Chapter 3: Of Capes, Laws, and Library Cards
At first glance, Metropolis was impressive.
Clean steel buildings stretched toward the sky like polished knives. Bright billboards promised the newest tech, cars zipped by without so much as a sputter, and crowds of people moved in synchronized chaos—like a thousand ants pretending not to panic.
To someone like Boruto Uzumaki, the sight of so many lights, screens, and humming machines sent a very specific thought through his brain:
Thank God, there's Wi-Fi.
Not that he said it aloud, of course. That would've ruined the whole stoic-shinobi-who-doesn't-care-about-video-games image he cultivated.
But still. Even adventurers needed downtime.
Invisible to the crowd—cloaked in chakra, their presence masked so precisely that not even trained ninja would've sensed them—the Uzumaki family strolled through the outskirts of Metropolis, weaving between people like ghosts.
They didn't float or flicker. They walked.
Because this was a test.
And Naruto Uzumaki, world savior turned family man, was still every bit the cunning mentor. No training wheels. No pre-chewed answers. Just the city, the people, and a challenge hidden in the crowd.
"Old man, are you sure this isn't just some picnic?" Boruto drawled as they passed a hot dog vendor arguing with a robot cart. "Because I don't see how this place could possibly be dangerous."
Naruto didn't turn around. He didn't even blink.
"Things," he said, "are not always what they seem."
That was all.
And somehow, it was enough.
Metropolis felt… strange.
That was the word Himawari couldn't shake. Not dangerous. Not scary. Just… strange.
The buildings were beautiful. The people moved quickly, but not with joy. Their faces were tight. Their laughter brief. And every now and then, someone would glance up—just for a moment—like they felt something watching from the sky.
Like a predator in the clouds.
Himawari didn't like that part.
But she liked holding her father's hand. That part was warm, and steady, and made her feel like everything was going to be okay.
Kawaki, meanwhile, was doing calculations in his head.
The people were weak. Fragile. One blow from a mid-level shinobi could take out twenty of them.
Their "weapons" were equally pitiful. Most carried none at all. The police wore armor that would crack under chakra-enhanced blows, and even the "tough guys" in suits didn't carry anything more advanced than projectile guns.
We've already got jutsu-launchers back home. This place is primitive.
But Kawaki wasn't arrogant.
He knew power could be deceptive.
Naruto had taught him that the greatest threats never needed to show off. They hid—until it was too late.
Naruto walked calmly, observing everything. Every scent, every vibration in the air. He didn't need to see to feel the stress running under the surface of the city like a sick river.
People were exhausted. Overstimulated. Quietly furious.
Their problems weren't visible—no fireballs or rogue ninja—but Naruto recognized the signs of a society on edge.
It was the same expression he used to see on villagers before a rebellion.
Right before they snapped.
"Father," Himawari said softly, still clutching his hand, "why not assign us a task?"
Naruto paused beneath a flickering streetlight. He looked at her, then at the two boys behind him.
People passing by barely noticed them—even cloaked, Naruto's commanding aura drew the eye. Like a man both king and ghost.
"Fine," he said, his eyes narrowing with something between amusement and challenge. "Go gather information. And this world's currency."
Boruto blinked. "How?"
Naruto shrugged. "However you want."
Kawaki raised an eyebrow. "Together?"
"No."
Three pairs of eyes locked onto his. No more questions.
Then, without a word, the children disappeared—scattering in different directions.
Mission accepted.
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Metropolis was a city of glass, noise, and unspoken tension. The kind of place where people smiled with their mouths but not their eyes, and cars honked even when standing still.
Naruto Uzumaki walked invisibly through the streets like a ghost who didn't quite belong—because, quite frankly, he didn't.
He wasn't alone.
Trailing behind him at a respectful distance were three chakra-cloaked clones—each tailing one of his children with near-paranoid dedication. A father's love, after all, wasn't measured in bedtime stories or ramen bills alone. Sometimes, it was in the exact number of invisible super-ninjas shadowing your kids to keep them from being mugged or abducted by time-traveling cyborgs.
