The duration of sunlight in Kansas State makes the spring winds here even warmer. The wheat fields ripple like the footsteps of the Spring Goddess under the breeze.
On the country trail, a light summer rain brings with it a damp scent of fresh grass. Walk a few steps on the muddy trail and the silhouette of a small town can be seen on the horizon.
Smallville is situated in the southern part of Kansas State. Even though it's an obscure small town, indeed, so obscure the most eye-catching event was about two decades ago. A meteorite fell here, sparking a not-so-surprising discussion.
More than two decades have passed, with most people having forgotten about the incident, as well as the fervor that once existed in the town's only bar, where they animatedly discussed whether there were any alien inscriptions on the meteorite.
Yet every time they recall that period, a proud smile can be seen on every Smallville resident's face. It was a moment when this ordinary town captured everyone's attention.
The breeze fluttered the floral patterned curtains. A pair of slightly rough hands bound the curtains with equally rough hemp rope. A middle-aged man with brown hair turned around and said, "… Yes, I was there that night. You wouldn't believe how close I was to that meteor. It flew past just grazing the tip of my nose."
"After the reporters arrived, they asked first if I was injured. They even thought I could've been alive if such a big stone had fallen on my head. I'd say those reporters were exaggerating a bit…"
"Hey, Joe, enough! Don't forget, our dear little Clark is now a proud reporter himself. You'll hurt his feelings," a gentle woman's voice floated from the nearby kitchen.
A figure busied herself in the kitchen, with beautifully curled chestnut hair. She wore a red checkered apron around her waist, stirring the bubbling soup in the pot with a long spoon.
The aroma wafted from the kitchen, causing Clark, seated on the couch, to straighten up every few dozen seconds and crane his neck to look over.
After about the twentieth such motion, Bruce beside him finally could not stand it. He grabbed Clark's arm and said, "Your gaze won't make the pea soup cook any faster. Can you sit quietly for a while?"
"I'm just guessing what Martha might use to make it tasty. Before meals, I would like to bet with Little Bruce, but he guesses better than me, as if Martha is his mother... Ah, of course, she is now, he is a part of our family," Clark added while stretching his neck to look backwards.
"Yes, we all love Little Bruce. I originally wanted to have a hunting dog, but Martha is a bit allergic to animal fur. Fortunately, Little Bruce doesn't shed hair much ... Do you know, Clark, when I heard your friend's name was the same as Little Bruce's, I was quite surprised. Is Little Bruce named after him?"
"Of course not, Dad, Little Bruce has his own mind. I think cats are more opinionated than dogs," Clark turned his head in another direction, looking back at the man who was binding the curtains.
"Don't worry, Bruce, you know how he is," Clark lowered his voice, "Jonathan sometimes makes a joke out of season. His sense of humor can be strange, I hope you won't mind."
Bruce pressed a finger against his temple and heaved a slight sigh. He never expected that upon arriving at Clark's hometown, Smallville, in Kansas, the first problem he would need to solve would be dealing with the fact that another Bruce had arrived before him and even taken his name.
"Meow,"
A low and hoarse meow echoed from the corner of the stairs. As Bruce turned his head, he saw a black cat, yawning lazily while hanging its front paws on the carpet. Its black claws scratched earnestly against the carpet, then it kicked its hind legs, its fur went electric for a moment before returning to normal.
"Oh, no! Little Bruce, stop scratching the carpet! Naughty kitty!" Clark's father, Jonathan, rushed up and picked up the Bat Cat from the floor. With a swift movement, Bat Cat slid onto his shoulder, jumped around his neck, and landed on the other shoulder.
Indeed, Jonathan was dancing, extending his arm, blindly grabbing around his own head. Clark, looking a little helpless, got up and caught Bat Cat's neck, holding it in his arms.
"How long is he intending to stay here?" Bat Cat's eye slits starred warily at Bruce, sniffing a few times before he said in a low voice to Clark, "He smells of blood, he must have been up to no good."
"Don't say that, Little Bruce, he's hurt, and his mental state is quite a concern. He came here for recuperation and it's estimated he'll stay for a few months until his mental status improves," Clark said.
"Stop fooling yourself, his mental health isn't going to improve," Bat Cat said, grinding his claw on Clark's arm for a moment and bringing out his teeth, "otherwise he wouldn't be Batman."
"Well, he isn't Batman, he's Bruce Wayne, my friend, a mentally ill person who needs care and attention. Remember, Little Bruce, you have to bear with him. We have to care for the weak and vulnerable," Clark reminded.