#super fic

Ordinarily, being half-Kryptonian, Jon would easily burst through chains and bindings without a second thought. And he’s still strong, he tore through the ripe around his waist like it was taffy, but the chains keeping his legs and neck locked to the floor aren’t budging. And Jon’s getting progressively tired.

There’s something strange about this macabre carnival where he and Damian take the center ring. Of course, there is, because it’s Professor Pyg and he’s the stuff of nightmares. But beyond even that, the spotlights on them show with a heavy red glow that is making Jon sluggish and weak.

So weak that he’s less than a circus ring away from Damian and he still can’t get to him.

“Come now, come now, wait your turn,” the grotesque villain squeals in delight toward Jon. “Little Bat has been scheduled for this appointment for such a long time! You must be patient, my little bird. So patient. Everyone has their time with the professor.”

“Superboy!” Damian snarls from where he is tied up, flat and without his utility belt. He’s laying on a gurney that looks far from sanitary and, if Jon didn’t know better, it might even look like Damian is actually concerned. “Focus! Red sunlight radiation shouldn’t dull your brains as much as it does your strength!”

Blinking, Jon looks up to the spotlights again and can see, with what vague telescopic ability he still has, that there is something unusual about the spectrum of light coming from them. “Is that what this is?” he asks, voice small but filled with relief all the same.

“Oh, my, I cannot, must not, pass an opportunity to educate my subjects, inform them of their peril,” Professor Pyg pantomimes his way from the circus ring with Damian toward the center stage with Jon.

Immediately, Jon feels his body stiffen on instinct. He looks warily at the flabby, disgusting pig mask as the rest of the pudgy and unkempt professor makes his way toward Jon. He knows he should be focusing on getting free, but it’s a difficult thing to do when he’s being approached by unmitigated evil and brutality.

He isn’t sure how Damian gets his suit on every night if this is what Gotham patrols are really like.

“It is your body,” Pyg snorts and chortles.

A cold splash washes over Jon. “My body?” he repeats with wide eyes.

“Get away from him, Pyg!” Damian roars, his gurney shaking and rocking with struggle.

“It isn’t right, doesn’t fit on your bones,” Pyg bemoans, jerking out his hip and slithering his own arms around his chest and waist. He sways back and forth on his feet with a sashay of his hips. “It misses the shape of your spirit, the delicate frame of your face. And it’ll only get worse with age.”

Despite himself, Jon feels his struggle slow to a complete stop. His eyes widen as he looks at Pyg. There is a chill that travels from the base of his spine up, standing all his hair on end.

Deep inside of Jon’s chest, muscles tighten and his heart thunders. He feels a shiver move from his core. No oh no oh no oh no. HIs guts churn, his jaw trembles.

“Oh, you feel it, don’t you, that deep deep down,” Pyg continues, approaching. “You’re in the last years of it being passable, of being acceptable. Before your bones grind and the sinews snap into shapes thick and unbecoming of your gentle nature. I see what you are, in that deep deep down, because I am an artist who shapes and molds my subjects out from their souls.”

“You’re a monster,” Jon whispers, his voice giving up halfway through.

Pyg’s eyes shine with something dangerous through the outsides of his mask. He reaches forward and cups Jon’s cheek with his itchy gloved hand. Jon doesn’t even know when he got so close; when he started towering so tall over Jon.

“You’ll be one of my finest Dollotrons,” Pyg promises, rubbing his thumb just under Jon’s eye. “But your clay’s too strong, have to soften you up, get you nice and fleshy, then I’ll shave and I’ll cut and I’ll shape you right up.”

It doesn’t come off as a promise, so much as it does a threat, one that terrifies and unsettles Jon deep down within himself.

Jon’s mind draws a blank, his eyes wide and unfocused and he attempts, desperately, to come up with some intelligent response. But he can’t, not while a fear racks his every nerve and turns his muscles to stone.

It takes Jon completely and utterly by surprise when a familiar whoosh in the air flies overhead before glass crashes and electricity sparks. He catches a glance at the familiar shape of a Batarang lodged into the spotlight directly overhead.

He’s instantly overcome with relief.

Pyg releases his cheek and steps back wildly, looking around. “No! Not now! My art is not ready!” he cries out before letting loose some piglike squeals and sobs.

Looking toward Damian, Jon expects to see his friend released but is surprised to see Damian still trapped. He squints, uncertain of what’s happening when a second then third Batarang plunge into the remaining red sun spotlights.

“Batman?” Jon wonders out loud.

“Ugh,” Damian lets out in frustration before struggling with even more force against his bindings. “Overdramatic, sanctimonious, can’t believe—“

Dollotrons are racing onto the tent floor while Professor Pyg whines and bemoans his ultimate fate, but as the lights extinguish one by one, the shadows take on a new form.

She moves like a dancer, each step and hit against the army of zombified victims perfectly paced and timed. She is all in black, save for her golden accents and bat, and she spares not a single motion. A kick becomes a launch for a leap becomes a smack becomes a twirl becomes a fist to the face of the blubbering Professor. And each and every movement grows in its momentum.

Jon has never seen anything like this outside of super speed, and he certainly hasn’t seen it using the shapes and silhouettes of the shadows like a comforting show curtain. He has so many questions and so many concerns that he forgets himself and getting free. Even if he could, with his body still unresponsively slow and dulled from the radiation.

Damian, at the least, is in motion, finally getting one of his hands free and using the points of his gauntlet to slice through the leather of the other bindings. He is muttering to himself, annoyed and embarrassed based on the flush in his cheeks. It’s not a rare sight but it is unusual for Jon to see Damian this way around one of his multitudes of siblings.

The shadowy bat launches into a final attack, knocking out the last of the Dollotrons before pouncing on the escaping Professor Pyg like a hungry lioness.

With her full weight on Pyg, the Bat narrows her eyes and for the first time can really be seen by Jon as she reaches over and yanks Pyg’s disgusting mask off of his face. Her lips curl in displeasure, but it doesn’t take away from her fair features or the delicate, smooth control she has over her body.

“Wow,” Jon hears himself say as Damian reaches his side and begins pulling out a small blowtorch for the chains. “Is that your sister?”

“SHH!” Damian hisses.

Jon strains to listen to whatever is being said between the Bat and Pyg, but it gets him nowhere, only words at a time coming in clearly as his powers remain in flux. Regardless, Pyg is squirming and blubbering too much for it to matter anyway.

“Took her damn time,” Damian snarls, letting Jon lean on him as he glares toward his sister.

“She saved our lives,” Jon reminds him.

Damian’s nose curls. “Tt, debatable.”

Cassandra apparently finishes whatever minor conversation she was having with Pyg and flips him over, handcuffing him swiftly. She’s powerful and strong without losing her leanness or size, it mesmerizes Jon in a way. By the time she looks up at them, her expression has completely changed.

“You okay?” she asks them both.

“No thanks to you,” Damian says at the same time Jon gets out, “All thanks to you!”

Something approximating a smile crosses her face before she gets to her feet and reaches up to her ear. “Oracle. Done.”

Looking at Cassandra, Jon feels like he’s found yet another new hero. “Whoa, your sister’s awesome. And cool. And so in control,” Jon tells Damian, his strength returning. “You’ve got so many siblings, can I have your sister?”

“Father would be displeased, otherwise I’d say yes,” Damian huffs in that way that Jon cannot tell, for the life of him, if it’s sarcasm or not.

***

Damian watches as his friend flies off.

It took the better part of an hour as well as a stop at Big Belly Burger for Jon to feel up to the task, but the half-Kryptonian flies home after departing from them and Damian watches him go.

Cassandra, as it turns out, is also there. She leans back against her motorcycle — a sleek but redundant design, like any of the numerous other bat-themed motorcycles or vehicles any of their extended family has access to — and watches Damian more than Jon.

They haven’t had much time with just the two of them. Their paths rarely intersect. And Damian is pretty sure he prefers it that way.

His cheeks are still on fire from the embarrassment of being rescued by her.

“I would have gotten out,” he informs her, crossing his arms. “Pyg was distracted and far away from me. I was working on my restraints.”

She tilts her head at him, a frown tight on her face. “Distracted you, too,” she points out.

And Damian knows she’s right about that, he was distracted. Just the look on his friend’s face, the growing horror and dread. Jon isn’t used to the types of villains that Gotham can throw at people, the psychological toll it takes. Damian is, or at least he likes to think he is, but Jon still can be scared and surprised.

But what looks crossed Jon’s face at that moment were unexpected even to Damian. He had never seen anything like it. Jon had been soaking up every word and phrase like it had been ripped straight from his dreams.

It was enough that it frightened Damian for his friend, and he didn’t even know why.

Over the course of an hour and a Big Belly Burger, Jon had refrained from mentioning a single thing about it.

That, too, was very unlike Jon.

Such things could be dwelled on at another time, though. Damian had the pressing matter at hand of his own reckoning. And his so-called sister.

Without looking up to meet Cassandra’s gaze, Damian kicked at the ground. “What are you going to tell father about tonight?” he asks.

“Truth,” Cass answers unhelpfully.

Gritting his teeth, Damian looks back at her, eyes narrowed and angry. “That’s not fair, you know,” he growls at her. “You never come around, never work with any of the rest of us, and then you pop in and judge us from on high. No wonder father speaks highly of you. You’re just like him.”

Her brows come together in a way that wrinkles her forehead. It’s hard to read her expression, even with her modified mask and hood. “I’m not,” she says. Her words sound final, but she apparently thinks better of them and shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “Judging you. I’m not.”

Damian looks her over. She hasn’t moved from her bike but her arms have dropped to her side. She is looking at him rather intently and it makes him want to squirm in his combat boots.

“Tt, sure you’re not,” he finally snaps back. “You’ll still tell father that I was captured by Professor Pyg.”

“Yes,” she said too casually.

“And that I let Superboy get captured, too,” Damian glowered more at that one, his eyes rest on the asphalt beneath his feet. He kicked again.

Cassandra paused slightly longer with that one.

When her hand snaked its way onto his shoulder, Damian flinched bodily. He slapped her hand away and twisted around to get away on instinct. He hated that — no one should be able to sneak up on him. He was trained by League of Assassins, he had been prepared since before he could speak to be on guard.

But Cassandra had, too.

She looked at him passively. “Not your fault, happens,” she said, in reference to Pyg.

“That’s not what father will think,” Damian snaps.

“I’ll tell him,” she promises.

Damian stares at her for a moment, sizing her up and considering all the ways he could make her more respectful to him. But it fizzles out quickly. He knows, as much as he resists the thought, that he isn’t upset with her.

He’s upset with himself.

“In the League, they trained us that there is a cost to every relationship formed,” Damian informs Cassandra like she doesn’t intuitively know from her own history. “Partnerships, even necessary ones, would cost you heavily. They could be deadly. And more relationships than strictly necessary should be avoided. All this family and friendship that is just around me all the time now. I don’t want to pay the cost for them.” He looks to the skies where Jon once flew. “I don’t want my friend to pay for them either. It’s not worth it.”

Cassandra stays quiet, but she places her hand on Damian’s shoulder again. He doesn’t attempt to knock it off this time.

“Sometimes it is,” she tells him.

But Damian isn’t so sure. Especially not hearing it from her. Cassandra does not work with others to the same degree as the rest of their family. She doesn’t go to school. She doesn’t join teams outside of father’s pet projects. She doesn’t operate in a daily partnership like Damian has with Grayson or father.

She seems to be living by those lonesome standards that the League taught Damian. And all anyone can do is praise her.

What sort of lesson is Damian supposed to learn from that?

***

Jekuul feels oppressively hot outside of the crystal palace.

Lor has watched his parents stand, looming in the skies, over the land’s natives as they constructed the palace for them. He watched as their eyes glowed threateningly each time the native population faltered, and he remembered how easily their bones cracked and snapped when corrected by the general and his lieutenant. It was equal parts thrilling and terrifying to witness.

Inside the palace, things are smooth and temperature regulated. The pantries are stocked with foods far greater than anything Lor had tasted within the Phantom Zone, but still foreign and sometimes unexpected.

If he questions what was on his plate, he is quickly reprimanded.

So he doesn’t ask.

It should be easy, if not simple, to follow the rules at this point. Stay in the palace, eat when told without questions, listen to his lessons from the Sunstones without fault.

He is the Last Son of Krypton, and he is supposed to inherit everything the universe owed them for their lost greatest civilization. All he has to do is stay in place, not ask questions, don’t be, don’t move.

But he was not born on Krypton, nor was he born on Jekuul — New Krypton, by his father’s declaration — he was born in the perilous depths of the Phantom Zone. A prison.

Inside of the Phantom Zone, there was no movement, there were no questions, there was not being or doing or screaming or aging — that had been the only thing he’d ever existed and it was torturous.

Outside of the Phantom Zone, he thought, things are supposed to be different. He is supposed to move and change and grow, he thinks.

So even though there is every reason not to leave the palace, Lor-Zod leaves in the oppressive heat and feels the sun against his Kryptonian skin as he flies under the two yellow suns.

