Chapter Text
He remembered the kiss he and the human called Bruce had shared last night, and then the memory of darkness flooded back—the explosion of his home world, the destruction of Krypton, the loss of his parents, his family, his people…Everything gone. Yet amidst the devastation, there was a spark of hope: the human called Bruce Wayne, his sons, and the man they called Alfred. Perhaps…his life on this planet called Earth was only beginning.
The light spilled across the room, soft and golden, something he had never felt on Krypton. Slowly, he opened his deep blue eyes, taking in the ceiling above and the unfamiliar room around him. Memories of last night still lingered as he stretched, marveling at the sudden warmth of Earth’s morning sun. For the first time, he truly felt the difference in the planet’s energy—a living, breathing world unlike his own. He wondered…could this place be called home?
Kal—El’s gaze drifted to the window. His muscles were still sore, remnants of his crash, yet he rose and approached the glass, staring at the view of Wayne Manor’s grounds.
The sunlight stretched across the garden, spilling golden patterns across the flowers and grass. For a moment, it reminded him faintly of Krypton—before everything changed. He bowed his head low, honoring the memory of his lost home.
Suddenly, a sound broke his reverie—a knock at the door.
He jolted, instinctively adopting a stance to defend himself.
“Kal—El?”
His tension melted at the sound of the familiar voice. He smiled softly. It was the man who had saved him, welcomed him, and whose presence had stirred something unexpected in him—the father of the four boys who had already begun teaching him about this strange, human world.
“Come…in…” he said, his voice soft, slow. Kal—El was still learning the human languages of this planet, finding them strange, alien, and far different from the familiar cadence of Krypton. But he would learn. He had to, since now he is going to stay here.
The door opened slowly. Bruce stepped inside, neatly dressed in one of the strange garments humans called clothes.
“Uhh…good morning, Kal—El,” he said, closing the door behind him. His eyes met Kal—El’s, and a faint warmth lingered between them from last night. “Did you sleep well?”
Kal—El blinked and nodded, forming the words carefully in his developing Earth tongue. “Yes…it was nice, Bruce. Thank you,” he said slowly.
Bruce nodded, walking further into the room. “You look well rested, too. And…I hope you found the bed comfortable. So…” he hesitated slightly, remembering last night, “…are you hungry? Alfred already has breakfast ready.”
Kal—El’s brow furrowed at the unfamiliar word. “Breakfast…? What is breakfast?”
Bruce smiled, kneeling slightly to meet Kal—El’s gaze. “Breakfast is the morning meal we humans eat to start the day after we wake up.”
Kal—El tilted his head, curiosity shining. “Do all humans eat this breakfast every day?”
“Only when we wake up in the morning, Kal—El,” Bruce said gently.
Kal—El’s eyes widened. “Humans must eat all the time? Even at this time? And the meal called breakfast…does it always occur in the morning, Bruce?”
Bruce chuckled softly. “Yes, generally in the morning. Then we eat lunch at noon, and dinner at night—like last night, after we found you in your ship. Humans eat to stay full, energized, and healthy.”
Kal—El considered this, nodding slowly. “So...you eat dinner first, then lunch, then night...dinner again?”
Bruce laughed lightly. “No, Kal—El. We eat breakfast in the morning, lunch at noon, and dinner at night. Sometimes, if schedules change...humans might eat breakfast at night.”
Kal—El’s eyes sparkled with the faintest hint of mischief and wonder. “Then…should it be called…Night-fast?”
Bruce froze for a moment, blinking, and then let out a low chuckle. “This is really going to be a new start for you, Kal—El.”
Wearing his only clothing—the Kryptonian suit bearing his family’s crest upon his chest—he walked beside Bruce, who was dressed in the strange garments of Earth. Together, they moved through the long halls and down the grand staircase toward the destination Bruce was leading him to. Kal—El observed the manor with quiet suspicion and awe.
It was vastly different from the towering crystalline skyscrapers of Krypton. The air itself smelled alive—rich with soil, aged wood, and something unmistakably organic. So different. Yet Bruce’s home—this “manor,” as he had identified it—was immense and elegant in its own way. Not forged from luminous stone and advanced alloys like Krypton, but grand...proud...enduring.
As they approached a large room, Kal—El heard familiar voices. The young Earthlings and the butler Earthling from last night. His lips twitched upward into a faint smile.
