The alien pod was just a dull, gray shell now. No more weird colors or pulsing lights—just a cold, silent lump tucked away from the world.
Thomas Wayne didn't trust it, but he wasn't scared of it either. The pod had brought them a little boy, not a monster. That made it feel almost… sacred, in a strange way. But he knew nobody was ready for questions they couldn't answer, so he hid it. Quietly, he had it taken apart and shipped back to Gotham, piece by piece, mixed in with Wayne Foundation supplies. Only Thomas, Martha, and Alfred knew where it ended up: deep under Wayne Manor, in an old stone vault that hadn't been touched in ages. Not even Lucius Fox had access.
Before they sealed it away, Martha covered the pod with a plain cloth. It was just a memory now—one they weren't ready to face again.
Ojaga never asked about the pod. He didn't try to find it, didn't crawl toward the cellar, didn't even seem curious. It was like he'd closed that chapter the moment they left the woods. He was here now, and that was enough for him.
He grew fast, but not in a way that felt unnatural—just strong and steady. He had sharp eyes, always watching, always quiet. He crawled faster than any kid Thomas had ever seen, pulling himself up on furniture and sometimes leaping little distances, like his body already knew how to handle gravity. But he didn't walk yet. He was just… at the edge of normal.
What really caught everyone's attention was how he talked—or didn't. Ojaga didn't cry or shout. He murmured odd little words, half-formed and strange, like nothing anyone had ever heard. Sometimes he'd hum, almost like he was chanting. Other times, he'd sit in silence, then suddenly say a word—usually near the fire, or in the dark, or around stone.
One night, Martha was warming a bottle by the fire when Ojaga crawled up, pointed at the flames, and whispered something soft but heavy. She didn't know the word, but she understood what he meant. He wasn't copying—he was naming it.
Even without full sentences, it was clear there was thought behind everything he did. He watched Bruce breathe, listened for Alfred's footsteps, studied the way shadows moved in the hall. He didn't just react—he absorbed.
Three months after Ojaga came into their lives, Bruce was born.
It was a cold, rainy morning. Martha went into labor, and Thomas stayed by her side the whole time. When Bruce finally arrived—pink and crying—Martha held him close, tears in her eyes. Ojaga, not quite two, was there too. He didn't look curious, just calm.
He walked over, put his hand gently on Bruce's forehead, and stared for a long moment. Bruce stopped crying.
Ojaga went back to his corner, tail curled around his waist, and sat quietly.
The Manor felt different after that. Now there were two cribs in the nursery: one for the future heir of Gotham, and one for a boy with no past, just a pod buried in silence.
Ojaga's needs were different. He ate a lot—way more than Bruce—and never seemed satisfied. He liked grilled meat, ignored sweets, and chewed on bones with slow focus. Alfred, a little weirded out at first, got used to keeping the kitchen stocked with ribs and lamb. It kept Ojaga happy.
Unlike Bruce, Ojaga didn't make much noise. But he did hum—low, deep sounds, almost like a heartbeat. He did it near the fireplace or the old stone walls. It wasn't music. It was like he was remembering a sound from somewhere else.
One afternoon, Thomas left a glass sphere on the study table—a toy for reflexes. Bruce was asleep nearby. Ojaga crawled over, put his palm on the sphere, and pushed it. It rolled to the edge, about to fall, but Ojaga's hand shot out and caught it. No hesitation, no wasted motion. Just pure instinct. He put it back exactly where it was, then crawled away.
That night, Thomas wrote in his journal. Ojaga wasn't aging too fast, but he was learning through silence. He moved like someone who'd already done this before. Like a little warrior with nowhere to fight.
Weeks passed. Spring turned to early summer. Bruce grew into a playful, curious baby. Ojaga was still and quiet, but often watched the sunrise from the window. He liked the light, but not too much of it. He'd sit by the glass, tail flicking, soaking it in.
Martha started to see a bond between the boys. Ojaga wasn't loud or playful, but he watched over Bruce. When Bruce cried at night, Ojaga would sometimes reach through the crib bars and hold his hand, calming him down.
One evening, Martha found them holding hands across their cribs. Ojaga whispered something she didn't understand, then looked up and smiled—a real smile, just for her.
"Maa!"
That was the first time she saw real joy in him.