As he moves across the lands, the violet skinned natives of Jekuul fall to their knees and avert their eyes. They whisper and whimper in a tongue completely foreign to Lor-Zod and it feels, well. It feels good.

Lor-Zod knows that they react this way to his parents, but to have even adults of the alien race fall in reverence to him, he feels more powerful. He feels like the Last Son of Krypton that his father insists he is.

He wonders, vaguely, if it is something his father would like to see.

Deep down, Lor hopes so. Because it is easy for Lor to imagine what his father would think or say when he doesn’t like something Lor has done. He has no concept of what would happen when he makes his father pleased.

He is nearly at the end of the primitive village when Lor’s eyes fall on an unusual sight.

One of the Jekuul natives, a young female no older than Lor and having not yet earned her yellow stripes, stands and stares up at Lor. She doesn’t drop to her knees or avert her eyes.

For a few seconds, Lor continues flying, arching his head back to watch for the girl to finally do as she is supposed to but she never does.

Aggravated and surprised, Lor turns in his flight path and descends, landing promptly in front of the girl.

“Why aren’t you kneeling?” he asks before his feet are even secure.

She stares at him, head tilting. Her black eyes are large and reflective, Lor can see himself in them.

He huffs at her, crossing his arms like he has seen his father do so many times before. “Don’t you speak Kryptonian?” he sneers.

After a quiet moment, she scratches at her head and looks around. That seems to answer Lor’s question for him.

“You’re supposed to kneel,” he groans. “Look, like this,” he says, bowing down to one knee and lowering his head. He’s seen so many others do it before.

Then he hears laughter.

Lor looks up and sees the girl covering her mouth as she giggles before she gets down on both her knees and dips her body down in a silly, teetering display. A mockery. Then she gets back to her feet.

“No!” Lor snaps, getting back to his own feet and grabbing her shoulders.

At first, she stiffens, surprised, and looks at him wildly. Her hands grip onto his wrists and she seems afraid.

“Like this,” Lor repeats, then pushes down on her. He dips with her, down to the ground on their knees. But when they both lower their heads, they immediately smack foreheads.

It feels like nothing to Lor, but for the girl, she jolts back and begins rubbing at her skull.

Instinctively, just like he follows his parents’ motions, Lor reaches up and rubs at his own head. They stare at each other as they both sit there on their knees, rubbing their heads.

Then, despite himself, Lor giggles.

The girl giggles.

They both giggle.

Once the giggles subside, they are both sitting on their knees in the dirt and staring at each other expectantly. They don’t speak the same language. They aren’t remotely the same and, yet, Lor has never felt more of a need to communicate with someone in his life.

He points at his chest, at the house emblem emblazoned on his armor. “Zod,” he tells her. “Zod,” he repeats.

For a moment, the girl is quiet, absorbing his words, then she points at her chest and the purple skin. “Jekuul,” she says.

“No, not what you are,” he mutters, catching on quickly. “I’m not…” He is a Zod, though. Maybe more than he is a Kryptonian, if only in his own mind. He sucks in a breath and tries again. He points at his face. “Lor,” he tells her.

Understanding fills her expression and she points at her own face. “Ti’ahl.”

And, maybe for the first time, Lor feels a wide smile cross his face.

From that moment on, their afternoon is filled with delight.

Ti’ahl points at every structure, every creature, every plant with words and phrases that will not stop saying until Lor repeats. Repeatedly, Lor picks Ti’ahl up easily, flies her from location to location, lifts up every boulder and animal they come across as she claps in delight.

It’s thrilling — and Lor laughs more than he has ever laughed before in his life.

By the time the second sun begins to set, a chill quickly crosses the lands, and Lor can see Ti’ahl gain a shiver. It makes Lor feel bad to see Ti’ahl uncomfortable in any way.

“Hold on,” he calls to her at one point, slowing her run through the grass. He reaches up and carefully unclips his cape from his armor. Grinning, he floats toward Ti’ahl and drapes her with the heavy fabric.

After Lor ties the cape closed over her neck, Ti’ahl looks down and touches the knot. A funny look crosses her face and she looks at Lor.

Ti’ahl leaps onto a nearby rock, standing tall and crossing her arms. “ZOD!” she declares herself.

Realizing what is happening, Lor giggles and drops obediently to his knees. “I kneel!” he laughs.

At first, Ti’ahl joins his laughter, but then she becomes strangely quiet.

Confused, Lor looks up at her. “Ti’ahl?” he asks before realizing that a shadow has crossed over them both.

Heart sinking, Lor twists around and sees his father, arms crossed, standing over them both. He looks displeased.

“Father,” Lor gets out, voice thin.

“Is this how I find the Last Son of Krypton? Kneeling before his lessers?” the general snarls. He drops his hands to his sides as Lor begins to stand up and easily kicks Lor back down. “If you lower yourself in the dirt for a mongrel child, you will stay there for your leader, do you understand?”

Breath catching in his throat, Lor nods. “Y-yes, Sir.”

“To the palace. Immediately,” General Zod orders, his gaze carrying over to Ti’ahl. “There will be a price to pay for this, Lor-Zod. Let us see if you are grown enough to pay it.”

Lor cannot bring himself to look at Ti’ahl as he leaps to his feet and takes off in the air. His blood is rushing to his ears, tears building up in his eyes even before he reaches his top speeds of flight.

“Gohan come here!” The director shouted. “I know this is a lot to take in all in one day. How about I give you your lines to practice. You can get home, relax a bit and try this again tomorrow,” the director said caringly.

Gohan blushed slightly, “Well, that is very thoughtful. I’d actually like that a lot. I just can’t seem to focus.” Of all things, Gohan had never experienced problems focusing. He knew how to give something, or someone, his full attention. But to be true, Gohan didn’t want to be here. He wanted to be home with his wife, in his Saiyaman suit, doing goofy poses in the kitchen while Pan is asleep, his wife smiling that wide smile he loved so much, kissing her passionately after a ‘daring rescue’, running his hands all over her beautiful figure… Whoa! Where did that even come from! Gohan shook his head free of the thoughts.

The director looked at him knowingly. “Yup, here you go, boy. Take this and head on home. You look like you got a fever. Your face is all red!”

Instinctively, Gohan’s hand reached around to the back of his neck and scratched nervously. “Oh, yeah! Haha! That must be it! I must be getting sick! I sure feel it!”

“Well, here you go, Son. Take it home. Feel better, soon!”

Gohan replied, “Thank you, sir! I’ll be sure to study hard!” Looking at the director in a determined manner, he took the papers eagerly. “Have a good night, sir!”

“See you tomorrow at 3PM, Gohan!”

“I’ll be there!” Gohan shouted as he walked away. What a headache this is turning into! I had no idea I had lines. What was I thinking?!

“... memories that make my heart pound.”  Gohan sighed, “Well, that’s part of the reason.”

He began walking around the city searching for distractions to keep his mind off of what his wife said. He looked down at the costume, feeling a bit nostalgic. He was here in Satan City with his Saiyaman costume, just like high school.. It was crazy to him that this was where it all started. He met videl right around this very corner in front of the bank. He felt a small bit of pride tingle through him. Yeah, these were the days.

A scream from a man woke Gohan from his memories. Rounding the corner quickly, he realized that the scene before him was all too familiar. A group of policemen sat outside of the Satan City Bank, armed and taking cover behind their vehicles. Gohan smiled excitedly, knowing exactly what he had to do. He ran behind a nearby building and dressed into the outfit as quickly as he could. Smirking to himself, he flew towards the bank.

He walked through the front door and saw the two men standing, pointing at him in disgust and fear.

“You! Great, Saiyaman! You might not remember us. Boy do we remember you! We were in jail up until yesterday because of you! We wasted away in jail for two years because of you trying to be a hero. Well, we’re back and better than ever!” The small skinny man yelled. “You think you’re such a great hero, well come on! Try to apprehend us now!”

The Great Saiyaman looked at the duo in an inquisitive manner under his helmet. “I vaguely remember you. I saved this bank two years ago from you two, right? You robbed it on my way to school, one morning.”

“Shut it! We don’t give a crap about your pathetic school day. Now try to put me in jail again! I’ve prepared every day for the past two years to kick your butt!” The skinny bank robber stated. “Are you ready to be humiliated, Saiyaman!” The robber let out a loud yell and then charged Gohan.

Gohan easily dodged the man's charge and elbowed him in the back of the head, knocking him out. The larger man backed away in fear. “What’s the matter, big guy? Are you scared?” Gohan smirked in his cocky fashion. Man, I haven’t felt this powerful in a long time. Gohan felt a sense of nostalgia for the third time that day. Again, overwhelmed with pride, he charged the larger man and knocked him out. He smirked to himself as he stood over the man. “Maybe you guys will learn this time.”

The policemen began to swarm the building to apprehend the criminals. “Thank you Saiyaman. It’s good to see you again.”

Gohan smiled, “It’s good to see you too, Chief. You haven’t aged a bit.”

“Thank you, Saiyaman. Now run along. We can handle it from here,” The Chief waved in his direction and smiled warmly at him, welcoming him back in his own way.

Smiling back, Gohan ran out of the bank towards the building that he changed clothes behind, grabbing the bag, and flying home. He opened the door and walked inside in his Saiyaman outfit to find Pan giggling on the living room floor. Suddenly, the smell of something delicious hit his nostrils. Letting his nose lead the way, Gohan found himself in the kitchen with his eyes fixed on his wife stirring something on the stove.

“Well if it isn’t Great Saiyaman. I haven’t see you in two long years!” Videl giggled, role playing a bit.

Gohan chuckled a bit and replied, “Well, who could stay away from you for two whole years, especailly with food that smells like that!”

Videl laughed at this and Gohan followed shortly. “Gohan, why don’t you get changed. Dinner's almost ready and I’ve made your favorite. I’d hate to get a stain on that costume you need for work.”

“Oh, right, Videl! I almost forgot I need this for a job now!” Gohan ran into the bedroom with the bag and changed quickly, running back to the kitchen as soon as he was done. Pan was now in her hieght chair to eat and Videl was placing items on the table. “Wow, Videl! You spoil me!”

“Of course I do, You work so hard for Pan and I. It’s the least I could do, Gohan. Besides, I’m sure you’re starving after the long day you’ve had of fighting crime in Satan City, again.” She looked over at Pan and began to feed her. “You were all over the news. ‘Saiyaman Returns!’ Some people are really excited and other’s think it’s just some elaborate promotion for the movie.”

Gohan blushed slightly and began filling his plate, a small smile spread across his face. “It was awesome Videl! Do you remember the day we met?”

Nodding, Videl answered his question with a simple smile and loving look.

“Well, the crooks that robbed Satan City Bank that day were there to do it, again! It was just like old times. They were saying how they’ve been training since the first day they went to jail two years ago but it definitely didn’t show in their performance.” Gohan let out a chuckle at the end.

“Well, they were no match for the Great Saiyaman, after all. He’s the strongest man alive!” Videl turned back to Pan. “Pan, did you know that the Great Saiyaman is really the one who defeated Cell? Not Mister Satan?” Pan turned her head in a puzzled manner. “Oh Pan. What would I do without you.” Videl kissed her daughter’s cheek.

Pride surged through Gohan at seeing his family so happy. “Hey Videl?” He asked through a full mouth.

She turned her head again, “Yes, Gohan?”

“Do you honestly think those robbers will learn this time? They seem like good guys deep down,” He asked, taking another bite.

“Probably not. They normally don’t. They just keep doing the only thing they know. I know you have a big heart but try not to worry about them. They chose this life.”

“You’re right! But I can’t help but feel sorry for them.”

Videl smiled. “I bet seeing them brought back a lot of memories, huh?”

“….brings back memories that make my heart pound.” Gohan swallowed hard and looked at his meal. “Yeah, I guess you can say that.” He blushed a little after being reminded of those words. He had finally distracted himself with food and she had reminded him. Those words rang through his head all day. He wasn’t sure if it was desperation or lust; Or maybe, more nostalgia. It wasn’t that him and his wife never showed affection. But the chances they got to be alone were slim. Being alone was hard enough but finding the time to make love was even worse. He supposed that’s why it was so special when it happened.

Gohan’s sudden silence did not go unnoticed by his wife. She first saw a shy blush spread across his face as he looked down at his food. Next she witnessed an emotion pass through his face that resembled a sadness. He looked lost in his thoughts. She looked down, a bit embarrassed, herself. She knew what he was thinking. It was the same thing that she was thinking today when she first saw him in that Saiyaman costume. It had been way too long. “Gohan, I am going to make a phone call quick. Can you keep an eye on Pan?”

“Uhh, sure, Videl.” Gohan was confused for a bit but then decided that it wasn’t a bad idea to distract himself again, It’s not abnormal to see his wife on the  phone, after all. His wife and his mother kept in contact well. His sensitive saiyan ears tried to pick any conversation from the phone call but was unable to hear more than a murmur of the words, “thanks” and “see you soon!”