You know. Just in case.
As he walked, Naruto gently released tendrils of sensory chakra into the crowd—light, barely a tickle, but enough to pull the strings of memory from the people he passed. Just surface thoughts. Current impressions. Fragments of knowledge.
He didn't dig deep. He didn't need to.
Within an hour, he had learned the language, economic structure, political divisions, social norms (they really did frown upon walking on rooftops), and most interestingly of all—
The world had superheroes.
Names floated through his mind like curious jutsu scrolls.
Superman.
The alien with a boy scout's heart. Practically an immortal walking among men.
Batman.
A brooding nocturnal creature with the intellect of a scholar and the paranoia of an ANBU captain who'd had too much coffee.
The Flash.
Fast enough to outpace even Naruto's clones on a good day.
Lex Luthor.
Business tycoon, criminal mastermind, professional sore loser, and somehow still not in prison.
Naruto frowned at that one.
He slipped into the grand library at Centennial Park—unseen, undetected, utterly casual—and began browsing, pretending to be interested in "tourist architecture" as his clones completed their errands.
With his sensory threads snaking out, he gently copied records, digital files, and news clippings from across the network. His chakra left no trace; even the firewalls sighed open politely under his touch.
In ten minutes, Naruto Uzumaki became a full citizen of the United States.
In fifteen, the ownership records of the ghost town were updated—with the Uzumaki family registered as lawful proprietors.
In twenty, he was legally recognized as a quiet veteran who preferred rural life and had excellent tax history.
"Fake names are for criminals," he muttered as he tucked an ID into his coat.
But even as he moved through data with ease, a thought tugged at his mind:
Why hasn't Superman dealt with Lex Luthor yet?
He'd read enough now to know that Luthor had his hands in everything from arms deals to metahuman experimentation. There were rumors—unproven, yes—but troubling ones, of underground labs, alien black markets, and worse.
And Superman?
He watched. He warned. He waited.
"A naive child," Naruto thought as he exited the library.
Or is there more?
He thought of the law—of the invisible net that bound this world together. A net made of courts, papers, due process… and loopholes.
Back in his own world, Naruto had once punched immortals in the face for less. He had no patience for bureaucracy when lives were at stake.
But here? Things weren't that simple.
Superman could level the planet—but didn't.
Was it restraint?
Or fear?
Or wisdom?
------------------------------
Boruto:
To the untrained eye, the young blond boy crouched dramatically atop a skyscraper in Metropolis looked like a hero in the making. Wind tousled his hair, his cloak fluttered at just the right angle, and the setting sun painted gold over his intense, brooding expression.
In reality?
Boruto Uzumaki was losing his mind.
"Why… WHY did I not realize this sooner?!" Boruto groaned, bonking his forehead gently—then less gently—against the building's edge. "I don't know the language!"
Back home, he had assumed things would work out. Because they always did.
Naruto was always ten steps ahead. Even now, the air around him translated the world. When he was nearby, Boruto understood every sign, every shout, every advertisement offering suspiciously cheap cheeseburgers.
Now that Naruto was gone?
It was all noise.
Syllables mashed together like rice balls dropped down a flight of stairs.
"Should I go back and ask the old man?"
The thought skittered across his brain like a rebellious raccoon.
But then Boruto clenched his fists, squared his jaw, and shook it off.
"No. That would be humiliating."
There was Uzumaki pride to consider. And possibly an embarrassing lecture about preparation and discipline and studying basics before interdimensional travel.
Boruto had enough trouble living in Naruto's shadow. He wasn't going to go crawling back just because he couldn't read a bus schedule.
So he stood, scanning the city below with sharp, narrowing eyes.
He was still invisible, thanks to Naruto's fancy sealing tech. Not full sensory erasure like the old man himself—of course not, heaven forbid Boruto be allowed access to the good ninja tech—but good enough to keep him hidden from nosy satellites and spandexed vigilantes.
"Alright," he muttered, kneeling and rubbing his temples. "I can't read the signs, I can't ask questions, and I definitely can't use Google Translate because I don't have a phone plan."
