The halls of Smallville High buzzed like a busy bazaar, filled with the chatter of students, the sharp slam of lockers, and the faint smell of waxed floors and overcooked cafeteria food. Laughter and footsteps echoed, a chaotic rhythm that Kara Zor-El moved through with ease. Her Kryptonian senses filtered out the noise—giggling cliques, shouted plans for the weekend—like tuning out a radio's static. At 15, she was a sophomore, tall and blonde, her blue eyes sharp but distant.
School bored her. Math, science, history—they were child's play compared to Kryptonian knowledge. She aced every test without trying, her mind far beyond the chalkboards and textbooks. But Martha's voice echoed in her head: "Live a normal life, sweetheart. Make friends." So, here she was, drifting through the crowd, her thoughts elsewhere—on Clark, on Krypton, on the weight she carried.
She rounded a corner and collided with someone. Hard.
The impact barely nudged Kara, her Kryptonian strength keeping her steady. The other girl wasn't so lucky. She hit the floor with a soft thud, a small grunt escaping her lips. "Oof," she muttered, rubbing her back with a wince.
Kara blinked, snapping out of her thoughts. "Are you okay?" she asked, extending a hand.
The girl took it, pulling herself up with a quick, graceful motion. "Yeah, my fault," she said, flashing a grin. "Guess I should watch where I'm going."
Kara studied her. She had fiery red hair, green eyes that sparkled with confidence, and an athletic build that suggested she could hold her own. There was a natural ease to her, like she belonged anywhere she stood. She dusted off her jeans and held out her hand. "Natasha. Natasha Romanoff. Just transferred here."
Kara shook it, her grip firm but cautious. "Kara Kent."
Natasha's eyes flickered with curiosity, a glint Kara didn't catch. "Kent, huh? Any relation to the Kents from the farm?"
Kara nodded, her expression neutral. "They're my adoptive parents."
Natasha's grin widened, warm but calculated. "Guess we'll be seeing more of each other."
Kara gave a small nod, unaware of the game that had just begun.
Three weeks earlier, in a dimly lit office deep within SHIELD's headquarters, Nick Fury sat behind a desk, his one good eye fixed on the young woman before him. The room was cold, the air heavy with the hum of monitors and the faint scent of coffee. A thick file lay open on the desk, its pages stamped with "CLASSIFIED."
Natasha Romanoff, 18, stood with her arms crossed, her red hair tied back, her expression unreadable. She was a prodigy—SHIELD's best, trained in espionage, combat, and deception. Fury tapped the file, his voice low. "She's different."
Natasha raised an eyebrow but stayed silent, waiting.
"We've watched her for years," Fury said, leaning forward. "Kara Kent. The girl who fell from the sky. After that stunt on the farm—scorching a field, energy spikes—she's not just some lost kid. She's dangerous."
Natasha's eyes flicked to the file, catching a photo of Kara: blonde, serious, standing in a Kansas field. "And my role?" she asked, her tone cool.
"Undercover," Fury said. "High school student, same grade. Get close. Earn her trust. Figure out what she is, what she can do."
A smirk tugged at Natasha's lips. "You want me to play best friend?"
"Exactly," Fury said, his gaze hard. "But if she's a threat…" He let the words hang, his expression darkening. "We'll handle it."
Natasha nodded, her mind already spinning. A new mission, a new target. She'd done harder jobs. This would be easy.
Weeks passed, and Natasha slid into Kara's life like a puzzle piece. It was almost too simple. She was charming, quick-witted, and sharp—everything Kara didn't know she needed in a friend. They bonded over gym class sparring, late-night talks about nothing and everything, and a shared eye-roll at high school drama. Natasha knew how to listen, how to nudge Kara into opening up without pushing too hard.
Kara brought her to the Kent farm, introducing her to Jonathan and Martha. Jonathan was wary, his farmer's instincts prickling at the new girl's easy smile. "You're from where, exactly?" he'd asked, his tone gruff.
"Moved around a lot," Natasha said smoothly, dodging with a grin. "Smallville's a nice change."
Martha, though, welcomed her with open arms, setting an extra plate at dinner and treating Natasha like family. Her warmth was genuine, her laughter filling the kitchen like a favorite song. "You're always welcome here, Natasha," she'd said, her green eyes kind.
Kara felt something shift. She'd always kept people at arm's length, her Kryptonian secrets a wall between her and the world. But with Natasha, that wall cracked. For the first time, she felt like she could trust someone outside her family. She laughed more, shared small stories—nothing about Krypton, but enough to feel human.
Clark, now five, watched it all from the sidelines, his bright blue eyes sharp with amusement. To the Kents, he was just a toddler—cute, mischievous, always toddling into trouble. But his mind was years ahead, and Natasha Romanoff? She was no mystery.
From the moment she stepped into the farmhouse, he saw through her. The way she moved—too precise, too controlled. The way her eyes scanned the room, cataloging exits and faces. The way her words were just a little too perfect. She screamed SHIELD, like a spy from one of his old comic books.
She was here for Kara, no question. Watching, probing, reporting back to whoever pulled her strings. Did Clark care? Not a bit. SHIELD could play their games, send their spies, build their files. As long as they stayed out of his way, they were just noise.
If anything, he found it funny. They thought they could control Kara, maybe even him. They thought they were in charge. Clark's lips twitched into a smirk, hidden behind his toddler facade. They had no idea what they were dealing with.
Clark leaned back in his chair at the kitchen table, his small hands wrapped around a juice cup. The farmhouse was quiet, the evening light spilling through the windows, painting the room in soft orange. Kara and Natasha were upstairs, laughing over some shared joke, their voices drifting down like a distant melody.
Martha bustled at the stove, the smell of her cooking—warm, hearty, like a festival feast—filling the air. Jonathan sat across from Clark, reading a newspaper, his brow furrowed at some local headline. It was a normal night, or as normal as it got for a Kryptonian kid with a spy in the house.
Clark sipped his juice, his eyes twinkling. Let SHIELD send more like Natasha. Women like her—smart, sharp, beautiful—were exactly the kind he'd deal with when he was older. For now, he was just a kid, playing his part, watching the pieces move.