#videogeek

( even if there's an ugly, awful part of her that feels GRATEFUL; grateful to finally have proof that Kal misses his parents too; misses their FAMILY too. that at least he—at least he remembers that they're gone. that he hasn't forgotten everything about Krypton; about Aunt Lara and Uncle Jor.

about their family.

she couldn't stand it, feeling like she was the only one who knew to miss them.

but even if there's that ugly, awful part of her, she still needs to fix this for him. )

But he just keeps screaming, and she can't fix it.

This isn't what their family saved her for.

She'd only agreed to go to begin with because of Kal. She'd only agreed to go for him. She'd only agreed for that, and then she'd panicked at the last moment and gone back on her word and argued, and tried to protest, and tried to convince her parents not to send her away, not to—

So then they'd had to throw her into the ship, and that'd been the last she'd ever touched or seen either of them, and the last words they'd ever said to each other.

She hadn't even been able to give them a goodbye, or to let them die proud of their daughter for doing her duty, and die certain that she would. That she could.

Kara can't fail them. Can't fail Aunt Lara and Uncle Jor. Can't fail Kal.

But Kal is sobbing and screaming and struggling in her arms, and she can't fix it.

She can't fix it, but he has to see her smiling.

"Do you want to hear a story, Kal?" she tries to offer, because she doesn't know what else to try, though she keeps trying to jog him soothingly and walks around the room with him. He just keeps sobbing and screaming and chiming in distress in her arms, though, and she feels like bursting into tears herself.

But she can't do that, because Kal needs to see her smiling.

He can't see her any other way.

He can't.

"I'm here, Kal," Kara tries again, because she can't say it's okay; can't say anything more than that. She takes another lap of the room, and Kal just sobs and sobs against her shoulder. He isn't struggling like before, and his sobs are quieter, but no less body-wracking. She thinks he's just wearing himself out, but not actually any less upset. She tries to think of a story to tell him—Cythonna's would be too frightening, but Flamebird and Nightwing's would be too sad, but the Oversoul and the Phantom Zone's might be too frightening and too sad, but . . .

She just doesn't know what to do for him at all, to the point she can't even think of a story to tell him.

This isn't why she's here. This isn't why their family sent her here. This isn't . . .

She swallows roughly, and just . . .

She's here. She's here for Kal. So if she's going to tell him anyone's story . . .

"The story is to begin, and when it ends, you will know what you think of it," she begins to recite. "Once there was and now there are two goddesses: Kara of the constellations, and Lorra of the moon. They are sister-goddesses to each other, and they are the goddesses of beauty and daughters of Krypton, born from the glimmer of starlight on the red sea and the molten glow of the first mortal forge; born from the light of other suns and other gods, and the light of the first mortal creation. Kara is the beauty of the void, of the darkness and the stars and the wild green things that grow under their distant light and the mortal bodies that live and die by that beauty, and Lorra is the beauty of craft and technology; of machinery and art and the work of mortal hands and tools; of the harmonious joining of mortal minds and the raw gifts of the earth, and—and mortal memory. Mortal memory, and what it has built upon itself. What all of . . . what all of . . ."

She swallows, and it hurts.

There's a story to tell. There's . . . a story.

There's a story, and Kal is still crying, and crying, and crying. Kal is still crying, the last child of their house—the last child of their planet—and he needs to see her smiling.

He needs to know she's here.

Kara . . . Kara tells the story. It's the only thing she can think to do. Kal cries through all of it, until he's so exhausted his sobs are nothing but weak and small and hurt little hiccups of dissonant grief and discordant pain, and she walks him in rhythmic circles around the BLANK and aches through all of it.

She kneels next to Kal and makes a little stack of wooden cubes like Ma and Pa always do, and Kal cheers excitedly and knocks it over with his Krypto like he always does. She doesn’t have any stories to read him like they do, though she could try to find something on the tee-vee, she supposes. 

She could, but . . . 

But his first word wasn’t Kryptonian, so–no, she doesn’t want to find him a story on the tee-vee. 

Not right now, at least. 

She sets up another little stack of wooden cubes, and Kal knocks it down with another excited cheer, and she thinks of Vohc and Flamebird, ever-building and ever-burning, until . . . 

That’s not a story she wants Kal to hear right now either. 

She could tell him about Rao and the Mother of Monsters. She could tell him about Yuda or Mordo or Telle; she could tell him about Aethyr and the Phantom Zone; she could tell him about Black Zero, even. 

