Pain.
It was the first thing he knew. His skull throbbed as though a hammer had struck it. His chest tightened, his blood felt heavy, and his body was cold enough to make him shiver despite the blanket wrapped around him.
That was Martins' first sensation upon waking from the coma.
A few strained blinks forced his vision to focus. The world around him was drowned in night. Tall, spindly trees clawed at the sky like spear tips, their shadows cast long and cruel under the flicker of flames nearby.
A forest fire.
The crimson glow of burning earth painted the darkness like Hell itself. The smell of charred wood filled his nose.
Where am I? Why the hell am I here?
Martins tried to sit up, his small body twitching with effort. His mind spun with fragments of memory—flashes of a street fight, fists colliding, him taking control of the battle—then nothing but a wall of black. And now this? A forest in flames?
He parted his lips to call for help, but what came out wasn't a man's voice.
"Wah… wah… wah!"
The cry startled him. He froze, then lowered his gaze.
Tiny arms. Soft legs. A frail body wrapped in white cloth. His hands—no, they weren't his hands anymore. They were small, clumsy, almost fragile.
He was a baby.
Martins' heart skipped. No… no way. Did I—transmigrate?
The idea was absurd. Him? A man who had grown up in an orphanage, who carried nothing but scars of abandonment and bitterness? A man who learned to sneer at life and play dirty just to survive? Why would the universe give him a second chance?
Yet here he was.
But shock soon gave way to cold logic. The forest was burning. He was weak, vulnerable, and utterly alone. If he stayed here, he would die—whether frozen, starved, or devoured by wild beasts. Survival was priority.
He gritted his teeth, or at least, he tried to. The instincts of the man he once was screamed through the infant body. He twisted, rolled, forcing himself to move even though each motion left him gasping.
Through blurred vision, he caught sight of something odd: a crater several meters away. White mist drifted from it, but it didn't smell of smoke. It wasn't the residue of burning trees—it was something stranger.
Martins narrowed his eyes. Not a fire pit… a crash site.
He clawed at the ground with stubby fingers, dragging himself closer. The earth was damp from recent rain, making his slow descent survivable. Each bump against roots and rocks bruised his fragile body, but he didn't stop.
At last, he reached the edge of the crater. His breath caught.
Nestled within was no meteorite.
It was a ship.
A small, black space capsule, still hissing steam, carved with strange alien markings.
Martins' pulse quickened. A spaceship crash…?
His suspicion confirmed itself the moment the hatch hissed open with a sharp click.
Through the smoke, he saw another baby. Blue eyes. Pale skin. Wrapped in alien cloth. The child blinked curiously at him, unafraid.
Martins' tiny jaw slackened. He didn't need to be a comic book nerd to recognize the scene before him.
No… no way. This is… Superman's pod?
His heart thundered. If that baby was Superman, then the Kents would soon arrive. That meant salvation. That meant… opportunity.
For a moment, he just stared at the other infant. This wasn't just survival anymore. This was destiny knocking on his door.
His lips curled in the faintest of smiles.
---
The roar of an old pickup truck cut through the night. Its headlights carved a path along the dirt road until it reached the fiery clearing.
Inside, Jonathan Kent gripped the wheel tightly. His brow furrowed beneath his hat. "Damn fire's too close to the farm," he muttered.
Martha, sitting in the passenger seat, touched his arm. "It's not that big, Jonathan. Maybe lightning struck, or—"
He shook his head. "No storm tonight. I'm worried someone set it."
The truck rolled to a stop. Both of them stepped out, boots crunching over scorched earth. What they saw froze them in place.
A crater. A capsule. And inside—
"Jonathan," Martha gasped, covering her mouth, "it's a… a baby!"
Jonathan didn't hesitate. He slid down the slope and reached into the pod, gently lifting the child wrapped in alien cloth. The boy blinked up at him with impossibly bright blue eyes.
Martha's gaze wandered—and she nearly stumbled.
"Another one!" she cried, spotting a baby lying nearby, wrapped in a blanket. She knelt, scooping him into her arms. His expression was almost… sharp, far too aware for a newborn.
"Jonathan… two babies. Is this—could this be a gift from God?"
Jonathan adjusted the child in his arms, his face stern. "Or a test."
As the Kents shared a silent glance, the baby in Martha's arms—Martins—felt a surge within his mind.
Ding.
A voice rang clear in his head.
"Host has activated the Homelander Template. Loading now…"
Martins' lips curled into the faintest smirk. Homelander, huh? The world's strongest fraud, cruel and adored, feared and worshiped. Perfect.
His blue eyes glimmered as Martha cradled him closer.
Very good. If this is the DC Universe… then the game just became interesting.
---