Videl re-entered the room with a smile on her face. “Your mom is on her way over to get Pan so i am going to get a bag ready.”

“What? Why?” Gohan blinked.

Videl scratched her temple a little and then replied, “Do you mind cleaning up dinner? Oh! Pack her something to eat over at your mom’s. Otherwise, she’ll cook her a mountain of food, even though she already ate.”

“... okay? Videl, what is this about?” Gohan asked getting up to clean the table and place the dishes in the dishwasher. Ok, now he was definitly distracted.

Videl ignored him once more and left to head into Pan’s room. She sighed, grabbing Pan’s caterpillar toy and stuffing it in the bag. “I feel so selfish. Did I do the right thing?”

The doorbell rang and without a second, Chi-Chi was in the house, flying up the stairs to grab Pan. “Oh, my favorite little girl! How are you! Grandma is so excited that you’re coming to spend the night, again! Come here sweetie.” Chi-Chi said to Pan. Pan squealed with delight in response.

“Oh yeah. This is definitely the right thing to do. I’m sure of it.” Videl pushed the stuff into the bag and brought it to Chi-Chi.

“Videl, are you sure about this?” Chi-Chi asked.

Videl nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, Chi-Chi. Gohan had a long day and he’s very tired. He wanted to go to bed but Pan still has a few hours before she is even tired. I know it seems selfish but he has a lot coming up.”

The proud grandmother turned to leave, “Oh, nonsense. How can that be selfish. I get to see my favorite little girl and Gohan needs his rest so he can make his daughter proud. Well, Bye-bye, Videl!” Chi-Chi rushed out the door with her husband waiting outside to instant transmission them back to their house. The door shut and left Videl to turn to Gohan. He was obviously very confused.

“Videl, I’m not tired. I don’t understand.” Gohan asked.

“Oh, jeez. You’re just as dense as ever, huh? I am going to bed, Gohan.” She winked at him, adding a bit of a sultry tone at the end.

“What? Videl, it’s only 7:30. There’s still a few hours before our usual bedtime.”

Videl frowned. He still didn’t get the hint. Well, more time to prepare! Rushing to the bedroom, she hurriedly put on a red lingerie set that she had gotten sometime last year but never had the chance to wear. She lit a few candles and pulled herself under the sheets on their bed. Alright. I have to make this convincing.

Gohan continued cleaning a few things here and there. His mind wandered back to that one moment earlier today. Even though he had the chance now, she hardly seemed in the mood. Infact, she seemed so preoccupied with something else. He sighed to himself. I might as well get ready for bed, too!

He walked to the bathroom and took off his clothes. He grabbed a pair of pajamas from the bathroom cabinet. He slid on the bottoms but paused when he grabbed the top. He looked himself over in the mirror holding the top. Maybe this will help her remember what she said. He smiled sheepishly and walked back into the kitchen to finish up. But before he could get there he heard Videl in the bedroom.

“AH! Saiyaman! Help me!”

She sounds like she’s in trouble! He ran into the bedroom only to find Videl in the bed. “Oh, gosh Videl. I thought you were in trouble. Why’d you do that?” Then he smelled the candles and took a look around.

“Oh but I am in trouble, Saiyaman!” Videl said seductively. “You see, I am a damsel in distress!”

Gohan smirked, realizing what was happening. He walked over to the bed and pulled the sheets down to get in. His bold side began to take hold, loving the site of Videl in that lingerie. He got on top of her and whispered in her ear. His voice was low and husky when he spoke, “What seems to be the problem, miss?”

Videl’s skin tingled at his gruff voice. Her face was on fire but, Kami, she needed this. She had to do this. His rock hard muscles scraped lightly against her soft bosom, causing a small moan from her. “ Well, you see, Saiyaman, my husband has been busy for a very long time. I’m just so lonely. I need someone to help me,” Videl said in a mock tone, giggling slightly at the end.

He brought his face to her’s and kissed her lips so softly that it earned him a small hitch in her breath. He began placing kisses down her neck very gently and sensually. He stopped at her ear and whispered, “Well, he must be pretty dumb to keep you waiting.” He chuckled lightly into her ear, and Videl followed with her own soft chuckle.

Gohan lifted his head, mere centimeters from their noses touching. He looked into her eyes, and she followed with wrapping her arms around his head. “I love you so much, Videl.” He closed the gap between them and brushed their lips together in a loving and sensual kiss.

They broke apart and stared into each other’s eyes. Videl whispered after a few seconds, “I love you, too, Saiyaman.” They both smiled very brightly and lovingly at each other, a small chuckle escaping Gohan’s lips before resuming their kiss.

The quiet makes it easier for Damian to overhear Alfred conversing just a step or so into the hall.

“Ah, Miss Cassandra, it is unusual to see you up and about at such an hour,” Alfred’s voice carries with a genuine mix of praise and surprise.

“Yeah, um,” Cass mutters, speech slurred with sleep, “can you, um, take me? Soon? He wanted to talk to me.”

“But of course. I can take you as I take Master Damian to the academy this morning.”

Starring toward the door, Damian lets his oatmeal slip off of his spoon and carelessly plop back into the bowl. He doesn’t even pay attention to the splashes of oats which end up on Alfred’s meticulously cared for table runner. He’ absorbed by the implications of the conversation happening in front of him.

After an encounter with Professor Pyg which ended as eventfully as his did, Damian anticipated some negative news getting to either his father or Grayson. And while Damian didn’t want for Dick to hear about Damian’s poor performances without him, there was at least some trust.

Grayson would be annoyingly supportive and want to use the entire event as some sort of learning experience.

Father is something else entirely.

After a few moments of subconsciously holding his breath, Damian glances down to his oatmeal and finds it suddenly subpar.

He pushes out from the table, chair legs protesting loudly, and tosses the handkerchief from his lap onto the table. Damian is on his feet and in the hall before Cassandra even has time to leave Alfred and redress herself for the day.

“Alfred, I do not need to attend the academy today,” he announces.

The butler tilts his head slightly and raises his eyebrows minutely. “I believe the education system would disagree with you entirely.”

“I have things to discuss with Father,” Damian elaborates stiffly. “Important information that outweighs any supposed social-developments I am pretending to make.”

Cassandra scratches at her jawline and frowns at Damian. She’s assessing him, her dark eyes boring into Damian’s soul and evaluating every tremor of his muscle.

Which makes it even more annoying that her choice of commentary is to say, “Bad at it. Pretending,” she jokes.

“Silence, you,” Damian hisses ferally. “The entire first year I lived here, I had to listen to everyone talk about you and never once did they mention your sass.”

She offers a half-shrug. “Forgot the best part.”

“Tt, more like the worst,” Damian teeters, hands on his hips.

For a moment, Cassandra seems to be ignoring him as she looks over Damian’s head at Alfred and rotates her shoulders. “Maybe shouldn’t go to school,” she offers, surprising Damian entirely.

Alfred seems just as taken by the suggestion and looks at her suspiciously. “Why so, Miss Cassandra?”

“Had a bad night,” she explains. “Probably does have important stuff to say.”

Heat flushes into Damian’s face. His eyes glaze into a distinct red hue and his shoulders tremble as he clutches his hands into fists by his side. There is almost certainly steam coming off of him as anger overtakes him in a way that it hasn’t for ages now.

“How dare you!” he roars.

All too casually, Cassandra glances down to Damian and raises an eyebrow at him. She doesn’t say anything with words.

“How dare you assume so much about me! You don’t even know me!” Damian continues, bringing his fists up as if ready to brawl. “Perhaps what I’m going to do is while you wish to tattle to Father, I’ll tell him the truth about how you are nothing but an interference here in Gotham! That you do not deserve to trespass on my affairs! And that absolutely everyone wishes you would bugger off again so that everyone can go back to the way things were!”

“Master Damian, that is enough!” Alfred says coolly. He never raises his voice, but he never needs to.

Despite himself, Damian snaps his jaw closed. But he doesn’t stop glaring into Cassandra’s face, her eyes. His anger is still boiling over, no matter how much he’s contained it.

Cassandra looks back at him, her face drawn and unreadable.

It makes Damian even more upset.

“That is no way to speak to anyone, certainly not family,” Alfred reminds Damian. “Considering your injuries—“

“I am not injured that gravely, Pennyworth!” Damian sputters again.

“—I can see the benefit to a day of recuperation from school, so long as we do not continue this theme habitually,” Alfred persists. “We will leave for your father’s office as soon as Miss Cassandra is ready to leave. And we will not leave a moment sooner than that.” He looks to Cassandra and pats her shoulder. It’s the only thing that gets her to pull her gaze away from Damian. “I encourage you to get ready for the day at your leisure, my dear.”

After that, the conversation is over, and Damian ends up sitting in the foyer waiting for the better part of an hour as Cass does just as Alfred insisted.

***

“There he is!”

Jon is still wiping at his eyes as he stumbles through the apartment. It’s difficult, in these early mornings, for him to focus on appropriate amounts of strength, so he shoulders into furniture a touch too hard or bangs into the doorframe with enough force to send pictures lined down the walls tumbling down.

Some things that are less natural to him since his coming into power, like flight or his special types of vision, take more effort and alertness. Not his super strength, however fortunately or unfortunately.

He stumbles his way into the kitchen, his feet padding over the shift from hardwood to tile. He can smell the scrambled eggs before his dad even set them on Jon’s prepared plate.

At the table across from Jon is his mom, already in a beautiful silk top with a gold necklace of large geometric squares. Her chin-length hair is curlier than usual which means she hasn’t straightened it. Her lashes are long, nearly swooping down to her cheeks as she looks down to her iPad as she reads. When she takes her cup away from her lips, a dark purple lip stain is left behind on it.

Jon admires her for a moment, scooting into his seat but not pulling up to the table.

“Good morning, honey,” his mom says full of affection. Her violet eyes glance up to his face.

“Good morning,” Jon says back, smiling brightly.

“Leave walking room, champ,” his dad says from behind. Before Jon can even think, two massive hands close in around the edges of Jon’s backrest, then his whole chair is lifted and scooted up until Jon’s chest nearly bumps the table.

“Sorry, Pa,” Jon says automatically, sparing a glance as his father moves over and plants himself in one of the two chairs between Jon and his mom.

Even in a collared shirt and sweater vest, Jon can see what a massive shadow his father leaves for him. He is broad-shouldered and firm, even with his softness. He has a body that exudes power and strength. It’s only with folded in shoulders and deflated presentation that Clark Kent can convince the world there is a difference between himself and Superman.

At home, among family, as Pa, Jon knows his dad is unmistakably Superman.

When Pa’s large hands reach for his cup of orange juice or poke at scrambled eggs with a fork, it makes Jon look at his own hands.

They’re thin, nimble hands. Soft.

Mom has said on more than one occasion that with fingers as long as his, Jon needs to either learn piano or practice keyboard typing. And Jon is certain he has no ear for tunes.

“I almost came to get you a second time, young man,” Pa says between bites of eggs. “I warned you before about staying up late. I know there are plenty of things an eleven-year-old boy thinks are cooler than sleep.”

Curling his nose, Jon shifts uncomfortably. “I’m almost twelve now,” he reminds them. “You said I could push curfew when I turned twelve.”

“And you’re still not twelve,” Mom says, closing out the tabs on her iPad. She looks very seriously at Jon. “And it doesn’t matter what age you are, my mother’s intuition tells me you’re watching scary movies with the Wayne kid again.”

“No, I wasn’t!” Jon squeaks. “I promise I wasn’t!”

“You had nightmares last night, Jon. We share a wall with your room,” Pa says, face the picture of sympathetic. “And it’s okay to have nightmares sometimes, but you’ve been having them a lot lately. Something like that would usually require something scaring you.”

“Like movies,” Mom adds, still eyeing Jon suspiciously. “Is it Gotham? Maybe we shouldn’t let you go to Gotham so much. Especially this time of year. I hate that stuck-up little island, Clark. No wonder he’s scared.”

“Wait, no, it’s not anything to do with Gotham or movies or Damian,” Jon argues emphatically.

Both of Jon’s parents stop and do the thing Jon has come to hate most during their meals. They look up, toward one another, and seemingly carry out an entire conversation with each other through micro expression alone.  It would be adorable if they weren’t his parents.

Jon decides to take the time to begin shoveling in his eggs. His dad’s cooking may be simple but it’s always filling.

“Do you want to talk about these nightmares you’re having, Jon?” Pa asks gently. “You and your body have been put through a lot of changes very quickly over the past year or so. You’ve gotten your own powers, you’ve moved schools twice, your mother and I both are back at full time. That’s a lot.”

He chews over his father’s words for a long moment and considers them.

For most of his young life, Jon Kent has been able to tell his parents positively everything on his mind. They are loving, supportive good people. The best people. Whether they’re superheroes or super reporters, they make Jon proud with almost every second of every day.

But his nightmares make his throat fill closed and tight in ways that are impossible to express. He likes to think they could know, but it feels like they couldn’t.