She could tell him about their family. 

Kal giggles and smacks the toppled cubes with his stuffed Krypto again, and cheers excitedly again too. 

Kara stacks the cubes up again, and doesn’t tell him anything at all. She just . . . keeps stacking them up over and over, and Kal keeps knocking them down happily over and over, over and over again. It’s . . . 

She keeps stacking them up, over and over. 

She smiles at Kal every time she makes a stack and every time he knocks a stack over, because he has to see her smiling. He laughs delightedly and claps his hands, but mostly just squishes his stuffed Krypto between them a couple of times, and then smacks the cubes over with it again. 

The wall counter doesn’t match the diagram Ma left yet. 

It looks like it’s not going to match it for a long time still. 

She goes and cleans up the sup-purr dishes and packs up and puts away the remaining food in the fridd-juh the same way Ma does. She washes the dishes–by hand, which is still so strange to her–and then dries them and slots them in the rack next to the sink to make sure they’ll dry all the way before she puts them back into the cupboards. She can hear Kal singsong-ing little things to himself, or maybe to his stuffed Krypto, and hear him clacking the wooden cubes together again too. He giggles, and it’s full and melodic and resonant. 

No one else in the universe sounds like Kal does anymore. 

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.

.

Kara cleans up dinner and the kitchen and everything she knows how to clean in the receiving room, though it doesn't look as nice as when Ma does it. It never does, though. She can't do the farm chores as well as Ma and Pa can. She can lift the heavier things a little easier, but that's just because she's younger, she's sure. And anyway, Pa can still lift most of them even without her, and Ma can lift some of them too.

Mostly Ma's chores are in the farmhouse and taking care of more of the animals, and Pa's are out in the barn and fields and taking care of the rest of the animals. Kara just does what they show her how to do, and sometimes wonders if they used to help each other with their different chores the way she does or if they had another farmhand before and she and Kal just showed up with good timing, or if maybe they used to hire people from Smoll-Veel to help out.

She wishes she knew . . . a lot of things about this planet, obviously, the least of those things being the language, but especially she wishes she knew how long Ma and Pa are going to let them stay. Just—it'd be easier, to know. She could plan for it, if she knew.

At least she could brace herself for it, if nothing else.

It'll be easier once she can brace herself for it, she tells herself. It'll be—easier.

It'll have to be.

( won't it? )

Kara tells herself it'll be easier, and tries to clean up the kitchen a little better. She half-listens to Kal babbling and chattering to his toys, but his tone is flat and blank and the intermittent words he uses aren't . . . they aren't . . .

Kara tunes out Kal's babbling and chattering to his toys and tidies the receiving room a little more too. She sweeps it and the kitchen and even the big front porch and little back steps, but it still doesn't feel like enough. She looks around for anything else that might need taken care of, but isn't—

Kal makes a strange, flat noise—makes it loud—and Kara nearly knocks over the kitchen table she was uselessly trying to tidy up. Kal makes the strange noise again and she looks over at him in confusion. He's looking around the setting room with a deep furrow in his brow, looking—bothered, she thinks? She thinks he looks bothered. But he isn't fussing or chiming, or—

Kal doesn't chime that much anymore, though, she reminds herself. He doesn't . . .

Kara stops thinking about that and goes over to him and crouches down beside him to skim a hand up his back. He makes that flat sound again, looking fussy now, and looks around again too.

"What's wrong, Kal?" she asks, rubbing his back in an attempt to soothe him. "Did something happen?"

Kal makes that flat sound again, loud, and Kara forces herself not to frown and keeps stroking his back. He squirms away from her hand, then tries to push himself up to his feet. He overbalances immediately and falls, and yips in distress when Kara catches him before he can land on his bottom. He immediately screeches at her and tries to wriggle out of her grasp.

"Nuh! Nuh!" he whines. "Kuh-lair NUH!" Then he looks around the setting room again and lets out another loud yip, smacking the floor with both hands in obvious frustration. Kara doesn't let herself frown, but . . .

"What are you looking for, Kal?" she tries. "What do you need?"

Kal just whines louder and crawls away across the receiving room floor, swinging his head from side to side as he scans the room for whatever it is he's looking for.

