"I must apologise in advance, sir," Alfred said in his measured, cultured accent. "Madam Martha and young Master Bruce will require a little time, they are attending the other guests. Might I trouble you to wait here until they are finished?"
"I don't mind," I said, shaking my head.
"Your patience is appreciated." Alfred inclined his head with the faintest of smiles. "While you wait, would you care for tea or coffee? Perhaps a light refreshment?"
"Tea would be nice," I said.
"Very good, sir." He gave a small bow and turned smoothly towards the door.
"They're really loaded…" I muttered under my breath once he was gone.
The room I had been shown into was almost as big as our entire house, and judging by the décor and the number of couches and chairs, it must be only a guest receiving room. With nothing to do, I let my X-ray vision wander through the mansion.
"How many of our farms could fit inside this place?" I muttered in disbelief. The mansion wasn't just massive and extravagant — the grounds around it stretched out like their own country.
It felt as if the Waynes had carved a whole slice out of Gotham City and claimed it as their own. The sheer cost and manpower it must take to manage an estate like this made my head spin. For a moment I even had the absurd thought that the Wayne property could hold all of Smallville's population and still have room left over.
Even with my memory of two lifetimes, I still felt like a farm boy gawking at the world's wealth for the first time. The sofa under me probably cost more than the Kent family could afford in a lifetime. For a brief moment I even caught myself thinking I could pocket some trinket and solve our family's money problems for years — but of course I didn't.
"I know as someone with real superpowers I shouldn't think like this," I sighed, "but Batman's line about money being his superpower feels a little too true right now."
Especially knowing that this mansion and its opulence were probably only the tip of the iceberg of the Wayne fortune.
But on the other hand, even with such immense and absurd wealth, Thomas Wayne still ended up dead. Phrases like "Death doesn't discriminate" or "You can't take money with you when you are gone" came to mind.
Yet one thought hit harder than the rest: in my old world, being rich — even obscenely rich — might have been enough to protect yourself and your family. But here, in a world as dangerous as DC's, only true power could give you a fighting chance to protect what you cared about.
Just as I was firming my resolve, Alfred returned, pushing a gleaming trolley. With graceful efficiency, he began arranging biscuits and pastries on the low table in front of me — each plate with a different kind, half of which I had never even seen in either of my lives.
"Would you prefer some milk in your tea, sir?" Alfred asked, politely.
"Yes," I said, trying my best to go with the flow.
He followed with a quiet cascade of questions about blends, steeping time, and temperature. I briefly regretted not just asking for water. Still, his hands moved with practiced skill, and soon a perfectly prepared cup of tea appeared before me.
Afterwards he inquired discreetly about my dietary preferences for lunch. I wasn't about to complain — free food was free food — so I told him I would eat anything.
"I must return to Madam Martha, sir," Alfred said at last, giving a small bow. "The other staff are engaged, but should you require anything, please press this buzzer and I will come at once."
"Alright," I nodded.
With that, he slipped out of the room, back toward the funeral still unfolding outside.
I shifted my scarf aside a little bit so I could eat. The tea was crisp and refreshing, the biscuits as delicious as they looked. Sampling a bit of everything, I couldn't help but think how much Selina would love this too. Stealing a few back for her would be weird… right?
Although my thoughts were idling, my senses never stopped working. From the vast underground chambers beneath the mansion — the space which would have been the future Batcave — to the clusters of high-profile guests outside, like the famous Queen Family from Star city, nothing escaped my notice.
Still I kept scanning the funeral crowd, searching for anything out of place — a concealed weapon, an odd movement, or even a flicker of guilt. But everyone either appeared politely somber or just bored. Only a handful looked genuinely saddened by Thomas Wayne's death. Then again, the rich and powerful were experts at wearing masks in public. If there were any tells, they were buried deep.
I had even examined Thomas Wayne's body with my vision and hearing, confirming he was truly gone. Of course, in a world like DC's, death was never always permanent — but people coming back from the dead was rarely a good thing.
After an hour of waiting, the plate of biscuits in front of me had been cleared, along with the kettle of tea. I had realized long ago that if I really wanted to, I could eat away an absurd amount of food without a problem — it had to be some quirk of my Kryptonian physiology.
Outside, the funeral was winding down. I saw Gordon murmur words of encouragement to Martha and Bruce before stepping away. The last to leave was a middle-aged woman with a girl about my age, trying to comfort Bruce. He barely reacted, his eyes hollow.
"So Rachel Dawes exists here too," I muttered under my breath, intrigued as I listened to their conversation.
Just then, Alfred reappeared, his posture immaculate as ever.
"If you would come with me, sir," he said softly. "Madam Martha and young Master Bruce will receive you shortly."
He led me into another extravagant room — the dining hall, with a table long enough to seat an entire board of directors. After settling me, he gave a courteous bow.