They couldn’t know how certain words or certain looks or certain things make him feel like he’s crawled into someone else’s skin. Like he’s been lying to everyone on accident this whole time. That what people see him as is undeserved.

What could he ever say to explain that?

Not to mention, explaining that he was patrolling in Gotham and got captured by some madman like Professor Pyg is probably worth far more trouble than simply admitting to scary movies with Damian.

“I don’t remember them,” Jon lies through his teeth.

“That can happen,” Pa says warmly.

When Jon looks up, it’s unsurprising to see that his mother’s face is fairly neutral. She looks at him worriedly and unconvinced.

If she plans on saying anything, however, the moment eludes her. Her iPad lights up simultaneously with the default ding of her phone. She glances at them both before getting to her feet. She’s a full inch taller in her heels and wearing Jon’s favorite skirt of hers.

“Clark, are you going to take Jon this morning?” she asks. “I can use it to excuse you from any early bellows from Perry.”

“Of course,” Pa says, leaning back and tilting his head for the optimal kissing angle.

Mom comes around the table and ducks down, holding back her hair delicately as she kisses Jon’s forehead. “Have a good day, hun, I love you.”

“Bye, Mom, you look beautiful,” Jon informs her as she leaves.

He watches her go and takes a breath. His gaze is only broken when his dad holds his glasses out in front of his vision.

“Don’t forget these,” Pa reminds him.

“Oh, thanks,” Jon mutters, taking the thick frames. His motion is stopped, though, as his father doesn’t let go. He glances back up to Pa and raises a brow.

“Jon, do you know how polygraphs work?” Pa asks, still not letting go of the glasses.

“Um, not really,” Jon admits.

“They measure your heartbeat, because if someone’s not a good liar then they will increase their heart rate, and the machine records it,” Pa explains as he finally lets go of Jon’s glasses.

Despite himself, Jon’s heart picks up its pace. He glances down to his lap. “Do you always listen to my heartbeat?”

“Since before you were born,” Pa says softly, running his broad hand over Jon’s hair. His thumb strums the locks affectionately. “And you thought I was the easy parent, huh?”

“I just don’t want to talk about my nightmares yet,” Jon explains worriedly.

“That’s okay,” Pa assures him, letting go of Jon’s hair. “But I’d appreciate you not lying to me or your mother.”

Jon frowns. “I won’t, Pa, I promise. Sorry I did.” He glances toward his mother’s seat and notices her coffee mug sitting where she left it. Her purple lipstick is still staining the side. “Do you listen to mom’s heartbeat?”

“Practically since the day I met her,” Pa laughs, picking up both of their finished plates. “I always listen out for the hearts of the people I love. It’s,” he pauses in thought before continuing his walk to the sink, “it’s comforting to know everyone’s safe.”

Humming some, Jon puts his chin on the kitchen table and focuses. His mom should be in the elevator on her way down. If he uses his x-ray vision he could even watch her. But instead, he listens. It’s hard to focus on the beat alone, to isolate it. It could give him a headache until he’s better at it. But Jon can do it.

It’s one of many things he can do, he can be because of his father — a polygraph.

But as he listens for his mother’s heart, Jon wonders if there are more things he can do and be because of his mother.

“Pa, it’s a good thing to want to be more like mom, right?” Jon asks before he can stop himself.

His pa lets out a deep laugh over the running water in the sink. “Jon, everyone wants to be more like your mother. It’s the most natural thing in the world.”

And that, Jon decides, is comforting.

***

Lor-Zod learns through the sunstones in silence. His eyes are transfixed on their histories and piloting and mathematics, but his mind is distantly occupied.

His mother has stood vigilant at the door, unmoving, the entire morning. She has not greeted him yet, has not introduced herself to him. Standing, quietly, scathingly.

The moment Lor finishes his aeronautics lesson, he feels his mother’s hand close around his wrist. He is reaching for the next lesson, but she is suddenly upon him, stopping him. Her face is mere centimeters from his own. Her nose snarls.

“You are summoned, Lor,” she tells him, as though he should already know.

“Where, mother?” he barely has air in his lungs to ask before he is jerked into the air and guided through the halls of their palace.

As they travel swiftly through their palace, Lor notices for the first time that he has not seen servants or even heard servants all morning. That is beyond unusual, and it makes their giant crystalline halls even more empty than normal.

Something sits unsettled and worrisome in Lor’s chest. He can hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

“What are we doing, mother?” Lor attempts again, voice tight with fear.

“Is a child to speak out of turn?” she asks angrily, her brown hair whipping across her face as she looks over her shoulder.

Lor obediently shakes his head. “No,” he answers.

“Then you have no turn,” she informs him. When she looks ahead once more, her fingers tighten around his wrist. “There is a lesson to be learned today.”

Silence overtakes Lor as they reach the grand hall and entrance of their palace. There still are no servants to be seen, and there is also no sign of the general. Every hair on Lor’s body stands on end as he realizes just how wrong everything is set up to be.

But he cannot even force himself to speak. He knows better. His body knows better.

As they bound out of the giant doors to their palace, Lor realizes that they are opening up to an enormous gathering. There are purple-skinned Jekuul natives for as far as Lor’s unaided vision can see. They all face forward, toward the intimidating staircase to the palace’s entrance. And to the general.

General Zod does not even turn his shoulders toward Lor and his mother as they come to his side. He is facing forward, over the crowd.

Lor is positioned harshly, stood in front of his mother. She swiftly shifts her hand from his wrist to his shoulder, her other hand matching it. They grip him fiercely, nails clicking against the Kryptonian armor beneath.

When Lor looks up to his mother’s face, he can only see her chin as it faces the general obediently.

Then, when Lor follows her gaze, he lets out a soft gasp.

They are not the only ones standing on the stairs. There is also a familiar, tiny purple girl in his father’s grips.

“Ti’ahl? What’s she doing here?” Lor asks before his mother’s grip becomes even more constricting. He feels his chest freeze up, his heart pounding again.

“You are out of turn, child,” she hisses down at him. “Watch.”

Swallowing, Lor looks back to the General.

The General seems satisfied after Lor falls silent, and he begins speaking out in a tongue so strange but familiar. His voice booms and echoes over the silent crowds below. He’s speaking in Jakuul, Lor knows that much, but still not what his father is saying.

For a moment, Lor tries. He tries desperately to understand what is being said, but none of it makes sense. There aren’t even the familiar possibilities of understanding like he had with Ti’ahl just the day before.

Thinking of Ti’ahl, Lor glances down from his father’s face to where Ti’ahl stands trembling in the General’s grip.

She looks paler than yesterday, her purple skin lighter in the face and almost blue in her cheeks. Her big, dark eyes are tear-filled and sunken, her hair messy. It occurs to Lor that she is wearing the exact same clothes that he last saw her in.

Only at that moment does Lor realize she never made it home last night. But he can’t imagine why.

Deep down, Lor wishes to speak to her, to comfort her, to offer his cape once more, but she doesn’t even have it now. Lor wonders, idly, where it might be.

The General’s voice picks up in fervor, growing in a tempo as the crowds below become unsettled.

Lor doesn’t know what to think, what’s going on when he sees his father wrench Ti’ahl’s arm back and up into the air at a frightening angle. It makes the little girl scream in shock and begins crying, tugging.

Not sure what is going on, Lor opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

With a flick of his wrist, the General turns Ti’ahl’s arm completely upside down and a hideous snap echoes through the hot Jekuul air.

Stunned, Lor stares at his father and at the little girl he played with yesterday. The air erupts with high pitched squeals and sobs from the crowds below. Ti’ahl herself hangs limply unconscious, only held up by the General’s tremendous grip on her arm.

His mother holds him down with so much force, Lor feels as though he will sink through the stairs. He can’t look at her, can’t hear her past the thundering pulse in his own ears. He stares only at his father who is happily soaking in the shock and awe of the crowds.

Then, Lor snaps.

All he can see is red and then his father’s shoulder is smoking, singed.

And, for the first time since the night before, General Zod looks at Lor.

“I am disappointed, Faora,” the General says angrily. “You assured me that our child was being raised in the traditions of Krypton. Are those traditions not that punishments are handled by the mother?”

“They are,” Lor’s mother says, aghast, before yanking Lor into the palace doors.

Lor hits the floor before he even sees the smack coming. And it is only the first.

In the past, Lor has been disciplined. It is not an unfamiliar sensation. But his parents finished with the consensus that a lesson of some sort has been learned. Lor even finds himself in agreement with them.

Not this time. Not today. He is hurt and they finished the discipline without any commentary or any softness to their expressions.

No, though, that is still not the worst. Not as Lor lays on his bed in hysteric contemplation alone in the dark.

The worst thing of all is that he cannot shut his eyes, cannot sleep, without the hideous cracking of Ti’ahl’s arm sounding off between his ears. The echos of her cries and the horror of the crowds reverberate throughout Lor’s body and send cold shivers through him.

His family is not loved when the masses of Jakuul bow. And Lor’s entire universe is turned upside down knowing this.

Before this terror in his life, Lor still did not have a full understanding of his world or his life. He is, after all, a child. But he thought he understood what he was to his father and mother.

He is the Last Son of Krypton. He is the future of the House of Zod.

But he also knows that not living up to such things means that his parents’ approval is gone. And if it is gone, bad things will happen.

Now, as he understands with the display involving Ti’ahl, those consequences are far greater than anything he could have imagined beforehand.

Suddenly, horrifically, Lor understands that his life is not the most valuable part of him.

And he is scared.

In the middle of the night, alone in his room, Lor feels the strongest impulse he has ever had in his short life.

Lor-Zod knows, without a doubt, that he needs to leave.

The instinct comes from deep within him — thoughts of the Phantom Zone and its endless prison, how escaping it meant never staying somewhere he didn’t want to again. He can see it, his old dreams of leaving for different worlds the moment he was scared or unsafe.

The only home he had ever known had been the promise of leaving the places that were wrong and painful.

And, now, Lor needs to go. He’s scared. It isn’t safe.

Thinking of his lessons on the sunstones, Lor moves, sluggishly and painfully through the palace toward the transportation lab. What little Kryptonian equipment and weapons they have managed to gather and to create — or have the Jakuul create — rests in there, including the Phantom Zone pod.

The spiral pod is bronze in color with no seeable thrusters, only a thin screen that allows its occupant to see outside the pod. It does not steer, does not operate as a ship in any way, but as a bullet to be fired in a singular direction. Once someone is inside of it, outside of a Phantom Zone Projector, nothing will be able to tear the pod off its course. It will phase through matter, it will burst through time and space. And whoever is within it will sleep until they are released, heal until they are done.

And that is all Lor needs. Peaceful, forceful sleep without interruption. He needs comfort and rest, to heal up his ribs and his back and his eyes so that when he is done, he can return to being what his mother and father need him to be.

So that he is not treated and left in pain that someone like Ti’ahl experiences.

He can’t imagine there’s something better, something in between.

Lor loads his burdens onto the pod and begins setting his coordinates. He has not lived out of the Phantom Zone long and can only think of a few places he can go.

One is Krypton, his home he never knew and is no longer there.

One is Earth, his father’s enemy, and his only other point of contact.

If he can make it to Earth and back, perhaps Lor can make it through anything else. Including his parents’ anger.

At least, that is his sincere hope.

Just like that, Lor leaves his family’s palace.

***

Father doesn’t look surprised by Damian’s intrusion on his meeting with Cassandra. He barely acknowledges that it means Damian is missing school and instead asks him if there is anything Damian would like for him to know.

Within Damian’s heart, he feels the judgment, knows the look of his father searching him for something Damian isn’t giving. It’s frustrating. It’s painful. And it’s a look he’s never seen given to Cassandra.

Damian has nothing to say except for what he feels is obvious.

“I am better than any of you see in me,” he informs his father haughtily.

His father gives him a sigh and waves him off, dismissive and annoyed. Like swatting at a fly.

“We’ll talk about it later, Damian,” Bruce Wayne says in a voice that is distinctly lacking Batman in it. It’s weary and light. Others in the family call it the Brucie Wayne voice, but for Damian, it’s something far worse.

It’s basically baby talk toward him.

Cassandra doesn’t get that treatment either.

“I doubt it,” Damian glowers, crossing his arms.

When Damian looks back up toward his father, he is met by sharp blue eyes piercing his own gaze. That is more like Batman. It sends a shiver down Damian’s spine.

Much better than baby talk, that is for certain.

“I have something important I need to discuss with Cassandra,” his father reminds him darkly. “Give us some privacy.” He gives a purposeful pause before continuing, “Please.”

For a few long moments, Damian stands cross-armed beside Cassandra, facing his father’s large executive desk. The entire suite is large and deceptively slick and modern. Devices and trick switches are hidden behind the ostentatious decor and smatterings of family photographs framed and preserved seemingly forever. Newspapers are mounted with new stories of interest over the decades.

Everything is large, squared, and imposing.

Just like their father.

