plaid wearing alien boy

“K— Clark, PLEASE. I’m not a child anymore, and I can do this— whether you believe in me or not.”

Kara’s eyes flashed upwards in an angry glare towards her cousin… the last Son of El. A title that which, normally, would probably be a cause of some respect. Nope. Not with Kara — She’s the last Daughter of El. And the one who remembered Krypton — which was more than Kal-El could say.

“Why are you so determined to be against this?! I thought you’d be happy for me.” Kara added next, her tone disbelieving. This whole thing had started because Kara wanted to be a hero, just like Kal-El was. Superman.

She’d become Superwoman, or something.

(Whatever the people of National City named her, it didn’t matter nearly as much as if she could help them.)

And she could! She mastered her powers when she was only 18 for Rao’s sake. It wasn’t as if she was a child now. She was — well, physically, twenty two. Mentally, nearer to seventy.

Whatever, that didn’t matter. The only part of this that mattered was getting Kal-El to see sense. She wanted to do something with her life, much more than what she was doing now — waiting on Cat Grant was only going to be interesting for so long.

(THOUGH she knew there was a promotion coming her way soon. She could FEEL it.)

“Don’t you want me to be happy, Kal?” Now she was doing this on purpose; calling Clark his Kryptonian name. She knew it wasn’t a name he entirely cared for. That was a fact that had cut Kara to the core — To be Kryptonian and not want it?

She couldn’t imagine it.

It was funny how the role of worried older family member had flipped so quickly. Kara was supposed to be looking out for him, and now, one phantom zone later, here he was, attempting to keep her out of harms way and acting out the protective older sibling trope to a T. Hands travelled to his hips, but not in the iconic victory pose way, but that of a parent warning their child against doing something.

She’s right though, he should be happy for her. To see her embracing the inner hero he knew had always resided in her was wonderful, and the fact that she was so willing to help others without question was an incredibly admirable quality. However, despite all of their power, he also knew they weren’t completely untouchable, whether it be physically or emotionally, and that caused him a great deal of worry in regards to Kara putting herself out there. 

Deflating slightly, he maintained his posture, but his face no longer read disapproving and had turned into concerned understanding instead. All she was doing was following his footsteps, donning the status of hero, something which he had been associated with for years now; to stop her from doing the same would be a clear case of ‘the pot calling the kettle black’. Although, he could make sure she had seriously considered the full magnitude of her choice. 

If Mason didn’t currently have the upper half of her face covered by a black mask, Clark would have been able to tell that she was telling the truth about the violence that came with the vigilante lifestyle. He would’ve been able to spot the slight dent in her nose from it being broken more than once, or the short, pink scar that lay across the bridge of it. Then again, the half-blood had never been one to shy away from violence. Even in her younger years, she was quick to anger whenever teased or threatened, and was often send to the principal’s office for her scuffles on the playground. On the road at times, Mason had had no other choice than to use her fists (or the light that dwelled within them) to keep herself safe. Whether it was defending her winnings after swindling a group of bikers at poker, or instigating bar fights so she could slip away amidst the chaos, the faery had earned more than her fair share of scars and healed wounds over the years.

Clark’s reply to her brash statement got a soft laugh out of Mason, slim shoulders trembling as she chuckled. Of all the things he had gotten out of her thus far, admitting to violence wasn’t something she was worried about him quoting directly. A smirk tugged up one side of her mouth as Clark put away his notebook, his new line of questioning causing her pale blonde brows to raise. “Off the record, huh?” the half-blood teased, grateful that he hadn’t drawn attention to her short stature. The quickest way to set off Mason’s temper was to call her short. Looking up and down the alley to make sure they were still alone, she slowly raised both hands in front of her, elbows tucked in to her chest as she held Clark’s gaze.

Holding Clark’s gaze, bright, golden light began to fill the faery’s palms, slowly spreading out to her pale, slender fingers. “Strange like this?” Mason whispered, her entire body tense as she waited for his reaction, the yellow light reflecting brilliantly in her amber eyes.

Despite everything that he had seen, despite the fact that he was Superman, Clark was still surprised by the light which shone from her palms. There was something oddly captivating about it. Perhaps it was the golden colour that it emitted, maybe it was the way it complimented her eyes, but he found the whole spectacle quite beautiful. Behind her, the light illuminated the wall, causing shadows to dance and flicker off the brick. If he ever wanted to take up shadow puppetry, he now knew who he’d ask to join him. 

