Dawn on the Kent farm was not a sudden event, but a gradual unveiling. The deep purples and blues of the night sky softened at the edges, bled through with hints of rose and gold, until the sun finally crested the horizon, pouring liquid light across the fields of corn. It was a light that spoke of growth, of patience, of life built slowly and with care. In his room, Robert felt it on his eyelids before he opened them. The solar radiation was a gentle tide washing into him, a constant, comforting recharge that was as natural as breathing.
He lay there for a long moment, suspended in the quiet. Today was different. It wasn't the thrum of cosmic power that filled him with anticipation, nor the lingering echo of a conversation with a cosmic entity. It was something simpler, something normal. A date. With Lana.
The thought sent a warm, unfamiliar thrill through him. In his previous life, such a concept had been abstract, something observed through screens but never truly experienced. Here, it was tangible. The promise of her smile, the sound of her laugh, the unknown trajectory of a day spent in her company.
He rose, and his morning routine felt newly significant. The shower was not just about hygiene, but a ritual of preparation. The water, beading on skin that could withstand a star's heart, was a simple, sensory pleasure. He dressed with a conscious choice—a black cotton t-shirt, soft from countless washes, and a pair of dark jeans that were more comfortable than stylish. He avoided looking in the mirror for too long, a strange shyness taking hold. He didn't want to see the Sentry, the cosmic heir, the son of Death. He just wanted to see Robert Kent, a boy from a Kansas farm, going on a date.
It was then that the idea came,but as a spark of pure, playful inspiration. He held his hand palm-up. The air before him shivered, the space between molecules stretching to reveal the deep, silent blue of his personal dimension. From its endless, quiet embrace, he retrieved the AllSpark.
It settled into his palm, not with a weight, but with a presence. It pulsed with a soft, warm light, a captive star humming with silent potential. His gaze then fell upon the Casio watch on his nightstand. A practical, unadorned piece of technology, its digital face a testament to straightforward, uncomplicated time. A perfect canvas.
He brought the cube to the watch. What happened next was a symphony of silent creation. There was no violent discharge of energy, no roar of transforming steel. Instead, a gentle, golden luminescence enveloped the timepiece. It lifted from his palm, its components unfolding in a dance of impossible precision. The plastic casing flowed like liquid, reshaping into miniature armored plates. The digital display morphed, becoming a sleek, intelligent face. The band segmented, forming articulate limbs, until a tiny mechanical form, no larger than his thumb, stood poised on his hand. It was a masterpiece of miniaturization, every gear and circuit a testament to his will.
Two points of soft blue light brightened on its face. It looked up at him, and its voice, when it spoke, was a clear, digital chime, surprisingly expressive.
"What can I do for you, Master?"
A laugh, warm and unforced, bubbled up from Robert's chest. The sheer absurdity and wonder of the moment was not lost on him. "You don't have to do anything for now," he said, his voice gentle. He considered the tiny automaton. It needed a name. Something simple, unassuming. "Your name is Bob."
The robot—Bob—straightened, his tiny frame radiating a palpable sense of pride. "Designation acknowledged! Thank you, Master!"
Curiosity, a scientist's urge to test his creation, took hold. "And what are your capabilities, Bob?"
"My core functions are data-stream integration and light personal defense," Bob reported with efficient pride. There was a faint, precise whirring sound, and one of his arms twisted, the end reconfiguring in a blink into a perfectly scaled, lethally serious mini-gun barrel. It retracted just as swiftly. "I can interface with global satellite networks, communication grids, and most encrypted digital archives. I can provide real-time navigation, threat analysis, and environmental monitoring."
"Okay, okay, that's more than enough," Robert said, his smile widening into a grin. The juxtaposition of the tiny, earnest robot and its tactical capabilities was endlessly amusing. "For today, your primary function is to be my little buddy. Understood?"
Bob's optical sensors brightened considerably. "Acknowledged, Master! The 'buddy' protocol is now active. It is my honor!"
"Master," Bob added, his head tilting in a curiously bird-like gesture. "My internal sensors indicate a significant elevation in your neurochemical levels—serotonin, dopamine, oxytocin. Your biometrics are consistent with states of high anticipation and positive excitement. Are we embarking on a recreational excursion?"