Bruce stepped inside, and Kal—El followed, then the Kryptonian halted at the view before him. The room held a long, polished dark auburn table, gleaming beneath a grand crystal structure suspended from the ceiling. Sunlight struck it, scattering prisms of silver and gold across the walls.
Kal—El stilled.
The crystals shimmered brilliantly, casting fractured beams of light over his silver bracers and the House of El crest on his chest. His eyes lifted, locked onto the suspended structure as though he were witnessing a fragment of Rao’s sacred radiance itself.
For a fleeting second, it felt like Krypton.
Like the glowing spires of Kandor. Like the luminous halls of his father’s study.
“Kal—El.”
He blinked, returning to the present. Bruce and the four young Earthlings were watching him. Alfred stood nearby, dignified as ever.
“You alright?” Bruce asked.
Kal—El glanced from them back to the radiant object above the table. Plates were arranged neatly below it, and scents—warm, rich, unfamiliar—rose from the food resting upon them. Yet his gaze remained fixed on the crystal structure.
“What is that?” he asked, pointing upward.
Bruce turned slightly. “Oh, that's the chandelier, Kal—El.”
“Chan…de…lier…” he repeated carefully, studying the word as if it were sacred text. “What does it do? Does it gather the sun’s energy and distribute it? Is it how humans regain strength...like when you devour the meal called ‘breakfast’?”
There was genuine enchantment in his voice.
On Krypton, beneath a red sun, his people had not drawn power from their star as he now did from Earth’s yellow sun. But here—under Sol’s radiation—his cells thrummed with unfamiliar vitality. Strength. Speed. Heightened senses. It was as though every photon was fuel.
Perhaps humans were the same.
Dick smiled. “Oh, no. It’s just for decoration. And light. Mostly decoration.”
“Only…decoration?” Kal—El asked, brow furrowing. “Surely such a construct serves a greater purpose.”
Alfred stepped forward gently. “It provides illumination in the dark and adds aesthetic charm to the room, Mister Kal—El, sir.”
Kal—El studied it once more. “It is beautiful...and reminds me of home. My home.”
Silence lingered before his attention shifted to the table itself.
“What is all that?” he asked.
Jason glanced at the plates. “Food. Earth food.”
Steam curled upward from the dishes. Wrapped napkins rested beside empty plates. Five chairs were occupied. One remained open. It was like Krypton, almost.
Bruce cleared his throat softly. “Uh…you hungry, Kal—El?”
Kal—El looked between the food, the smiling boys, and Alfred’s polite expression.
Damian gestured toward the empty chair. “Yeah, Mister Kal—El. Come and sit.”
Tim nodded enthusiastically. “It’s good. Alfred made it!”
Bruce stepped to the chair and pulled it back. “Come and sit, Kal—El.”
Kal—El assessed the distance from where he stood to the chair. It was only a few strides—but to him, distance was relative.
He moved.
A sharp gust of displaced air spiraled through the dining room. The curtains snapped, and the boys, as Alfred gasped at the sharp gust, Bruce stumbled backward and landed on the floor.
The chair scraped loudly—but its intended occupant was already seated.
Kal—El blinked down at Bruce. “Bruce, are you alright?” he asked immediately, rising halfway from his seat to help him up.
Alfred and the boys reacted instantly. “Good heavens, Master Bruce!”
“Dad,” Dick called out.
“You okay?” Jason snapped.
“Dad?” Tim asked, alarmed.
“You alright, Dad?” Damian asked.
Bruce chuckled nervously as he stood. “I’m fine. I’m fine. But Kal—El…maybe walk to the table a bit slower.”
Kal—El frowned slightly. “Do accept my apologies, Bruce. It appeared far, and I did not wish for you to wait.”
The others stared at him. He had crossed more than ten human steps in less than a blink.
Silence and then—
Jason’s eyes widened. “Wow, Mister Kal—El, that was faster than a...than a...than a speeding bullet or something!”
“How did you move so fast?!” Dick demanded.
“You were at the door and then just—boom!” Damian said, impressed. “That was so cool!”
Kal—El regarded them with a faint smirk, amused by their excitement. “Well…it is one of my kind’s abilities,” he replied calmly.
“Abilities?” Bruce echoed. “You have powers? What kind?”