When it reaches the point that Damian feels as though the silence is threatening to eat them all whole, he finally relents and turns around. It takes him nearly double the strides it would require his father to make to exit the room, just as it would take him twice the height to meet the same reach his father does.

Logically, Damian knows that the unspoken part of his father’s request for privacy was for Damian to continue from his way out of the room down to the street level where Pennyworth and the car would be waiting. Then Damian could receive a whole other lecture on manners and family and general behaving that he has received over a dozen times before.

He’s tired of it before he’s even done processing the thought of it.

Making an executive decision of his own, Damian does not leave for Alfred and the car but instead takes a hard left at the elevator shaft. Having memorized the blueprints — the actual blueprints — for Wayne Tower, Damian knows that in the blindspot of the stairwell security camera is an always taped off custodial closet. In that custodial closet is a secretive shaft that will lower into the bowels of the Tower itself.

Once a part of the robust subway tunnel system beneath the streets of Gotham, the old junction now serves as the open space for research and development of their nightly activities. At least, one of the spaces for R&D at least.

It is also the one place where Damian can open up the Oracle Network safely in Wayne Towers and check in on others without causing too much of a fuss.

Anyone who notices will assume it is Batman and everyone leaves Batman alone to his devices for the most part.

Stepping up to the large silver monitor screen, Damian watches as everything in the room begins to activate — light by light, display by display. It is a very sleek and intimidating presence.

His father is good at maintaining certain aesthetic sensibilities, Damian will give him that, at least.

Looking around, Damian sees the computer chair, built for the size and magnitude of Batman, and immediately jumps into it. His body impressively slumps into the cushions, leaving him staring straight ahead in annoyance.

Recovering from the momentary sag of his body, Damian scoots the chair up, hands gripped to the armrests so tightly his knuckles whiten. Then he leans forward to the keyboard and begins typing.

Using spy satellites is an unfortunate habit that Damian has picked up from his father, but he assures himself it is for good reason.

There is still something so wrong and disconcerting about the way that Jon reacted to Professor Pyg.

Few things dig themselves into Damian’s guts and leave him unsettled. His friend being hurt somehow by the madman was one of them. Whether it was Damian’s sense of guilt or genuine fear for Jon, Damian is still working out.

Either way, he wants to hone in on Metropolis and see how his friend is doing for himself.

It isn’t a difficult maneuver. There is already a preset coordinate to the exact location Damian needs.

Damian expects no less from his father, after all, there are a myriad of reasons to keep watch on the family and wellbeing of the most trusted and power being in the world, if not the universe.

He watches with vague interest as two figures — Superman and Superboy — approach the balcony of the Metropolis apartment in question. One has a suitcase, the other a backpack beneath his cape. Then, in a dash of color, they are both gone long before a less accurate or powerful satellite or camera would be able to capture them.

At least, Damian would hope so.

Leaning his head forward, chin sharply balanced on his palm, Damian tries to think of the expression on Jon’s face. It’s hard to tell, even with Wayne Tech advances, the nuances of someone’s face at that distance. The pixelation hides the crevices and intensity.

But Jon seemed to be smiling. Which is, really, all Damian wants to make sure of.

At the end of the day, Damian does not have many friends. The ones he does have are important to him.

And he’s still not sure that allowing himself to be in the equation frees his friends to have good things happen to them.

The thoughts are still heavy on his mind when the monitor and all of the Oracle Network change in an instant.

A red flash comes across the screen with a blare of a signal. Then again and again. It continues.

Damian jerks into sitting upright again. His shoulders drop as he looks around wide-eyed toward the different monitor screens.

Something is happening in Metropolis.

Reaching for the keyboard, Damian zooms out from the tiny apartment and widens his view to the city. Even above the city, there does not seem to be anything he can see at a distance. But, as he begins to wonder if he should switch to news coverage, Damian sees that the sky is the source of the danger alert.

Heading directly for Metropolis is a fireball the size of a car.

Before he even thinks about contacting his father or anyone else, Damian is leaping for the closest plane his father has been working on.

He knows he might not get there before the crash, but Damian is definitely going to be there to help his friend with the aftermath.

***

Jon still feels off-balance in the air. His leg wobbles a lot, the plank-like rigidness he needs to maintain for a smooth flight can still tire him. He’s working on it.

And it always feels easier in the morning with his dad.

When his pa smiles down at Jon, he feels like no matter how weird his thoughts for the morning, the whole world is going to be okay. That Jon is going to be okay. Because how can the world be anything less than perfect when Superman himself smiles like he means it at you.

Holding onto the straps of his backpack, Jon readies to part from his dad and head down to the Siegel and Shuster Middle back gym entrance, but his ears begin thumping.

Just like when he listened for his mother’s heartbeat earlier, Jon can feel every noise, every vibration of all of Metropolis at once. His jaw tightens and he tries to push the noises out. The screech and scream and bark and cry and pop all at once, but he knows that there is something still off about them. There’s something different from normal if he can hone in and direct himself to it.

He halts in the air, raising his hands up to his ears and begins mashing the heels of his palms into the ear canals. It does nothing to help him out, but he tries it anyway.

“Ow! What is that scratchy noise?” Jon can’t help but whine.

Ordinarily, Pa’s soothing voice would put him at ease, explain everything away. But it’s different this time.

Instead, Jon glances over his shoulder and sees his father also stopped in the air. Superman stares, wide-eyed and slack-jawed for a long moment before tensing up.

“Stay here, son,” Clark orders before disappearing in a dazzling whirl of red, blue, and yellow.

The whiplash of it all nearly makes Jon go crosseyed. He regains his position in the air, hovering with far less security than his pa manages to. Then he looks around in concern.

With a simple scan of the surroundings, Jon can see what got his father’s attention and it nearly makes him gasp.

Falling from the sky, seemingly from nowhere and at ludicrous speeds, is a flaming ball of metal aimed right for the city.

“Where did that come from!?” Jon asks clouds around him.

As to be expected, he doesn’t get an answer. But Jon does know what he needs to do next, even without an omniscient reply to his questions.

At full speeds, Jon pushes himself forward, his fists held out in front of him as he aims for the exact place in the sky where his father is lining up with the mystery object.

Even at his highest speeds, Jon is too slow to get there when his father first makes contact with the object and begins flying back, resisting with all his might despite the hurdling force. He is engulfed in the flames, slowing, but still heading for the skyline of Metropolis.

There needs to be more force on Pa’s side and Jon intends to provide it.

He swoops down between the city buildings and positions himself just like he saw his father do before him. He holds his arms out wide and holds out his hands to catch.

It feels like only a blink before his hands are filled with his dad’s cape, and Jon is suddenly falling back through the skies as well.

“Jon!” Superman chokes out between gritted teeth, straining with all his power.

“Pa!” Jon manages to get out alongside him

The particulars of their conversation are forced to wait as they buckle underneath the heavy metal and flames. Jon pushes into his father’s back, his father pushes into the machine, and they progressively slow as they drop through the sky.

“Feet! Flatten your feet!” Pa orders before showing Jon with his own.

Jon obeys, the soles of his tennis shoes directed toward the ground. It still shocks him when his feet hit and the air nearly leaves his lungs, or when he skids backward with the asphalt crackling beneath them. They keep moving, backward, with the space between them getting tighter and tighter as the broken roads rise up and push Jon into his father’s back.

When they stop at long last, Jon full bodily collapses against his dad and breathes a sigh of relief.

People are already on the streets, looking on in awe, which limits the conversations they can have out loud. That doesn’t keep Jon’s pa from turning on his heels, hands on his hips, and looking at Jon very seriously.

“Son,” he says sternly. “Go to school.”

“What, no way, you’re not going to let me even look in it?” Jon asks, circling around his father as widely as possible to get to the hull of the copper-colored machine. “It’s so weird and looks like a snail shell, I bet it’s an alien!”

His father is about to continue with words of wisdom or some all-important notes on responsibility, but Jon cannot hear them. He looks instead at the strange screen on the machine they stopped together and tilts his head. It’s fogged up, like the mirror after he uses the shower, and he can’t see in it. But he can see a strange, blue glow from within.

Squinting, Jon taps on the glass-like structure only to jolt as the metallic shell opens up.

A thick fog hisses out of the opening and forces Jon to wave it away from his face.

And when it’s gone, Jon looks into the face of another boy, no older than him, with strangely cut brown hair and a swollen eye and lip.

“Whoa!” Jon exclaims.

Then he is punched in the face with more force than he has ever felt in his life.

It hits so fast, so hard, Jon is sent soaring through the air backward, headlong into his father’s chest as the larger than life superhero moves in to catch him.

“Superboy!” Pa yells out in code that still can’t hide his horror or anger.

“Ow,” is all Jon can manage to get out, feeling like stars are still busting behind his eyelids.

By the time he’s set back on his feet, Jon can see that the boy from the pod is floating above it, eyes wide and confused. He turns to run.

Suddenly, Pa isn’t behind Jon holding him up anymore.

Jon realizes his dad is in front of him now, next to the boy, stretched out so his large, kind hand is wrapped almost gently around the boy’s wrist. It keeps the boy back, but he isn’t fighting, isn’t resisting. He’s looking at Superman with terror, tears in his eyes.

But Jon can feel his entire face swelling, he grabs at it and looks frantically to his dad. “Dad! He punched me!”

“Hold on, son,” Superman says without looking Jon’s way. He lowers his arm, the boy slowly dropping with it, head bowing and shoulders jerking uncomfortably. Then, Superman pulls the mystery boy to his chest and holds him. “Hold on.”

Confused and more than a little betrayed, Jon shakes his head at the nonsense and rubs at his aching face.

“Cooking is like chemistry and I’m an engineer at heart,” Natasha argued, sliding the bowl of ingredients toward Mia once again.

“Right, that’s what I’m saying,” Mia continued.

“They’re different types of science,” Natasha clarified. “I would rather build an oven than use one.”

“You may have to,” Traci spoke up, sitting on the counter with her familiar, Leroy, crawling over her shoulder. “I warned you guys about us doing this at my place! I don’t have regular appliances. They take be up too much room and apartment space is crazy hard to find in the city. So I just magic everything up.”

Mia floated just enough off the ground to make a point of it, her fingers entangled behind her back as she stretched cutely. “Why don’t you just do that with the cookies? That sounds much quicker.”

“I refuse to eat magic cookies,” Natasha said firmly, hands on her hips. “My Uncle John has told me a thousand times to not put anything in my mouth that I don’t know exactly where it’s from. Especially on a date night. And if we ever get this started, it’ll be a date night.”

“If we’re going to all be weird about it, why not just order a pizza with those molten brownie things?” Traci asked. “Pretty sure the delivery boy knows my apartment by heart after how many times I’ve answered the door in just a sleeping shirt.”

“That should’ve been the way you answered the door for us then, I think we’re being cut short,” Mia joked just before Natasha made a point of pushing the bowl toward her again. “I don’t see why you both think I’m some chef or something.”

“You’re the daughter of Superman. The daughter of Clark Kent, the biggest farm boy ever,” Traci pointed out. “It’s like… genetic that country bumpkins cook better.”

“And Clark definitely can cook,” Natasha pointed out. “I’ve been taken to enough barbecues at this point to be able to know.”

Mia scrunched her face and sat in the air, levitated as she puffed out her lip. “I wasn’t, like, pulled from Superman’s side or something, you know. I’m not just the daughter of Clark Kent.”

“Yeah? So?” Traci raised her brow.

“Have you ever seen Lois Lane cook?” Mia asked, immediately getting recoils. “So if we are assuming that cooking’s genetic, I have about a fifty-fifty chance of making the absolute best cookies ever with minimal effort, or created a dough monster that gives everybody indigestion.”

“That’s better than zero chance and magic,” Natasha argued.

“Hey!” Traci called out. “Without magic, ladies, just how are we supposed to bake the cookies anyway? Like I’ve said five million times already, I don’t have any kitchen stuff except a sink and a fridge!”

“We already have the ingredients out, Traci!” Natasha pointed out.

“It’s okay, guys, we’ll heat the cookies up the same way I shave my legs!” Mia explained gleefully, immediately earning looks of slight horror from the other two. Her lilac eyes were suddenly lost behind a familiar red glow that made them both cringe.

“Okay, definitely no. That’s gross,” Natasha said simply.

“No it’s not, that’s almost always how my dad cooks,” Mia argued.

“And now Kent cookouts are ruined for me forever,” Traci yawned as she stretched. “Can I call the pizza and molten chocolate brownie mountain in already?”

Natasha let out a frustrated sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose in annoyance. “The movies always make sleepovers seem amazing. How come we plan one sleepover and can’t even get a meal right?”

“Lack of magic,” Traci teased, reaching for her cellphone.

“Natasha, we’re sixteen!” Mia reminded her, flying over to he side. “We’re supposed to be terrible at planning things out. Be short sighted. Make memories. Make mistakes.”

“Sleepovers are now categorized under mistakes. How’s that for organization?” Traci joked, sticking out her tongue as she waited on the line.

