The woods were unnaturally silent.
Tall pine trees stood frozen in the windless night, and the early spring mist clung to the ground like an omen. A crescent moon hovered over the black sky, casting a silver veil over the remote forests of Veluwezoom in the Netherlands—far from cities, politics, and Gotham's noise.
At the edge of a temporary campsite, a small fire crackled softly.
Thomas and Martha Wayne sat beside it, wrapped in thick coats. This retreat was a rare escape before their first child's arrival—a quiet, private journey. Gotham was always demanding, but here, far from the crime and weight of legacy, the world felt still. Thomas had chosen the location for its famous rare flora and the international medical conference he'd attended earlier that week, but mostly for Martha, who craved peace.
Martha exhaled, resting a hand on her rounded belly. "He kicked again."
Thomas smiled and passed her a thermos. "That's our Bruce. Already throwing punches."
She chuckled, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "He's going to come out swinging like his father."
Their laughter barely faded before the air changed.
It was sudden—the way all fate is. A pulse, a tremor, as if the forest itself held its breath.
Then, it came.
A piercing sound—like metal shearing through glass—ripped across the sky above them. The stars blurred. A streak of blazing green light cut across the heavens, spiraling downward at impossible speed. It collided with the earth less than a mile away with a deafening roar. The forest shook. Trees bent. The fire flickered violently.
For a moment, there was only silence again. Then birds erupted in chaos from the treetops.
Thomas stood first, a surge of adrenaline and scientific curiosity warring with caution. "That wasn't a meteor."
"No… no plane crash either," Martha whispered, already rising. "Did you see how low it was?"
Thomas grabbed a flashlight and slung his bag over his shoulder, hesitating. "Stay behind me. If it's dangerous, we leave immediately."
They moved quickly through the forest trail, flashlight beams slicing through the mist. The deeper they went, the stronger the scent of scorched earth became. Bark was blackened. The undergrowth looked singed, as if something massive had swept through it at impossible speed.
Branches cracked underfoot. Smoke curled up through the pines. Then, through a tangle of broken trees and disturbed moss, they found the crater.
At its center, something had carved a perfect impact point—like a meteor, but cleaner, more deliberate. The ground steamed. The wind carried a faint, unnatural hum.
And in the middle of it all… a pod.
It was oval, almost like an egg, cracked open at the top. Its outer surface shimmered in dark hues—not steel, not stone—something else entirely. It pulsed faintly, as if still alive.
Symbols were burned into its side—etched deeply, glowing faintly in ember-like red. They were not human. Not Latin. Not science. Something older.
But the pod wasn't the only thing in the crater.
Just beside it, lying still on a patch of flattened grass and moss, was a baby.
An infant, perhaps a year old or less. Naked. Bare-skinned. Unharmed.
His thick black hair curled wildly like a flame. His breathing was soft, steady. His limbs curled slightly in a sleeping pose.
And there was something else. A tail—long, furred, gently twitching—wrapped around his waist like a living scarf.
Martha gasped and dropped to her knees. "He's breathing."
Thomas knelt beside her, stunned. "Not a scratch on him. The pod… must've protected him." He hesitated, mind racing through possibilities—alien, metahuman, experiment? No known science could explain this. He felt a surge of fear, but also awe. This was beyond anything he'd seen, even in Gotham.
Martha gently touched the boy's skin—warm. He stirred slightly, but didn't cry. His eyes opened slowly.
And they saw it.
Eyes like burning coals, deep and black with a hidden flicker of gold, stared up at them.
No fear. No tears.
Only a kind of ancient calm—a silent calculation no infant should possess.
"He's not normal," Thomas murmured, his scientist's mind already cataloging the impossibilities. "No human child survives that impact."
Martha wrapped her coat around the child and held him close. "Then maybe he's not meant to be. But he's still a child. Alone." Her voice broke slightly. "I won't leave him here."
Thomas hesitated, torn between the unknown and Martha's fierce compassion. "This isn't something we can explain. Or report. But… he's alive. And I can't just walk away either."
He looked at her—the quiet defiance in her eyes—and nodded. "Then he's ours. For now, we protect him."
That night, the pod cooled. The symbols faded. The air turned still again.
Back at their camp, the Waynes cleaned the boy gently with warm water. He never cried. He never made a sound. But he watched. Every movement, every light, every voice—he seemed to study it all.
Thomas, unable to resist, took blood samples in secret—not for authorities, but for himself. The biology was… impossible. The cells didn't age the way human ones did. And the energy levels—he had no instruments to even measure them. He resolved to study the pod and the boy further once they returned to Gotham, already thinking of what equipment he'd need.
Sometime before dawn, when the fire had dimmed and Thomas drifted to sleep, Martha held Ojaga against her chest. He was small—impossibly quiet—and yet there was a weight to him, as if destiny itself pressed against his skin.
His tail twitched once, then uncoiled.
His small hand clenched.
And for just a moment, a soft golden glow rose around his body—like the shimmer of heat from a dying forge.
It faded before the wind even noticed.