"Please wait here, sir. The Madam and young Master will be with you momentarily," he said, retreating once more.
I had already noticed the mansion was practically empty; all the servants had cleared out. It was just Alfred now, handling everything.
I didn't have to wait long before the double doors opened again. Walking inside was Martha Wayne with her son, Bruce, at her side.
Bruce wore a black suit similar to the one from that night, but his eyes were still empty, the same hollow look he'd carried through the entire funeral. It stung a little seeing him like this — such a stark contrast to the smile he had shown while hugging his parents that night.
Martha Wayne — the widow — was dressed in a classy black dress that dipped low at the chest and hugged her every sexy curve perfectly. The expensive jewelry sparkled under the soft lighting. Honestly? She somehow looked way hotter now than she had that night in the alley.
On the surface she looked perfectly composed, but her eyes gave her away — there was a depth of sadness there that she couldn't hide.
I stood as they approached. Bruce's expression flickered with surprise when he saw me; clearly, his mother hadn't told him I would be here.
"I apologize for keeping you waiting," Martha said first, her smile polite but tired. "And I want to thank you for saving us that night." She placed a hand over her heart, looking at me earnestly.
Through my x-ray vision I couldn't help but see exactly how her breasts were pressing against her hand — and yeah, that was way too damn sexy for a moment like this. I shut that off quickly, afraid that I would start getting hard.
"How did you know it was me?" I asked, trying to deepen my voice slightly.
"Alfred, our butler, saw you standing beneath a tree on one of the exterior cameras," she replied. "He told me you matched the description of our mystery rescuer. I had told him to be on the lookout, hoping you might attend… the funeral. But I wasn't completely sure it was really you." She met my eyes. "And now, looking at you, I know. You're definitely the one who stopped the robber that night."
"How?" I asked, still puzzled. I remembered how quickly it had all happened — catching the bullet, taking down the robber, the darkness of that alley. Maybe it was the red scarf giving me away?
"It's your eyes," she said softly, glancing at Bruce and brushing a hand through his hair. "They're the same blue as my son's. He got them from me. Even that night, it was one of the first things I noticed." A faint smile crossed her face.
She wasn't wrong. They both did have eyes the same color as mine; I had noticed it myself. What surprised me more was how calm she seemed now, even after she knew who I was and what I could do. I had expected fear, maybe even distrust — I had caught a bullet in midair and beaten a man senseless in front of them. Yet she and Bruce seemed almost… unbothered.
Maybe in a world full of metahumans and vigilantes, this sort of thing just wasn't as shocking. Or maybe it was because I had saved their lives.
Bruce, for his part, just stared at me silently. I couldn't read what was going through his head.
"I don't know how to thank you," Martha said finally. "For now, I would be honored if you would join us for lunch." Her expression softened. "But truly — if there's any way I can repay you, from money to assistance of any kind, please don't hesitate to say so."
"No… that's not why I'm here," I said, shaking my head with a sigh. "I—I just wanted to say that I'm deeply sorry… for failing to save him." My eyes dropped to the floor.
"Why are you apologizing?" Martha asked, clearly baffled. "It was the criminal's fault — and he has already been caught by the police."
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bruce looking down, fists tight at his sides — frustration, anger, grief; I couldn't tell.
And yes, I knew that the Gotham police had caught the shooter the very next day. He was now sitting in a jail cell, awaiting trial.
"There's something I have to confess to your family," I said quietly.
I told them a slightly altered version of the truth: how I had heard about the gang war likely to erupt that night but had let it be, and how — after saving them — I had quickly left Gotham.
"If I had stopped them before… or even stayed to make sure your family got home safe, he might not have died. I share some responsibility for his death," I said, my head still bowed.
"No," Martha said firmly, stepping towards me. "I will not let the person who saved us feel guilty for what he couldn't do. You couldn't have known this would happen. You already saved our lives once. This was the criminal's fault and his alone. And to us, you'll always be the one who saved the Wayne family." Her blue eyes shimmered with pain but her voice never faltered.
"…Thank you," I murmured, a wry smile tugging at my lips. Some of the weight I had been carrying eased.
I had been afraid that the young Bruce would blame me, but he stayed silent, unreadable.
"I know you don't want to reveal your identity," Martha said softly, "but could you at least give us a name?" Even Bruce's eyes lifted to meet mine, full of quiet anticipation.
I hesitated, studying the two of them. Was this the right choice? My mind flickered back to the moment I had held back before — and how Thomas Wayne had ended up dead the next day. Holding back hadn't saved him then; it hadn't really changed the outcome.
This time, I wouldn't hesitate. I wouldn't do things halfway.
"My name is Clark Kent," I said at last, slowly removing my scarf, revealing my face to them fully.
***
[CKLance has redeemed an Extra Chapter this week]