“This date night thing is definitely a mistake,” Natasha sighed. “We should’ve been normal and… like… done a movie, or dinner out or anything that would be more romantic instead of ordering in pizza and getting ready to watch Buffy on Netflix.”

“Rewatch Buffy on Netflix,” Traci corrected before Leroy jumped to the counter at the same time Traci jumped down to the floor and began walking out of the kitchen. “Hi, this is Traci Thirteen. I need to place an order…”

Looking more and more beleaguered, Natasha closed her eyes and put a hand against her face. “Damn,” she whispered to herself.

“Nat… if you really wanted to do all that stuff, why didn’t you just say so before?” Mia asked, hovering just by her shoulder. “I love the idea of having a fun date night in with you and Traci, but if it’s not what you wanted…”

“I want it,” Natasha sighed. “I also want to be able to regular date stuff… regular date stuff without being scared. Scared that when people see us together, see us in love… that they’re gonna know we’re not… normal.”

Seemingly caught off guard. Mia blinked before dropping down to her feet again. “Oh,” was all she said softly.

“That’s selfish,” Natasha admitted, lowering her head. “I know it is. But… I’ve gone my whole life being stared at — some Southside girl straight outta the Suicide Slum is in the Metropolis School of Engineering? And she’s got braids and doesn’t care to make friends anymore. But she finally has people she loves as much as if not more than family, and look out. She’s a lesbian! In a relationship with two girls at the same time. Even if they’re the most beautiful, powerful ladies in all of the city. Even if they make every day together feel like the best day of her life… the idea of being seen and known in public makes me want to throw up. So I’m disappointed we’re inside tonight, but it’s not because of cookies or because I thought we should have gone out. It’s because I would want the world to know how happy I am now if I wasn’t such a chicken.”

Natasha had hardly finished her words when Mia flung herself at her and hugged her tight and close.

“We love you, too, Nat,” Mia assured her. “And we’re all scared, because we’re all not normal. And being ourselves in public has already been trained into us since, like, birth to be something we shouldn’t do. Secret identities and all that. But we’ll figure it out. You guys keep me grounded — loving you’s the most normal part of my day.”

Traci walked through the door. “Pizza’s ordered — hey! No one called me in for the hug!” Traci complained before lunging forward and wrapping her arms around both of her girlfriends in a tight squeeze. “What are we loving doving about? Is it because I was ordering pizza and you guys were thinking, wow, we’re so lucky to have a girlfriend who can list off the number for every pizza place in Metropolis by name?”

Natasha laughed, pulling her girls closer. “Something like that, Traci. Not exactly. But something like that.”

Circled up, arms around each other, the girls held their foreheads together and just basked in the comfort of spending the night together with the people they loved.

She could tell by the way he looked at her, by the way his eyes shifted away from her and around the rooftop, expecting something, anything more than just her, that he was going to make their night unreasonably difficult. But Helena held her ground and her breath.

She was Robin. She had this.If only the world trusted her enough to let her.

“You know, it wasn’t that long ago that Batgirl was… different, too,” the Commissioner pointed out.

“Things change,” Robin answered, cocking her brow. “Justice stays the same.”

Internally she cringed the moment the words came out of her mouth. It reeked of trying too hard and she fully deserved the odd glance over it earned her. Damn it damn it damn it!

“Apologies, Commissioner,” a deep and familiar voice spoke from the shadows, immediately causing Robin to bristle. Nightwing, wearing his black and yellow uniform, hood over his head, stepped forward. “Enthusiasm is a trait that is desirable and unbecoming at the same time.” Her half-brother then gave a knowing glare over the Commissioner’s shoulder directed right at Robin. “She probably gets it from her mother.”

While the officer’s back was turned, Helena took the opportunity to drop her facade as Robin and petulantly stick out her tongue at Damian, giving herself bat ears in their unspoken tease over how the would-be Bat still hadn’t achieved what he probably saw as his ultimate achievement of the mantle itself.

Despite his obvious refrain, keeping a collected expression as he listened to the Commissioner, Nightwing’s fists were shaking at his sides, which was all the indication Robin needed that she was successfully getting to him.

“There has been a string of suspicious activity reported around the East End, mostly in the area that was damaged during the last flood,” the Commissioner explained. “Mostly in the areas where damage was bad, but not enough to condemn or evict tenants. Which has made some people fairly unhappy.”

“Lexcorp,” Nightwing determined. “They seemed fairly intent on purchasing all of the damaged areas from the recent disaster. Wayne Enterprises has been in a bidding war.” Nightwing looked steadily to the Commissioner, attention completely off of Robin. “Let me guess. Small fires. Electrical outages. Anything to ruffle feathers of insurance companies.”

“We don’t have solid evidence,” the Commissioner warned. “And it would have to be damn good evidence to tie Lexcorp into it at all. Which is why I’d prefer to have this handled close to the belt between us—“

Robin didn’t waste time, she knew where she was heading. And with the men’s attention elsewhere, she easily fled from the rooftop down into the back alley of the police department where a few leaps from window to window got her quickly to her cycle. Just like she wanted.

It was her time to shine, and driving as quickly as she could toward Crime Alley was the only way, for certain, that brothers and fathers wouldn’t have time to get in her way.

She was born for this work. Born to do it solo — not with Nightwing, not with Batman, not with the Batt or Batwoman or Batgirl or even the new Commissioner Grayson. She was born to show everyone that being the youngest child did not make her the least child.

Helena Wayne was the daughter of the original Batman and Catwoman. She had walked tight ropes since she was two. She had gotten a black belt when she was seven. And age thirteen? She was going to take down the world’s self-proclaimed criminal mastermind, Lex Luthor.

It was her destiny to be great. And the opportunity had just presented itself to prove herself accurate.

The compound had been all she had really known. She was self aware, a part of her could acknowledge that to other that statement might have seen overtly sad, but it wasn’t for her. It was just a fact, and it was a fact she hadn’t minded.

She was provided everything in the compound, and the only love she had required to that point had been from the father she had always had since the first moments of her cloning process — Doctor Hamilton.

He provided her with everything, pointed in a direction for her to go in, and she obeyed. She gladly did anything for him.

Perhaps that was why, then, the man behind their program had taken such offense, such that he would take Hamilton away from her and hold him over her head so that he would do her bidding.

“Did anyone see you?” Luthor asked the moment she flew into his penthouse from the balcony.

Luther was only a human, only a man. Galatea could destroy him with a wrong glance of her heat vision, freeze his heart with a cold breath. But then he had proved to her that he was the only man in all the world who could return her father to her. And for that alone, she kept him alive and kept his agenda.

“No,” she said simply. “I used heat vision to warm the circuits until they sparked. Like the others, the building will have a fire and the inspection will show that it was the building not being up to code. Another easy buyout fro Lex Corp.”

“My dear, when you say things like that, it makes them sound downright simple,” Luthor said, some amusement in his voice. He turned, a wine glass in hand. “To another successful endeavor.”

“Doctor Hamilton’s release?” she cut to the chase.

“Such a one-tracked mind,” Luthor said, displeasure read on his face like a map. He put one glass of wine on the desk behind him. “You have such loyalty to him. He merely handled the test tubes, you know. It was my research, my company, my funding that led to your creation.” He stopped and looked over her before sighing and walking away. “I should have stepped in sooner. I thought coming clean about your origins a year into your existence would be better than it had worked with Superboy. Obviously I miscalculated and should have come in even sooner.”

Galatea rolled her eyes and put her hand on her hip as she looked off. “So you’re not going to let me know where he is again? I’m getting tired of this game.”

“We both are, dear,” Luthor said. “One last building. I have it sent to your GPS already. You can take care of it tonight if you’re feeling bold. I would go for something more fast acting than the old wire trick. Both to resolve my impatience and to get your job done all the sooner. Then we will have the good doctor’s whereabouts all but revealed to you.”

Distrusting but eager to fulfill her last mission, Galatea pulled the GPS from her belt and looked at the new coordinates. With a small leap, she was hovering above the floor and ready to fly off. She gave Luthor one last look. “I expect answers, Luthor. You call yourself my creator, but you’ve not been my father. Don’t forget that. And don’t forget what I can do to you if you’ve hurt him.”

“My dear, I would never dream of going against my word,” Luthor assured her.

Unimpressed, Galatea began flying out through the same balcony she had come through. GPS in hand, she was ready to the last building on her list.

Closer to the neighborhood which she almost always had been sent to, she could hear the sirens of firetrucks, no doubt responding to the new fire caused by her actions. A frown worked itself onto her face despite herself and she looked forward, ignoring it the best she could. She flew lower, so as to avoid drawing attention, keeping to the shadows of buildings and alleys.

That seemed like the best way to not be seen in Gotham, but then again, she should have known that compared to the residents, she was very unskilled at the task.

With a yell, someone small but wearing very heavy cleated boots came flying from the shadow above Galatea, landing a stomping kick down on Galatea’s back.

It obviously was not enough to hurt the cloned Kryptonian itself, but the surprise and power behind it sent her flying off course, crashing down to the alley floor as her attacker backflipped off and landed on the edge of a dumpster.

The attacker was masked in shadows, only white eyes really standing out as they glared at Galatea. “I was responding to a fire alert,” the gravelly, trying too hard voice of the girl in shadows said. “Wasn’t expecting to see a culprit fleeing from the scene.”

Galatea growled and got back into the air, contorting herself to get a clean shot of her heat vision at the girl in shadows. “I don’t have time for your justice-for-all nonsense!”

The girl flipped out of the way, coming out into the light enough to show off her red-yellow-green colors. “No nonsense, just justice!” she shouted as she threw out a series of Batarangs which Galatea shot out of the air with her heat vision.

Only, the batarangs didn’t simply drop from their trajectory as Galatea hit them. They exploded, blasting her in the face with a thick, unusual dust that immediately began to clog up her nose, mouth, throat, and eyes. She coughed, choking on the substance and clinging to her throat just before the vigilante got a few more kicks in. Enough to knock Galatea back.

“Heat vision, flying, invulnerability it looks like — it’s like punching rocks. You’re definitely Kryptonian,” the girl spoke out loud before backing up, fists raised. “But no S. You’re not from the House of El… some prisoner freed from the Phantom Zone? A long lost fugitive? Time traveler?” She stopped and tilted her head. “Clone?”

Angrily, Galatea forced her eyes open despite the burning and shot another bolt of heat vision in the girl’s direction only to be dodged again.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” the annoyance said before landing behind Galatea and knocking her to the ground again. “Okay, clone, why are you in Gotham? What’s your connection to Luthor? Why are you destroying this neighborhood? Or are all of those answers to my own questions?” She said cockily. “Better answer. Or don’t. I’m a detective, I can find it all out even without your help. I’ll just get the Justice League to take you to prison while I work on it.”

Finally adapting to the particles, Galatea spat out what parts of it had been clogging her throat and mouth before she reached back and grabbed the girl by her kevlar covered neck, then she flipped her over onto her back with a hard THUD.

With the other girl down for the count, Galatea roughly rubbed at her eyes and nose, clearing them of the substance. She then, red eyed and sniffling, stood over the girl, looking at the R emblem on her chest. “You must be Robin, of Batman and—, interesting,” Galatea deduced while the vigilante caught her breath. “I could take my turn beating you up, but I think there’s a better solution here for both of us.”

“I prefer getting punched to being someone’s partner, but sure, we can try it your way,” Robin replied breathlessly.

“You’re a detective,” Galatea continued. “You can help me find where Luthor is hiding my father, and I’ll turn over all the evidence and testimony you need to tie Luthor to the string of arsons and building collapses the East End’s had in the past month.”

Robin tilted her head. “What, seriously?”

“Seriously,” Galatea answered, holding out her hand. “Galatea.”

For a moment, it seemed like Robin was going to stubbornly refuse the offered hand, but then she at last took it. “Robin. Of Batman and— but I’m solo tonight. Which is fine. Because I’m the only one you need.”

“Alright then,” Galatea agreed, a smile growing on her face. “Let’s find my dad.”

For the fifth time that night, Robin looked down to her wrist and say an urgent alert message. One for each sibling at that point. When she grew tired of seeing the flashing, she reached toward her gauntlet and began to block Red Hood’s signal the same as she had all the others. How they got Jason involved was beyond her, though.

Just before she could turn off the signal, the Kryptonian clone — Galatea — was flying alongside her R-cycle and giving her a confused look.

Looking back, Helena squinted at her. “What?”

“Are you ever going to answer those? They’ve been going off since the moment we decided to work together. It’s… distracting,” she relied simply.

“No,” Robin said, blocking Red Hood’s signal and concentrating on the road.

“Turn here,” Galatea ordered her. “The best way to get into Lex’s penthouse is to fly up there. Through the balcony.”

“Fine,” Robin replied, turning into the alley and beginning to reach into her utility belt for her grappling gun. “Which floor is it? I’ll adjust my trajectory and—“

It took everything within Helena to keep from yelping as the Kryptonian scooped her up, bridal position, and began flying her toward the balcony in question. She struggled, wriggling as much as possible to break free only for the Kryptonian to give her a curious look.