Kal—El considered his words. “Under the radiation of Sol—the yellow sun of this system—our cells absorb and metabolize its energy. It strengthens us. Enhances us. Speed...strength…resilience. Survival. There are others I have yet to fully understand.”
“Sol?” Alfred asked.
“The solar light. Your sun,” Kal—El explained. “As long as it burns, its energy sustains me.”
Alfred inhaled slowly. “Fascinating. Amazingly fascinating.”
“Wow!” Dick breathed.
“Cool!” Jason added.
“Awesome!” Tim exclaimed.
“Unbearably wicked,” Damian muttered with approval.
Bruce smiled faintly. “Well, you certainly demonstrated one of them.”
Suddenly, Kal—El stepped forward and took Bruce gently by the hand.
Bruce barely had time to react before Kal—El closed the small distance between them—this time more controlled, but still impossibly swift. Their faces were inches apart. Bruce felt his pulse hammering.
Kal—El’s deep blue eyes met his.
“Your core is pounding very fast, Bruce,” he said softly, a gentle smile forming.
Bruce cleared his throat quickly. “Uh—the food is getting cold, everyone. Come on, boys. Eat before you’re late.”
The boys hurried to their seats.
Kal—El returned to his chair, this time deliberately slow.
Alfred disappeared briefly and returned carrying a large plate. At its center rested a neatly folded napkin. He set it before Kal—El with refined precision.
“I do hope you enjoy the food, Sir Kal—El.”
Kal—El looked at the plate, then at the earthling family surrounding him, while he kept feeling the warmth of the sun still lingered against his skin.
He stared at the others, seeing them begin eating, and noticed how Damian took a cereal box, poured it into his bowl, and then poured a glass of white liquid. He watched the others devour what was called Earth food.
Flat, liquid cakes of some sort, strips of meat, and brownish loaves—all unfamiliar. He stared at his own plate, still empty.
The food was unlike anything from Krypton. The humans enjoyed it, while he hesitated, simply observing.
Tim drank his glass of milk, and he, his brothers, their father, and Alfred all stared at their alien guest.
“What's wrong, Mr. Kal—El?”
He looked at the boy, then at the food, then at the empty plate. “I...I...”
Bruce replied calmly, “It is good, Kal—El. You'll like it. Try it.”
Kal—El stared at him and at the others, his stomach vibrating slightly. But this was not Kryptonian food. How would it taste? What would happen? Was it good? Was it safe?
He narrowed his eyes, glaring back at the Earthlings, suspicious and guarded. “What is this food you devour? What does it taste like? And what is its origin?”
Bruce, Alfred, and the boys looked at him and began.
“That is pancakes,” Bruce said, pointing his fork at the stacked flat cakes. “They are made of flour and sugar and eggs and powder—baking powder—with salt, finished with oil and butter.” His voice remained calm and patient, addressing the cautious Kryptonian.
“And these are eggs,” Dick added. “Scrambled. They are just made of eggs, and they are good.”
Tim nodded and pointed to the glass jug of milk. “That is a bowl of oatmeal. It is made out of just oats, water, and milk.”
Kal—El stared at them and at the food, absorbing the information about the two items.
Jason then moved the plate of strips of meat. “And this is bacon. It is made of pork.”
Damian finished the introductions. “And these are toast and waffles. The waffles are really like pancakes, and the toast is bread toasted in a toaster with butter. You can even put peanut butter and jelly on it. The cereal is also made from wheat.”
How odd. The food was indeed different from Krypton, and the way they explained its origins fascinated him. He stared at the empty plate again, the food in front of him so different from anything he knew.
He wasn’t sure what to taste first.
“At least try one of them, Kal—El. You may perhaps like it,” Bruce said.
He looked at Bruce, felt the gazes of the boys and Alfred upon him, still standing tall behind the empty plate. Slowly, he made his move. He unwrapped the napkin, revealing two utensils—one with three claws, the other shaped like a dagger.
He carefully imitated their motions: lifting the pancakes with the fork, scooping the scrambled eggs with the spoon, settling them on his plate.
Holding both utensils in his large hands, he cut a piece of the flat cake and slowly put it in his mouth. He chewed grimly and carefully, then paused.
It was warm, fresh, and cooked to perfection. Divine. Rich.
He cut another piece, placed it in his mouth, and carefully scooped up some eggs. Then he asked, softly, “Are you going to eat some of that...what you identify as waffles?”
