"The Wayne family are set to attend the charity screening of the movie The Mark of Zorro, this Monday night at the Monarch Theatre. This will be one more public event for our beloved Dr. Thomas Wayne, who is running for Mayor of Gotham. He'll be present with his wife Martha and his eight-year-old son—some people are already calling him the 'Prince of Gotham,' young Bruce Wayne. The rerun of this old movie is for a charity hoping to ease Gotham's—"
I froze when I heard that broadcast on the radio.
The Waynes were famous—one of the richest families in the country, known as great philanthropists. They had even appeared on television multiple times, known for throwing money into hospitals, schools, charities. They were practically celebrities, in short, they were famous enough that even people in Smallville knew their name.
And me? I had a special interest in them.
Not because their son was my age.
Not because his mom just so happened to share the same name as mine.
But because that kid—Bruce Wayne—was destined to become Batman.
Batman—someone synonymous with DC itself. Despite being only human, he could stand toe-to-toe with not just me but even the other members of the Justice League. The one mortal among gods. And still, one of the most important of us all. His presence in the future wasn't optional—it was critical.
I mean, the number of times Batman has saved the Earth across comics, shows, timelines… it's ridiculous. A world without Superman is dark. But even the thought of a world without Batman felt like a doomed world. He's the shadow balancing the light. If I would one day be called the light of this world, then he would be its darkness. And both were needed if the world was going to be saved.
And even if others were not as much of a fan of Batman as me, they would still agree with this statement: the DC universe needed Batman just as much as it needed Superman.
But why was I giving so much thought to a man wearing a Bat costume? Because I was in a very serious dilemma.
"To save or not to save," I muttered to myself while plucking weeds from the front lawn.
My mind was plagued by this question. This wasn't like Barry's mother's murder—an event I had no way of pinpointing and no realistic chance of preventing. This was different. A single radio message had just handed me everything I needed: the time, the place, the people.
In most versions of canon, Thomas and Martha Wayne are killed by a random thug—often a pickpocket named Joe Chill—after leaving The Mark of Zorro halfway through. June 26… that date repeats more often than not as their death date.
And Gotham isn't even that far from here. Even their killer is just an ordinary human.
All of that made it so easy to imagine running there and saving them.
So why was I hesitating?
Because if I saved Thomas and Martha Wayne… I might be killing Batman.
A Bruce Wayne who grew up with a normal, loving childhood would never drown in the shadows. He wouldn't be driven to the extremes that forged him into the ultimate peak of humanity. By saving his parents, I might be robbing the world of Batman—and maybe robbing it of its chance to be saved.
"Sigh… why does a kid like me have to decide something so drastic?" I muttered. But I already knew the answer. Because one day, I would be… Superman.
Still, I wished someone could just tell me the right choice. I didn't want to ruin my second chance at life by making the wrong call.
It wasn't like I could sit down and ask anyone for advice—
"Clark, baby, what are you doing out here?"
I turned. My mom stood there in a simple shirt and jeans, smiling at me. The sun caught in her blonde hair, making it glow.
My loving mother. She looked so beautiful in that moment… Martha. The same name as Bruce's mother.
I swallowed. I was blessed beyond measure in this life—a caring family, a second chance, the powers of Superman, and the knowledge of what was to come. Could I really stand by and let another eight-year-old boy's world be shattered?
After feeling the warmth of family, I couldn't even imagine losing it. And I knew—if I asked the future Batman whether I should save his parents, he would tell me to do it without hesitation.
Seriously if I couldn't even save a child's parents… how could I ever call myself Superman?
"What's wrong, dear?" Martha asked, coming closer and patting my hair.
"Nothing… just had something annoying me for a while. But you made everything clear for me, Mom," I said, smiling as I hugged her, finally feeling relieved.
"That's good then," she answered with a happy smile.
Yeah… the loss of Batman? I will make up for it myself. Surely my meta-knowledge will be more than enough to fill that gap… right?
And soon, it was June 26—the supposed night.
I packed an extra set of clothes, a pair of shoes, some of my saved pocket money, and a bottle of water into my school bag. It was the only bag I owned.
Honestly, I didn't need any of this, but it felt better to prepare at least something. I even took my mom's red scarf—it was her only one, but I needed something to cover my face.
I lied to my parents, saying I was going to Lana's house and might stay the night. Lana promised she would back me up if Mom called, though in exchange I would have to actually stay over at her place one night next week. Which was a fair trade.
When Lana asked what I was going to do, I told her I was going on a treasure hunt and might not be back until late—or even morning. Lame excuse, but she was eight, still believed in Santa, so it wasn't that hard to sell.
Though, considering Santa is real in the DC universe, maybe she is smarter than I give her credit for…
Gotham was about 600 miles from here. Close, considering what I could do. If I took it easy, I would get there in about an hour. Problem was, I couldn't fly yet. That meant running—and running meant I had to make sure no one saw me. That would slow me down.