“You’re too tense,” she said.

“You’re too— I could’ve gotten to the penthouse on my own!” Robin snapped back, glaring at Galatea as she tried to kick herself free. Again, it was like hitting rocks.

“If I drop you, you’ll be a pancake,” Galatea informed her.

“Cats always land on their feet,” Helena responded without hesitation.

“Robins are birds,” Galatea snickered to herself as she slowed down and began to land on the balcony in question.

“Shh!” Robin whispered to the super powered teenager before finally breaking free of Galatea’s hold and flipping out of her grasp. She landed perfectly and began looking around the darkened room. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously

“Is this what detective work looks like?” Galatea asked. “You seem to have those shadows really on the run.”

“Hush, you,” Robin hissed, carefully walking further into the room. “This is about stealth. We don’t want Lex or any of his cronies to know that we’re in here and that you’re going rogue.” She reached into a different pocket of her utility belt and pulled out a penlight. Twisting it on, she then looked around the large space, searching intently for a desk or any sort of tech she could get into.

Unable to help herself, Helena’s lip curled at the glassy furniture and white frosted decor. “Ugh. He’s renting from Cobblepot. Of course he’d rent with Cobblepot until he had his own buildings in Gotham. What a…”

“None of this has to do with my father,” Galatea noted almost angrily.

“It’s called rapport,” she replied. “Robins are supposed to do that when they’re working together with someone. Put them at ease with some quips.”

“Right, well, you’re terrible at it,” Galatea said firmly. “I can tell that and I’ve lived my whole life in an underground bunker.”

“Hnn,” Helena said, glancing back toward Galatea. “Believe it or not, you and I may just have that much in common. Though mine was more… batty and… cave than bunker. Also there was a giant dinosaur and an even more giant penny.”

“That… sounds amazing,” Galatea partially gasped.

“Yeah, it wears off, though. Especially when your br… Nightwings overrun the place with animals and next thing you know the robot dinosaur is getting used as a chew toy for the bat-dragon and you’re still not allowed to get a horse,” Helena muttered, mostly to herself.

“Your life sounds more colorful than my bunker with my dad,” Galatea sighed fondly. “But he was so good to me. He… he’s my father. He’s my world. Even when everyone else saw me as a weapon or an experiment, he saw me as… he saw me as Galatea. And that’s the best thing anyone has ever seen me as.”

Turning around entirely, Robin faced the clone, looked deeply into her sad blue eyes, and smiled. “Hey. I can’t wait to meet him when we save him. But just for the record, he’s not the only one who knows you’re Galatea anymore,” she offered.

Galatea’s face lit up in response, but the moment did not last too long, as there was a glint of metal behind Galatea’s head that caught Robin’s eye as well. A laptop!

“Score!” Robin grinned, racing over to the bed and pausing to curl her lip again at the polar bear comforter that Lex Luthor was probably sleeping under. “Oh, gross. I’m personally going to skin Luthor if I get the chance.” She reached over to the nightstand and grabbed the laptop.

“You’ll have to wait in line,” Galatea replied, punching one fist into the other hand.

“Right,” Robin replied, arching a brow before opening the laptop and sitting down on the floor with it. “I guess your father’s safety is more important than the preservation of endangered species, sure.”

Pulling a usb cord from her gauntlet, Robin then plugged into the computer and began allowing the ORACLE program to take affect. She was sure the actual Oracle was about to be incredibly pissed and discover that her system was being used without Robin so much as making a customary call-in, but such was life. Robin was solving her own case and getting her own pet Super on the side.

Tim Drake-Wayne, eat your heart out.

“How long will this take?” Galatea asked, hovering above Robin but likewise crossing her legs and sitting. “Every minute my dad is under Lex Luthor’s control is a minute he could be hurt or starved or tortured or—“

“It’ll take a few minutes, you have to give me time to figure out what I’m even looking for,” Robin responded. “Besides, it’s not like this is simple hacking. We’re talking about Lex Corp firewalls and technical protections. Not only am I trying to beat the clock, I’m trying to not disrupt more files than necessary so that they can’t see that we were here before we want them to.”

For a moment, it seemed that Galatea found the information disquieting. She then widened her eyes and hovered closer to Robin, being just over her shoulder. “Search for Project Nuvo-Gen,” she said with a sudden epiphany. “That’s the project for creating me. Anything related to me and Doctor Hamilton would be under that.”

“Alright, good,” Robin answered, immediately typing it in and being rewarded with a plethora of results from the Lex Corp server. “Gotta love Lex’s micromanaging, he’s got wide access across his entire company—“ She stopped, staring at the page in front of her. Her heart was pounding as she read over the name again and again. “This says Nuvo-Gen is being ran by Doctor Emil Hamilton,” she informed Galatea.

“Right, that’s my dad,” she insisted.

“But… that doesn’t make sense,” Robin muttered, head racing with all the files she had read through over the years of known Justice League adversaries. “He’s your dad? Emil Hamilton? Used to work for STAR Labs?” Before she could press further, though, a file change came up — something as recent as the last three days. Which was probably for the best since Galatea was getting visibly upset with the line of questioning. “Wait, it says here that you’re supposed to be field testing this month.”

“Yes, but my father didn’t want that for me,” Galatea explained. “He was going to get me out of the compound and we were going to try to live a normal life. We had all these plans—“

Robin’s eyes narrowed as she read the exact description on the file before her. “Live in a rural Kansas town on a farm, just the two of you?”

“Yes!” Galatea said, delighted. She then paused, realizing something was devastatingly wrong. “Wait. How did you know that?”

“Galatea,” Robin began, looking up to the clone. She was at a loss for words, not sure how she could even explain what the files were telling her.

Not that she had the time as she could hear the click of the door’s lock.

Thinking fast, Robin grabbed Galatea by the ankle and yanked her down to the floor. “Hide!” she hissed, sliding herself under the bed.

“What?” Galatea began before seeing the door knob turning. She then slid under the bed with Helena, crowding her.

“I meant your own place!” Helena hissed, pressing against Galatea to no avail.

They both went silent as the door opened, however, and two pairs of nicely dressed shoes entered and closed the door behind them.

“She takes too much time, though I appreciate how all of the buildings meet the perfect excuse of accidental substandard conditions, I doubt that it’s my preferences leading to the decisions being made by her,” Luthor’s voice said, walking around the room. “She’s doing it to make sure there are no casualties.”

“That’s what we would want from her, though, isn’t it?” a second voice answered. “Unlike the aliens we want her to value human life as much or more than her own.”

Helena’s stomach churned, feeling a cold, sinking sensation. She glanced toward Galatea in time to watch as her world fell apart.

“Daddy?” she whispered breathlessly.

“My life, Doctor. We want my life and my vision to be what she values above all else. And anything short of that would be disastrous to my plans for the future. Can you understand that?”

Doctor Hamilton sighed, sitting in a chair. “Of course I can. That’s what she was made to do. That’s why I earned her trust.”

Robin watched as the shock and tears faded from Galatea’s face and began to grow into something snarling, angry. A red glow was coming from them. “No,” she whispered. “Tea! Don’t—“

Before anything more could be said, Galatea flew straight up, flipping the bed over and hardly giving Robin time to move herself and the all-important laptop out of the way.

Both Luthor and Hamilton were shocked, but the only emotion that could be felt in the room was all from Galatea. Rage rippled out from her as strongly as the heat from her eyes.

“How dare you!” Galatea snarled. “Earn my trust? You created me! You gave me life! You were my father! Trust? You had my devotion! You had my love! And it was all a lie!? It was just a joke!?” she roared.

“Galatea! You’ve returned early,” Luthor said, cool as a cucumber. “I wouldn’t expect this sort of foresight and planning from you at this stage. But then again,” he looked over Robin’s way, his own lip curling in disgust. “I see the local pests have made their entrance as well.”

“That line might’ve worked if I was a bat or rat or anything, but who thinks of songbirds as pests, Luthor?” Robin quipped back. “Sounds like you need new material.”

“What he needs is a new face!” Galatea roared, zipping forward and surprising them all by grabbing Luthor and grabbing Hamilton by the collars of their shirts and flying out the balcony door.

That had been among the last things that Robin had expected and she had to recover from the momentary shock before making her way over to the balcony herself. “Galatea! Wait!”

She stopped right against the balcony railing, still five or so feet from Galatea and there she was dangling Hamilton and Luthor over the street.

“You want me to value human life less?” Galatea growled. “Good! I think I’m starting to see the appeal of it!”

“Galatea! You wouldn’t!” the ‘good’ doctor begged.

The clone’s head snapped in his direction, eyes aflame. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me! You never did. Just like I never truly knew you. If you did, you’d know that I’m not exactly feeling like not dropping you at the moment.”

“Galatea!” Robin screamed as loud as she could, getting the super girl’s attention at last. “He doesn’t know you! There’s no way they can. And they don’t deserve to,” Robin said, thinking quickly. “But I’ve met you just for one night and I feel like I’m getting to know you already. You’re eager, and thoughtful. You’re loyal and you love — you’ve just had the wrong people in your life to love until now.”

“Now you know me!?” Galatea snarled.

“No,” Robin replied. “I just know that the girl I’ve met tonight would never forgive herself if she did what you’re about to do right now.” Hesitantly, she offered out her hand toward Galatea. “Please, don’t do this. Don’t be what they want you to be. Don’t be a weapon. Be…. Be Tea.”

Lips quivering, Galatea slowly turned around, both Luthor and Hamilton in tow, and slowly flew back toward the balcony, dropping her head as she lowered them both to the ground and all but slumping over into Robin’s waiting arms after she released the men.

Helena was stunned at first but she quickly overcame it, hugging Galatea tightly and brushing a hand through the girl’s hair. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

“You’re the first person to ever call me Tea,” the blonde sniffed against Robin’s shoulder pad. “I really like it.”

“I’m glad,” Robin replied before glancing up and seeing Luthor trying to make a break for it. “Hold on just a second, Tea.” She quickly pulled out her bolas and with one hand swung them around before throwing, wrapping around Luthor’s legs and causing him to face plant. “See,” Robin offered, letting Galatea look up enough to see her handiwork. “You were right, he will need a new face even without falling fifty stories.”

Despite her tears and sobbing, Galatea smiled and snorted through her crying, wiping away tears that she could. “What-what do we do now?”

“Well, we did our part,” Robin assured her, looking down to her gauntlet and activating the blue Nightwing signal rather than the yellow. “I think it’s about time the cops did theirs.”

Galatea sat on the sidewalk with her head low, more aware than she had ever been that the resilient material that made her compound’s testing uniform was abnormal and something that caught the eyes of others when in public. It seemed like each time she looked up, she caught someone looking back at her.

But no eyes were worse than that of her so-called father’s as he was pushed into the police car by none other than the police commissioner himself.

Lex Luthor was ranting to the available presses about there being “NO COMMENT” as he was put in a car of his own.

Everything was terrible and Galatea’s world was gone — she had never missed the bunker of the compound more.

What she didn’t expect was for Robin to come up behind her and drape a shock blanket around her shoulders.

“I don’t really get cold,” Galatea informed her. “I was put through subarctic temperatures once and was unaffected.”

“It’s okay,” Robin said, dropping to sit on the sidewalk beside Galatea. “Sometimes the things we need most aren’t really what we literally need. You know?”

“No,” she answered honestly. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

Robin’s frown grew, but in a move that was truly exceptional, she reached around Galatea’s shoulders and pulled the clone closer to herself in a half hug. “Well, it’s a good time to start. And I’ll help you out any way I can.”

“Do you really mean that?” Galatea asked.

“Yeah, I do,” Robin answered.

“Thank you, Robin,” Galatea said leaning forward and kissing her on the lips. When she pulled back she found Robin to be ramrod straight, eyes wider than saucers and face noticeably growing red. “Oh, Robin. I’m sorry. I thought that was how movies end.”

“Uh. Yeah. They sure do. Uh. Wow. Okay,” Robin sputtered incoherently. “Um. Let’s start at the beginning of this movie, though. Start over. Get to know each other. Have a stupid misunderstanding we fix up. That sorta thing.”

Smiling softly, Galatea put a hand over Robin’s and felt warmth spread through her when the other girl did not pull back. “If it’s all the same to you, Robin, I’d like to stay on this ending a little while longer. Just that way I don’t have to worry about reality a little bit longer.”

Robin wavered before nodding. “Yeah, okay. We should do that. We can do that. Plus I got to close my very first solo case. Take that, Dad! I mean Batman.” She hesitated before rubbing a hand down her face. “Ugh. My rapport.”

“Is getting better,” Galatea assured her, leaning in to lay her head against Robin’s shoulder.

“Well, you’re not going to school today,” Lois decided at last, sighing and taking a thermometer from their son’s mouth. “You are definitely running a fever and your coughs and sneezes almost blow a hole through the ceiling.”

“Aw, Mom, you were never going to let me go to school,” Jon whined with a crackling, hoarse voice. “You said from the start. Why’d you even take my temperature?”