Robert chuckled, shaking his head. The little guy was perceptive. "You could say that. I have a date."
"A social engagement of a romantic nature! A most optimal activity for psychological well-being," Bob chirped. "I shall ensure all ambient factors are monitored for your comfort and success. Good luck, Master!" With that, Bob folded in upon himself. The process was a reverse of his birth, a silent, intricate ballet of contracting parts and sliding plates. In seconds, the robot was gone, and the simple Casio watch lay in Robert's palm once more, though now the glass face held a faint, ethereal blue sheen if the light hit it just right. He fastened it to his wrist, the familiar weight now a new companion.
Descending the stairs, he was met by the symphony of a Kent family morning. The rich, greasy scent of bacon fought for dominance with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the sweet, comforting smell of pancake syrup. It was a smell that meant home, safety, and unconditional love.
Martha was at the stove, her back to him, wielding a spatula with the practiced ease of a seasoned general. A soft, off-key hum drifted from her, a sound Robert associated with pure contentment. Jonathan was seated at the table, the Smallville Ledger spread before him, his brow furrowed in concentration, though whether at world events or the latest grain prices was impossible to tell. And Clark… Clark was engaged in his own morning ritual: the systematic and enthusiastic demolition of a mountain of scrambled eggs that would have felled a lesser man.
Robert's entrance into the kitchen was a ripple in their domestic pond. Clark was the first to notice. He looked up, his fork pausing mid-air, and a slow, wide, utterly knowing grin spread across his face. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His eyes, dancing with mischief, did a deliberate sweep of Robert's outfit—the chosen shirt, the intentional pants—and then back to his face, the grin widening.
Oh, you think this is funny, do you? Robert thought, meeting his brother's gaze with a raised eyebrow. Just you wait, little brother. The day you get ready for a date with Chloe, I will be there. I will have a camera. I will have a list of embarrassing childhood stories. My smile will make yours look like a timid flicker.
Martha turned from the stove, and her reaction was the polar opposite. Her eyes, warm and perceptive, swept over him, and a soft, knowing smile touched her lips. "Well, don't you look handsome this morning, sweetie," she said, her voice like a warm blanket.
This prompted Jonathan to lower his newspaper, peering over the top of his reading glasses. His gaze was more critical, a farmer's assessment, but the stern line of his mouth quickly softened into a subtle, proud smile. "Hmm," he grunted, the sound rumbling from his chest. "Big doings in Metropolis today, son? You're looking awfully… polished for a Saturday." The teasing lilt in his deep voice was unmistakable.
Robert felt a familiar warmth spread through his chest, a mixture of slight embarrassment and deep affection. He shook his head, a sheepish grin playing on his own lips. "Something like that," he admitted, grabbing a glass and filling it with cold orange juice from the pitcher on the table. "I, uh, I have a date with Lana today."
The announcement changed the very atmosphere in the room. Martha's face broke into a radiant, full-blown smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She abandoned her spatula on the griddle and came over, pulling him into a quick, tight hug that smelled of flour and vanilla. "Oh, honey, that's wonderful! You two are going to have the best time."
Jonathan gave a firm, approving nod, his eyes holding Robert's for a meaningful second. "You remember who you are and where you're from," he said, his voice low and steady. It wasn't a warning, but a reminder of his foundation, his anchor. The pride in his eyes was plain to see.
Even Clark's teasing demeanor shifted. His grin softened into a look of genuine, brotherly support. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he said, the old cliché given new life by his obvious sincerity.
"With the saintly example you've set?" Robert retorted smoothly, taking a sip of his juice. "That gives me a dangerously wide berth, Clark."
A short, sharp bark of laughter escaped Jonathan, who quickly tried to disguise it as a cough behind his newspaper. Martha swatted at Robert with a dish towel, her eyes laughing. "Behave, you."
Finishing his juice, Robert placed the glass in the sink. "I'll be back by evening," he said.
"We'll be here," Martha said. "Have a wonderful time."
"Good luck, son," Jonathan added, his voice gruff with affection.
