deep blue darkness within.
With a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed the pulsing AllSpark into the void. The cube tumbled away into the endless blue and vanished. The portal sealed itself without a sound, leaving the Kansas night exactly as it was.
He was about to return to the house when he heard a soft gasp from behind him. He turned to see Clark standing there, having just rounded the corner of the barn, his face a mask of utter astonishment. He was staring at one of the newly transformed tractor-bots, which stood perfectly still, its blue optics watching him calmly.
"Wow… damn, brother," Clark breathed, his eyes wide. "How… how did you create that?"
Robert's mind worked at lightning speed. The truth—reality warping, cosmic creation—was too much, too soon. Clark knew about his energy absorption. That was the foundation to build on.
"I used my energy absorption," Robert explained, his voice calm and convincing. "I've been experimenting. I can manipulate the stored energy, not just release it. I channeled it into the truck's molecular structure, basically… rearranging it. Forcing it to take a new form." He gestured to the robot. "This form."
Clark walked closer, circling the silent guardian with a sense of wonder. "That's… incredible. You can transmute matter? This is… this is a whole new level, Rob."
"It has its uses," Robert said modestly. "Think of them as… advanced, automated farm security."
Clark finally tore his eyes away from the robot and looked at his brother, a new layer of respect in his gaze. "You're full of surprises."
"Come on," Robert said, steering his brother back towards the house. "We've got a big day tomorrow. You need your sleep."
"Me? You're the one with the date," Clark teased as they slipped back through the window.
Robert just smiled, a genuine, happy smile. As he lay in bed, the events of the evening replayed in his mind—the talk with Clark, the creation of the AllSpark, the awe on his brother's face. The farm was now protected by silent, mechanical sentinels, loyal only to him. He had taken his mother's advice and begun to build his foundation.
But for now, all of that faded into the background. The cosmic power, the transforming robots, the dimensional pockets—it all shrunk to a single, bright point of anticipation.
Lana.
With the simple, human excitement of a boy about to go on his first date with the girl he liked, Robert Kent closed his eyes and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
[Ok this clark not gonna be like naive superman]
[Give me stone and 5 ★ review.i will be motivated]😅
Word count:3943