“Because empirical evidence is always good to have in your arsenal,” Lois replied before leaning forward and putting a firm kiss on Jon’s forehead. “Finish your orange juice and get some sleep. When you feel better you can go watch some tv, but I don’t want you pushing yourself.”

“I’m Superboy,” he whined even as he settled into his cocoon of blankets and duvets.

“No, you’re Sickboy and you’re staying home today,” Lois replied, walking out of their son’s room and looking toward Clark with a raised eyebrow. “You doubted my mother’s intuition.”

“No. Maybe,” Clark said, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just.. I never caught the flu or got sick when I was growing up, Lois. And Jon’s…”

“Only half Kryptonian and has only had his powers developing recently,” Lois reminded him. “He’s a kid. They get sick sometimes. Germs and whatnot. Not to mention we let him fly to Gotham… who knows what’s in the smog over that city…”

“Lois,” Clark admonished.

“Oh, I’m kidding, Smallville,” she assured him, leaning against the hall wall and crossing her arms.

“I know you are,” Clark replied, exasperated. “I just don’t know how you can! I mean… Jon’s sick and… And that’s…”

“Scary,” Lois replied.

“I’m terrified,” Clark replied with a forced smile.

“That’s being a parent,” Lois assured him. “I’d be more worried if you weren’t being your over protective, worrywart self, Clark.”

He smiled fondly at Lois, still so taken aback by how strong and inspiring his wife could still be after all the years they had been together.

“Which is also why you’re the one staying home today,” Lois said, pushing off the wall and heading toward the bathroom.

“What?” Clark asked critically.

“I’m going to work, you need to stay and take care of Jon because one, Perry’s going to notice me taking off more than you taking off, two, I am not staying at home so that you can text me for updates every twenty seconds, and three, my son’s sneezes can knock me over but you’re more wind resistant.”

Clark suddenly felt less inspired. “Lois, I told you, I’ve never been sick before. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Chicken noodle soup, cough syrup, hydrate him, and, pretending that you’re doing it behind my back, give him a little bit of ice cream when he’s feeling better,” Lois listed off. “It’s real kitsch — you’ll love it.”

“You’re overestimating my abilities here, honey,” Clark replied.

“Oh, I definitely am,” Lois agreed with a laugh.

“Do you want me to text you with updates?” Clark asked, half joking.

Lois looked up dully from getting her clothes together and she pointed warningly at him. “I want only messages of dramatically better or worryingly worse. Anything in between and I’ll block your number, Clark. I can’t worry about my baby while I’m trying to remember how to spell without my main spellchecker there.”

“Curious only has one ‘r’,” Clark joked.

“I love you,” Lois said, leaning up and kissing him. “Don’t let our son’s temperature lead to some sort of nuclear meltdown of our new apartment.”

“Can that happen?” Clark asked seriously.

“Guess we’ll find out!” Lois joked in return.

Clark actually took quite a bit of pride in the fact that he didn’t give into temptation and call Lois until nearly noon. To which he was told yes it was normal that a sickly Jon was still sleeping.

“It just seems like it’s a lot of sleeping,” Clark attempted to explain.

“And that would be considered a good thing by most people’s standards, Smallville,” Lois joked over the phone. “Nothing takes care of a cold quite like sleeping it off.” She sounded distracted and distant. Clark wondered how she knew so much without even being in the apartment. He really had married a true Super Woman. “Have you made chicken noodle soup yet?”

“No,” Clark answered, looking in on Jon one more time.

“Then you should get started on that instead of calling me,” Lois informed him. “Jon’ll need to eat something shen he wakes up, and you obviously need something to distract you that isn’t some kind of world-threatening calamity.”

“I can handle world-threatening calamities,” Clark grumbled, mostly to himself.

“I’m in a writing groove, hon, just relax. You’re my Superman after all, I think you can handle a common cold. Just make sure Jon doesn’t break anything with his sneezes,” Lois warned. “I won’t blame him but I’ll definitely blame you in every argument for the rest of our marriage.”

“Got it,” Clark sighed as Lois hung up.

After getting one last look at his sleeping son, Clark headed to the kitchen and had a good look around. “Alright then,” he said, hands on his hips. “Let’s make chicken noodle soup.”

Perhaps it was a function of Clark having never been all that sick when he was growing up, but the association between soup and sickness always seemed strange to him. Ma never spared an opportunity to make a good soup for them back in Smallville, and like everything else she made it was perfection regardless of the time of year.

Still, he had seen enough Campbell’s commercials to at least know it was a concept that existed.

So he got the pot out, some chicken broth, salt and pepper, debated on noodles for almost five minutes before settling on angel hair, cracked an egg in, diced canned chicken and prayed that neither Pa nor Ma were looking down on him for using canned chicken of all things, and he began making the soup.

Of course, all of that was easier done than said when one had super speed and heat vision moderated to the perfect temperature for the pot.

Standing by the stove with a finished pot of soup, Clark rubbed his chin and wondered what would be best to do with the soup — put it in the oven? Put it on simmer? What would Ma do?

“Is that soup?” a scratchy voice asked from behind Clark.

“Jon, you’re out of bed,” Clark pointed out, turning to look at his scraggly headed, hunched over son. It just about broke his heart, even if it was a ‘mere’ cold. “Yes! I have some soup for you, if you’re feeling up to it.”

Using his full sleeve, Jon lazily wiped at his nose and mouth, making his already red cheeks and nose redder before he sniffed heavily again. “Mmkay,” he responded before sluggishly dragging himself up to the kitchen table and plopping down.

As soon as he was sitting, Jon laid his cheek on the table, facing Clark. He watched as Clark got a bowl from the cabinets and began to pour for him. “Do cities have more germs?”

Clark hesitated before pouring the rest of the chicken noodle soup in the bowl. “More germs than…?”

“Than Hamilton?” Jon asked, lifting his head up lazily when Clark approached with the bowl. “I need a spoon.”

“Right,” Clark replied, putting down the bowl and heading to the utensil drawer. “I believe germs are everywhere you go, Jon. But cities do have more people, which sometimes means they can pass more germs to one another quicker.”

“I knew it,” Jon groaned, laying his head down beside the bowl even when Clark came back with the spoon. “Metropolis is trying to kill me.”

Cracking a smile, Clark forced the spoon into his son’s hand and then took his seat across the table. “Metropolis isn’t trying to kill you. And there probably aren’t more germs per person here either. The problem is… human immune systems need to… adapt. There might not be more germs, but you’re probably exposed to new germs. Which means your immune system was caught off guard and just needs some time to deal with it.”

“Because Metropolis isn’t Hamilton,” Jon concluded, pulling his head off the table and letting it roll back loosely as he looked down at the soup.

“Sounds to me like you and Metropolis need to spend some more quality time with each other,” Clark joked. “Pretty sure she wouldn’t appreciate all this ire directed her way.” He then looked down to the soup and back up to Jon. “If you’re not really feeling hungry, you don’t have to eat right now, Jon. I can just get you some water or orange juice or maybe sprite if your stomach’s upset?”

“No,” he said as he grabbed his spoon and began to stir his soup. He lapsed into silence for a moment before looking to Clark almost mournfully. “Hey, Dad?”

“Yes, Jon?” Clark replied, tilting his head just slightly.

“Will I get used to Metropolis?” Jon asked. “I mean… to its… germs?”

Clark hummed to himself slightly, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms. “Well, I never got sick when I moved to the city for the first time, mind you, but I also moved from a small town where I felt like I knew everyone and every thing there was to know around me. And I came here the first time and… well it was like living in an entirely different world. It was as alien to me as the holograms and recordings the Sunstones showed me of Krypton. And for the first few weeks, well, I didn’t even know where to put my foot down to find a footing,” he admitted. “I wasn’t sick, but I was definitely not used to the needs and calls of a city.”

“How did you get used to it?” Jon asked, voice sounding a little stronger as he took his first spoonful of soup into his mouth.

“Well, the lucky thing about us, son, is that when I didn’t find my footing… I remembered I could fly,” he said, thinking back on the early years with a fondness he hadn’t realized he still held for the City of Tomorrow.

“Mom used to move around all the time ‘cuz of Grandpa Sam, right?” Jon asked, continuing to eat. “How’d she get used to Metropolis?”

“I don’t know, she was here winning Pulitzers before I ever came onto the scene,” Clark laughed. “But I know one thing about your mother, when she sees something she wants, when she settles on something she wants to achieve, neither hell nor high-water can keep her from it.” He paused. “Including wanting to get Superman for an exclusive.”

“How’d she do that?” Jon asked.

“She jumped off a roof so I’d catch her,” Clark replied before realizing he was perhaps being a little too honest with their son. He glanced over to Jon’s shocked face. “Um. You should do as your mother says and not as your mother does.”

“At least I can fly,” Jon said, amazed. “Mom can’t but she did it anyway—“

“I didn’t say she was good at risk assessment, Jon, I’m glad you inherited some of my reservations,” Clark laughed, trying to switch subjects as he heard a familiar rhythm from the hallway. “How’s your soup?”

“Okay,” Jon replied.

“Only okay?” Clark asked, trying not to show his surprise.

“Mom’s is better,” Jon informed him.

“Your mother warms up a can of soup. This is homemade,” Clark tried to defend.

“No wonder my ears were burning at the office,” Lois’ voice called from the door as it opened. “Sorry to just drop in. I kept writing the same sentence five times and realized that I couldn’t get any work done knowing my little man of the house was in bed sick.”

“Hi, Mom,” Jon greeted her, melting into her side as she pulled him into a hug against her waist.

Lois then looked perturbed toward Clark. “How else do you make soup if it’s not from a can?” she asked. “Never mind, don’t tell me. It’s in the can because someone else has already perfected it.”

Clark sighed and got up, pulling both of his family into an embrace. “Jon, you might miss Hamilton, but let me assure you, you are every bit the tasteless city slicker that your mother is.”

“Don’t you trust me?” Clark asked almost coyly as he stood — or, rather, hovered inches above the floor — right alongside the bay window of their mid floor apartment.

“Of course I do,” Lois said, leaning against the doorframe of their bedroom as she stood on one foot and snaked the other through the rim of her awaiting boot. “Why else would you say let’s fly and I go for my raincoat? That’s a lot of faith for any wife to have that her husband isn’t going to leave her waiting on the sidewalk in a puddle.”

“You won’t need your raincoat or your boots,” he assured her with that sunny Kansas boy smile ear to ear on his face.

“Maybe, but even the most faith in the world doesn’t take away the benefits of preparation,” Lois assured him, stomping her heel down to finish putting on the rubber boot and then yanking her raincoat’s hood up over her hair.

“Won’t need them,” he assured her.

Before Lois could fully articulate her sarcasm, Clark vanished in a whirl of light. There and then vanished, replaced in Lois’ senses by a moment of utter weightlessness.

Carried bridal style, Lois couldn’t help but feel the strength in Clark’s grasp. There was so much power wielded so tenderly with each one of his fingers, and his muscles still pressed strongly against the fabric of her raincoat.

There was probably not a single place safer in all of the universe than those arms, and they were snugly wrapped around her, carrying her light as a feather through the winds.

It never stopped amazing her just how fast Clark was, the way the wind was able to thunder around him like a jet engine one moment and then, finally, in what would take but a breath for others, they were somewhere completely else.

And, to Lois’ complete surprise, there was no rain, nothing pelting her clothes or sloshing against her boots. She blinked, clearing her vision as she slowly eased back against Clark’s touch and allowed herself to turn enough to look where Clark obviously wanted her to see.

“Wow,” she breathed.

Below their feet, by maybe a hundred feet, were the tops of the highest skyscrapers in Metropolis, and above them the rolling, growing puffs of air that were the heavy thunderclouds.

The sun was still at their backs up above the clouds, not just the reflections of the bay, and the clouds themselves were connected less by their amorphous formless spheres but by the webbing of multicolored light, flashing between them, over each other, lighting wisps of smoke up like a Christmas tree.

It wasn’t like anything Lois had seen before, especially not so close.

And Clark, strong and steady as ever, kept her shielded from all wind, all turbulence that might be felt by a plane or rocket.

It was just them, dancing above the lightning clouds to the beat of a thunderous drum.

When she turned and faced Clark, tracing her hands over his shoulders and resting them at the base of his neck, Lois couldn’t help but shake her head slightly and offer a small laugh. “What did I do to deserve a Superman?” she asked out loud.

“You never had to do a thing,” Clark laughed in turn. “Maybe playing a little hard to get.”

“That what they call walking off a rooftop these days?” she snarked, squeezing the muscle of his neck.

Clark’s Kansas smile had never shown brighter as they gently spun with the winds. “Maybe having a little faith was the trick.”

“Maybe, Smallville,” she laughed in turn, bringing her hand up to his cheek and gently stroking the lines of his cheek. “Did you ever expect to be showing off by taking a girl over the rainbow?”

“Not really,” Clark laughed back. “I did know it was going to be a long way from Kansas before I did.”