Do not throw your sister-in-law into the sun. Do not throw your sister-in-law into the sun. Do not throw your sister-in-law into the sun. Do not throw your sister-in-law into the sun. Do not throw your sister-in-law into the sun. Do not throw your sister-in-law into the sun. 

✉️  →  Kenzie to Superman

Dear Superman. 

My name is Kenzie and I write to Supergirl lots and lots - she told me you are her cousin and the 'S' means El Mayrah - which means strongertogether. Supergirl has people who help her - even humans! Do you have people like that too? I hope you're doing good and thank you for helping keep our home safe. 

Love your friend 

Kenzie Ray

✉️  →  Superman to Kenzie 

Dear Kenzie, 

So, you’re the special little friend Supergirl has been telling me about. Your handwriting is really neat, much better than Supergirl’s [insert badly drawn smile face]. I was a little sad that I hadn’t received a letter [insert badly drawn sad face], so I am really happy you have decided to write to me. I have lots of friends who help me to save the day. Can you keep a secret? I even have a best friend called James, but don’t tell anyone else! Friends are very valuable people to have, do you have a best friend? 

Your second favourite super, 

Sure, Clark wrote about murder, diligently so in fact, and in great detail, but this was his first time actually seeing a body. It was strange looking into the glass box of spiders and the corpse, the sight being both oddly familiar yet completely new. The body inside looked strangely normal, almost as if the victim was merely asleep, not an empty shell that was devoid of life. But Clark knew, he knew they were dead, and he knew how they had died because he had come up with the idea.

Three years had passed since he had last pictured this scene in his head. It really was an exact replica of the first murder in his novel, ‘26 Murders’. The book had been a passion project at first, but it had shot through the kindle charts, and physical sales were also nothing to laugh at. Before he knew it, his book had become famous, very famous. There were even talks for a film adaptation, but everything was yet to be finalised. For now, his publisher was demanding an idea for a sequel; there was no way they were going to miss an opportunity to squeeze this franchise dry, especially since it had suddenly become the most relevant book of modern times.

Standing out amongst the uniformed officers and smartly dressed detectives, Clark looked like a complete outsider. What did one even wear to a crime scene? A respectful black garment? Maybe he should have listened to his instincts after all as the plaid/henley combination had not gone unnoticed. The normality of the outfit contrasted with the gravity of the situation. If the theory Clark had been told was correct, then there was a potential serial killer going around and turning written word into reality, and they wouldn’t stop until they had made their way through all 26 letters. No, this wasn’t on him, this was on them, whoever they were. The badge he had been given proved that he was a good person, didn’t it?

The only thing that separated him from the crowd of people crammed around the police tape was the visitor badge he had been given which authorised him to look at the crime scene. Sticking out like a sore thumb made it even easier for the reporters to spot the infamous author. Although Clark was used to being surrounded by cameras and the constant clicking sound of shutters, it was eerily surreal to think that photos of him next to a real dead body would be plastered all over the afternoon news. Heck, if the journalists could make it back in time, he’d be the face of the news at 11 as well. Trying his best to ignore the flashes and barrage of questions, he scanned the faces of those on his side of the tape for her.

At the station, they had told Clark that someone called Katherine Pierce was the lead on the case, but they hadn’t managed to give him any further details before he had been hurried into the police car when the reporters caught wind of his arrival. In retrospect, the whole affair had been pointless as the press were everywhere, like cockroaches climbing out of the woodwork when least expected. Rubbing his hands together nervously, he studied all of the females on duty, looking for the one which asserted the most authority. There was only one clear winner who fit the bill completely, and truth be told, she was rather intimidating, even to Clark who towered over most people. Well, why put off the inevitable?

“Hi,” He reached out to shake her hand before deciding against it, and turning the motion into a very forced wave instead. Clark could feel his ears heating up, one of the telltale signs that he was embarrassed. Clearing his throat to force himself not to suddenly start rambling and spewing out awkward conversation, he continued. “Hi, I’m Clark Kent. I was told that you’d be expecting me.” Fingers fumbled on the visitor badge as he hurried to show it, trying to pull the corners of his mouth up into a smile. “Are you Detective Pierce?”