After a few seconds, Kal—El ignored the stares as he let his plate be filled with fresh breakfast food, devouring it greedily. He felt his strength slowly returning as he stuffed his mouth with more of the tasty Earth fare—different, yet undeniably delicious.
All he could remember were the endless times he had been cast into the void of space, the aching mockery of hunger and weakness gnawing at him. Each bite now was a rebellion against that past, a visceral reclaiming of what he had endured.
He devoured with a sense of victory, each mouthful a silent declaration: he had survived.
How odd indeed, and how…tasty the Earth food they had was. Not bad, and it was honestly both like—and even more tasty than—his homeland cuisine back on Krypton.
How odd, but tasty though. He remembered the tastes of solar-enhanced rations and food that were gardened by the Sol back on Krypton—the crystalline fruits and vegetables—but this food was also tasty, like Krypton food, and even more flavorful.
Kal—El sat on his seat as he patiently watched Alfred gather all the empty plates and bowls, while the boys stretched their muscles, relaxed after their stable morning meal, and were already ready to start the day.
He stared at them and at Bruce, who was getting himself ready. Alfred appeared back from the other room, and Kal—El stared at the boys and Bruce as they began to move, and he soon followed.
“Where are you going?” he asked, trailing behind.
Bruce turned. “I need to take the boys to school. They are heading to school.”
Kal—El’s eyes widened at the word. “Sc…hool?” he said slowly. “What is… school?”
“It is a prison,” Jason groaned, mumbling as he slung on his backpack.
“Yeah. A deathtrap and a prison,” Tim added, groaning.
“A prison and deathtrap that seems to have no end,” Dick agreed.
“A boring prison,” Damian said with a pout.
Bruce and Alfred grinned at them, and the butler gently straightened Jason’s brown leather jacket. “Yes, but at least it brings peace, even from Sir Jason’s endless music of what is called heavy rock.”
Jason smirked. “Knew you would like it, Alfie.”
Kal—El blinked. Prison? They are going to prison, and they are accepting it. But they are young boys. Innocent boys. Back on Krypton, the Grand Ruling Council decided the fate of criminals, and even minor crimes could land one in the Phantom Zone—a place that would shatter a soul’s mind into pieces. These boys, though...they should have at least been warned.
Kal—El barked a glance at their father. “Bruce...don’t you think of having a conversation before sending your sons to satisfy the punishments for the crimes they committed? Surely there is a way to reconsider before sending them away to face the consequences of their actions.”
Bruce and the others stared at him, confused. “What?” he asked, then realization hit. “Oh, Kal—El, you think they are really going to prison? No, school isn’t really a prison.”
Jason faked a cough. “Liar. Yes, it is.”
Bruce shot his adopted son a smirk. “School may feel like a prison to them and others their age, yes. But really, it is a place to learn and gain knowledge, to prepare for the future when they graduate,” he explained.
“So…school is a punishment for them to learn knowledge, and they must suffer the consequences of their crimes to learn? That is the punishment?”
Bruce shook his head patiently. “No. No. School is a place where kids go to learn different things, how to do them, and they go every day except for holidays or when they are ill. After they finish, they graduate, leave school, and use the skills they learned to do more—maybe even go to college to learn bigger things.”
Kal—El stared at him. Kryptonians only learned combat, survival, and skills to sustain Krypton, defend their world, and serve their clans.
He turned his gaze to the boys.
“Yeah, Mister Kal—El, it’s just a boring place where we have to learn boring stuff,” Dick said, waving his hand.
“Yeah, well, the food is a whole other story,” Tim grinned. “It’s kind of like prison food sometimes—but not that bad.”
“Way boring. Just boring. Nothing that involves the law,” Damian said. “Except our big brother—he drove his motorcycle through the teachers’ parking lot.”
Jason grinned. “I was finding myself in the air. Feeling the wind rush through me and being free.”
Bruce glared. “But you weren’t feeling it when I went to the principal’s office.”
Jason gave a mischievous smirk, scratching the back of his head, while his brothers grinned. Bruce kept his gaze on him.
Alfred politely added, “And of course, you are still grounded from your dear motorcycle. At least now we have you back from spending all your time cleaning it and staring at it in the garage.”
Jason gave a forced chuckle.
Kal—El stared at them. These humans are...really strange.