With a final wave, Robert stepped out through the screen door, its familiar slap-shut sound a period at the end of the sentence of his home life. The morning air was clean and cool, filled with the dusty, sweet smell of sun-warmed gravel and blooming clover. The walk to Lana's house was one he'd taken a hundred times, but today every detail seemed amplified, rendered in high definition. The way the light caught the dewdrops on a spiderweb, the sound of a single crow cawing in the distance, the feel of the cool, packed earth under his shoes.
As he turned the corner onto her street, his heart performed a slow, heavy roll in his chest. There she was.
She was standing under the sprawling oak tree in front of The Talon, a figure of such poignant beauty it almost hurt to look at her. The morning breeze played with the ends of the delicate silk scarf tied around her neck and teased the hem of her flowing, knee-length skirt. She wore a simple top in a soft, watercolor blend of lavender and blue that made her eyes seem like vast, stormy pools. The outfit was innocent, yet it clung to her in a way that outlined the gentle curve of her breasts and the slim line of her waist, a devastating combination of grace and budding sensuality. She was, quite simply, breathtaking.
Lana's POV
Lana's nerves were a live wire, sparking under her skin. She had changed her outfit three times, the floor of her room a testament to her indecision. Was the skirt too much? The scarf too pretentious? What if he thought she was trying too hard?
And then she saw him.
He came around the corner with that easy, ground-eating stride that was uniquely his, all contained power and quiet confidence. The morning sun caught the silver in his hair, turning it to polished steel. His black t-shirt, simple as it was, seemed to cling to every ridge and plane of his torso, hinting at the formidable strength he usually kept leashed. He looked more than good; he looked real. Solid. Like an anchor in the whirlwind of her anxieties.
He reached her, and his eyes—those incredible, impossible eyes that sometimes swirled with flecks of gold—swept over her, from the scarf at her neck to the sandals on her feet. The appreciation in his gaze was so open, so genuine, it stole the air from her lungs.
"Wow, Lana," he said, his voice low and warm, a sound that vibrated right through her. "You look... incredible."
A blush ignited in her cheeks, a hot, tell-tale flush that spread down her neck. She dropped her gaze to the sidewalk, suddenly fascinated by a crack in the cement. "You look really nice too, Robert," she managed to whisper, immediately cringing internally. Nice? He looks like he stepped out of a magazine and you call him 'nice'?
He didn't seem to mind. He chuckled, a soft, rich sound that eased the tightness in her chest. He then performed a gesture that was both charmingly old-fashioned and utterly playful: he offered her his elbow with a slight, formal bow.
"Well, m'lady," he said, his tone dancing with amusement. "Our adventure awaits. Shall we find our chariot?"
The gesture broke the last of her tension. A genuine giggle escaped her, and she slipped her arm through his, feeling the solid, unyielding muscle beneath the soft cotton of his sleeve. "We shall," she replied, her voice finally steady.
He hailed a taxi with a raised hand, and it pulled over with a soft squeak of brakes. He opened the door for her, his hand a gentle pressure on the small of her back as she slid across the worn vinyl seat. Then he was beside her, his presence filling the small space.
"Metropolis, please," Robert told the driver.
As the car pulled away from the curb, Lana watched the familiar, comforting sights of Smallville—the hardware store, the post office, the long, white fence of the Kent farm—slide past the window, blurring into a streak of green and gold. Ahead of them, the highway stretched out, a ribbon of asphalt leading toward the distant, gleaming spires of a city she'd only ever seen on TV. She glanced at Robert from under her lashes. He was looking out his own window, a small, quiet smile on his face.
In that moment, nestled in the back of a slightly musty taxi, with the whole day stretching out before them like an unwritten book, Lana felt a surge of pure, unadulterated joy. This was really happening.
Robert turned his head and caught her looking. His smile widened, and he reached over, his fingers finding and lacing through hers on the seat between them. His hand was warm, his grip sure.
"Ready?" he asked, his eyes holding hers.
Lana squeezed his hand, her blush returning, but this time it was accompanied by a smile that felt like it would split her face in two. "Ready."
And as the taxi carried them toward the skyline of Metropolis, the world outside seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of them, the gentle thrum of the engine, and the infinite, thrilling possibilities of a perfect day.
[i thing in novel most important things is display each other emotion and i want to know. how i am doing with character interaction i am trying to giving my best ]
[give me some stone :) ]