"But I can still kick people."
A pause.
Then a grin.
"I'll just find some bad guys. Take their stuff. Classic shinobi work."
Because if Boruto couldn't understand the language of this world, he'd rely on one language that transcended all borders:
The language of punching muggers in the face.
He leapt off the rooftop and hit the next building silently, cloak trailing behind like a dramatic stage curtain.
Down below, the city churned—people moved in tides, unaware of the boy surfing rooftops above them.
He scanned alleyways, side streets, rooftops, and eventually… there.
A black van. Tinted windows. Parked too long in a loading zone. A man in a greasy jacket handing over something suspiciously shiny to someone in a hoodie.
It didn't take a detective to know shady business when he saw it.
Boruto smirked.
"Jackpot."
As he prepared to move in, he reminded himself of the mission.
"Don't kill. Don't cause a scene. Don't explode anything," he whispered, ticking them off with his fingers. "Just knock 'em out. Take the cash. Learn the currency. Bonus points if I can get a phone."
Boruto activated his chakra and dropped into the alley without a sound.
Two minutes later, five men were unconscious. One had been gently tossed into a dumpster. The others were stuck together with chakra-infused duct tape and a single very confused alley cat.
Boruto examined the loot. Some strange paper rectangles. A phone. A weird black card with a chip in it.
"Hmm… okay. These are probably dollars. Or coupons. I'll figure it out."
He took a photo of a billboard with prices. Compared symbols. Matched the faces on the bills to public statues nearby.
"Hah! Take that, education system!"
The phone, thankfully, had face ID disabled. The man must've been a true optimist.
With some fiddling and a good ol' ninja override, Boruto opened the maps, browser, and messaging apps.
"Nice. Now this is a real mission."
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Himawari:
If Boruto had chosen the rooftop route and the headstrong method of "violence-first, questions-later," Himawari Uzumaki had done the opposite.
She walked among the people of Metropolis with the calm grace of a princess-in-training… or, in her case, a deadly little shinobi with perfect posture and a sunshine smile.
The truth was, Hima was a masterpiece.
Equal parts scout, noblewoman, and subtle infiltrator, she had been raised not only by the ever-kind Hinata, but also under the teachings of Aunt Hanabi, who wielded grace like a sword, and Sai, who smiled while lying better than any actor.
Also, she had grown up right next to Inojin. Which meant she'd picked up all sorts of useful tricks like how to forge a signature, fake a personality, and extract information using only wide eyes and a confused "Excuse me, mister?"
(And also how to un-flatteringly sketch her brother mid-burger bite, but that was neither here nor there.)
So when she separated from her brothers and went invisible (or mostly-invisible), Hima didn't panic.
She breathed.
She adjusted the seals on her clothes to keep her heat signature from leaking, smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress, and carefully slipped among the crowd.
Her footsteps were silent. Her chakra low. And her mind?
Busy.
Because unlike Boruto, Himawari hadn't forgotten the language issue. She just didn't care.
She didn't have time to learn English by the book, so she used a shortcut: the Memory Absorption Jutsu.
A B-rank technique—not particularly flashy, but notoriously tricky. Use it carelessly, and you might end up thinking you were an 87-year-old grandmother named Mildred who loved soup and loathed Wi-Fi.
Hima was cautious.
She carefully picked her targets—those with ordinary, uncomplicated lives. Office workers, street vendors, a particularly cheerful man in a hot dog costume handing out coupons.
One memory at a time. Surface knowledge only. No emotional residue.
And in just under an hour, Himawari Uzumaki was fluent in English, up to date on local customs, and very intrigued by a place called "Disneyland."
"This world isn't very spiritually advanced," she thought with a small frown, "but it has promise. And churros."
Her destination was a nearby internet café—a neon-lit haven full of humming machines and questionable snacks.
She needed data. Human memory was unreliable, filtered through ego and opinion. The internet, while chaotic and prone to conspiracy theories, at least gave her access to raw volume.
But she didn't get far.
Just as she reached the corner of the street, Himawari heard it.