I packed some protein bars, another water bottle, and even borrowed a map from the drawer. No Google Maps in this time, so I had to learn how to read one the old-fashioned way.
I knew the murder usually went down sometime between 10 and 11. But since this world's canon was already jumbled, I couldn't take chances. So I left right after dinner, around 8.
I didn't know the exact alley—"Crime Alley" hadn't earned its name yet—but I knew it was near the Monarch Theatre, one of Gotham's most famous spots. I had even found its address online. Worst case, if I still couldn't pinpoint it, I could just ask someone… or use my x-ray vision. One way or another, I would manage.
When I was fully ready, I put my x-ray and speed to full use, cutting across off-roads and forests so no one—whether satellite, stray driver, or some random metahuman—caught sight of me.
The route was already mapped out in my head, every turn memorized. Tonight I was dressed in loose black clothes, easy to melt into the dark. To most people, I would just be a faint blur.
The moon was just a waning crescent, leaving the night only half-lit. Perfect cover.
I stayed parallel to the highways, keeping enough distance to avoid headlights but close enough not to lose my bearings. The scarf still felt weird around my face, though. I swear I have some rare condition called "I am Superman, I don't wear masks." Still, I reminded myself that I have to do the bare minimum to keep my identity hidden. If I really wanted to protect my family, anonymity mattered.
As Gotham drew closer, my chest buzzed with excitement. Seeing it in person felt surreal. Even after metahumans became a thing in this world, part of me hoped that this version of Gotham might turn out to be… better.
But everyone I had ever asked only had bad things to say about the city. It was still branded one of the most dangerous cities to live in. Every news broadcast seemed to have another horror story coming out related to it—murders, riots, corruption, take your pick.
Even on the budding superhero forums online, the consensus was the same: no hero wants to go to Gotham.
And yet, I was eager. Because Gotham wasn't just a city—it was a crucible. The birthplace of legends. Villains so infamous, so iconic, they practically defined the DC universe itself.
I got there in about an hour, according to the cheap plastic watch strapped to my wrist. 8:55 p.m. Not bad, considering I had stopped midway to sit on a rock, eat a protein bar, and sip some water. That still left me plenty of time.
From the outskirts, Gotham looked… fine. Not the garbage-strewn nightmare I half-expected, but definitely not Kansas either. No warmth. No open skies. Just crowded blocks of concrete and steel, industrial shadows stacked on top of each other. It felt… heavy. Like the city carried its own curse.
I was still admiring the jagged old architecture when I heard it.
A muffled scream.
I froze. My x-ray vision snapped in that direction—an alley cloaked in shadows. A thin man was pinning a woman to the ground. One hand clamped over her mouth. The other holding a knife… poised as he started tearing at her clothes.
In that split second, anger surged through me, and before I even realized it, I was already moving—slipping into a side alley, climbing up walls, and leaping across rooftops. In less than ten seconds I was above the scene, looking down.
I dropped into the alley with almost no sound. The silence impressed me, but I couldn't dwell on it.
I kept repeating to myself—control your strength. One slip and I would kill him. Still, the woman's terrified face made me question if holding back was even the right choice.
And yeah, my x-ray picked up more than I wanted—caught sight of her full body—looks like my standards have risen as I was left unimpressed. But still she was clearly out of this lowlife's league.
I struck the man in the neck, sharp and fast. Not too hard, but fast enough that she wouldn't see me. He collapsed instantly. But I could still hear his heartbeat—good.
Honestly? I had no idea what the hell would happen hitting someone there. I mean, yeah, I know the nerves and spine connect with the brain—but I am no martial artist. But I am still Superman … boy ... kid. Whatever. It worked, that's what matters.
Keeping my momentum, I bolted out of the alley and scrambled back onto a rooftop. The woman might have seen a blur, maybe a shadow, but nothing more.
I kept my eyes on the alley, debating if I should tip off the cops somehow. Then I heard muffled sobs. The woman shoved the bastard off, staggered to her feet, and slammed her heel into his groin with such force that I winced. Then she took off crying.
Guess Gotham's women know how to handle themselves.
While I was still mulling over my first one-sided fight, another voice cut through the streets—a woman yelling about a thief.
Looking over, I saw some dude sprinting with a purse in his hand, a well-dressed woman screaming behind him.
I grabbed a pebble from the roof, hopped ahead of the thief, and flicked it at his legs—controlling the strength so I didn't literally put a hole in him. He tripped and crashed face-first into the ground.
But before I could pat myself on the back, some random guy nearby scooped up the purse and ran off like he was the real thief all along.
I sighed, picking up another pebble.
Yeah. This was Gotham.