Screams.
The whine of tires. A roar of an engine. The thunderous crunch of something metal against sidewalk.
Himawari's heart skipped.
An armored truck had gone rogue. It barreled down the street like a drunken rhino—flattening signs, knocking over food carts, and scattering pedestrians like startled pigeons.
Back home, Hima would've launched into action immediately. No second thoughts. No hesitation.
But here?
"We're not supposed to make a scene," she reminded herself aloud, teeth clenched.
Her fists shook. Her instincts screamed.
And the truck kept going.
Then she breathed.
Made a choice.
And disappeared into a blur.
From the shadows of a nearby alley, twelve hand signs flashed.
Not lazy. Not fast. But perfectly executed.
The chakra flowed as directed—no more, no less—dancing through her pathways like a well-trained dog.
A tremor spread across the concrete.
And just before the truck reached a bus stop full of terrified civilians—
A massive hand made of solid earth burst from the road and snatched the vehicle like a mother catching her toddler mid-sprint.
The truck groaned. Tilted.
Stopped.
Silence.
Gasps echoed across the street. People froze in awe and confusion.
No one had seen the caster.
And by the time they looked around, Himawari was already gone, brushing invisible dirt from her skirt and adjusting the ribbon in her hair.
"Still too slow," she mumbled, frowning at her chakra circulation. "I lost precision on the third sign. Mama would've done better…"
She made it to the internet café moments later, face composed, breath steady. A shinobi through and through.
But inside?
Her heart still thundered with joy.
Her first rescue. Her first real mission.
And she hadn't even broken the no-reveal rule… well, mostly.
Back at the alley, Naruto's clone stood in the shadows—smiling faintly.
"So much for laying low."
But there was no irritation in his voice.
Just pride.
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Superman:
The first thing Superman noticed was the absence.
No signature. No noise. No lingering trace of energy.
Just a handprint in the concrete. Large. Pristine. Definitely not part of city maintenance.
Clark hovered midair above the wreckage of the armored truck, cape fluttering like a crimson curtain in the soft breeze, scanning every molecule, every shoeprint, every flicker of warmth or thought or intention.
Nothing.
Whoever had done this was either a master of concealment…
…or something else entirely.
"A magician?" he thought, brow furrowed. Magic users always gave him a headache—literally and metaphorically.
"Or maybe another alien."
That was the fun part of being Superman: every new incident came with the delightful mystery of "Is it dangerous? Will it explode? Should I punch it, or offer it coffee?"
And this particular mystery had left behind zero answers. No cameras had caught the perpetrator. Civilians were all pointing in different directions.
One old man claimed it was a "ghost nun." A child said it was a "tree person." Someone even swore it was Batman, which was always a safe guess when things got weird.
Clark sighed.
It had been just over three years since he started donning the suit and calling himself Superman. That meant three years of saving cats, rescuing satellites, and quietly figuring out how to balance his day job, his cape job, and his very human desire to actually understand people.
He had learned a lot.
And the most important lesson?
"You can't assume anything—especially when things are quiet."
Because quiet didn't mean safe.
It meant coiled tension.
It meant someone out there knew exactly how to disappear.
"Lois'll know something."
That was always the second most important rule in Clark Kent's playbook: when in doubt, ask Lois.
She knew more about strange happenings, political corruption, and long-shot alien sightings than most government agencies—and she'd definitely know if something weird had been bubbling under the surface.
He turned toward the Daily Planet building, ready to follow up on the incident—when—
BOOM.
An explosion erupted several blocks away, a brilliant flower of flame and smoke blooming into the sky.
Clark didn't hesitate.
He was gone in a blur of red and blue.
As he soared toward the smoke, a dozen questions rushed through his mind:
Was this a distraction?
Were the two events connected?
Could it be the same person testing their powers… or testing him?
And most importantly:
"Is this someone who needs help, or someone I'll need to stop?"
Because Superman didn't want to fight.
Not if he could help it.
He wanted to believe in people. Even the strange ones. Even the powerful ones.
But Metropolis didn't give him that luxury every day.