"Kal?" she tries again, and he thumps down face-first onto the rug and starts crying. The bottom immediately drops out of her stomach, and she hurries over to him and scoops him up, frantically checking him for bumps or bruises and then looking around for anything that might've frightened him as she tries to croon comfortingly to him, but he just cries harder and tries to wriggle out of her grasp again, even though she's standing now, and she nearly drops him.

The bottom drops out of her heart, it feels like.

"Kal, Kal, it's alright, it's alright, I'm here, you're alright—" she tries frantically, but he just tries to kick out of her arms and wails. Wails and wails and wails, and beats his fat little fists against her chest and keeps trying to fight his way out of her arms, and she nearly drops him again, and she can't do that, she can't, she can't ever do that, can't ever let him fall, can't—

Kal screams, his voice going from flat and dull to high-pitched and discordant, and Kara realizes—oh. Oh, that's . . .

That's a child-call.

That's a child-call for—a parent.

Oh.

Kara feels nauseous.

She knew . . . she knew he would eventually. She knew he'd eventually . . . eventually call for . . . she knew he'd . . .

Kara . . . swallows, and—braces herself. She knew—she knew Kal would call for Aunt Lara and Uncle Jor eventually. The fact it took this long is . . . is already . . .

She knew this was coming. This is absolutely something she'd braced for. She'd known this was coming, and she'd braced herself for it, so—so what's wrong with her, that . . .?

Why does she feel like this, when she'd braced herself for it? Why does . . .?

Kal screams again, his voice clashing against her ears like a fragile, multi-crystal instrument smashing to pieces on the floor in the center of a performance hall, and she tries—she tries to—

She thinks food used to taste better, before. She’s sure it did, actually, but she doesn’t know if that’s because the aliens’ food just doesn’t appeal to a Kryptonian palate or because everything in the universe just is hollow and empty to her now, without Krypton or their house to go back to. Without their people to go back to; without their world to go back to. 

Without a home for either of them. 

Ma and Pa are so, so kind, but Kara can’t expect them to put up with them forever. Eventually they won’t have the space for them, or the growing season will end, or . . . just–eventually they won’t need another “Kent”, and Kara and Kal will be more of a burden than a help to them, and . . . 

Kal seems to like most of the aliens’ food just fine, but maybe that’s just because he’s never tasted Kryptonian food, and doesn’t know what it should taste like. 

And won’t ever. 

Kara pushes all those thoughts down, and plays Pa’s catching game with him. Ma can’t throw very well, Kara thinks, or maybe just doesn’t like to play, because Pa only ever seems to ask her to. 

It’s not much to ask, she thinks, for how much he and Ma have done for them. Pa seems to appreciate having someone to play his game with, and Kal likes to watch them play it anyway, so . . . 

It’s not that much, no. 

Maybe she can teach Kal how to play too, when he’s bigger. Though he probably won’t remember that he used to like to watch it, given how far from Ma and Pa’s farm and Smoll-Veel they’ll have to be by then. 

He doesn’t seem to remember Aunt Lara and Uncle Jor at all, so why would he remember Ma and Pa? 

Today Pa offers Kara her pick of the webbed glove–which means she’d throw the ball and he’d club it–or the club–which means he’d throw the ball and she’d club it. Or sometimes Pa will toss the ball up and club it himself when it comes back down, so he can hit it harder and Kara can be far enough back to still catch it. Kara’s tried it that way once or twice, but Pa usually can’t run fast enough to catch it either way. 

Well, that’s why she’s a useful “Kent” here, she supposes. Pa’s strong, but she’s still fairly certain he and Ma are both middle-aged, and at least they both seem to be about as physically-fit as a middle-aged Kryptonian would be, she thinks. She doesn’t know all that many Laborers, so she’s not sure, just–

. . . she didn’t know all that many Laborers. 

Kara takes the club, today. Hitting something sounds–better, today. 

And she doesn’t want to throw the ball as hard as she thinks she’d want to throw it, since it’s Pa she’d be throwing it at. 

The pink drink was so pretty, like the kind of fancy thing she’d get at a tea room or a milk bar with her friends after class and they’d all share while making their way through whatever mismatched plates they’d decided to order without even caring about the composition of the meal, but it didn’t taste like anything at all. 

Pa puts on the webbed glove and tucks the ball into it as he heads across the grass plot surrounding the house–the “yurr-duh”, he and Ma call it–and Kara hefts the club and gives it a swing or two, just to familiarize herself with the weight of it again. It’s always been light, but it feels even lighter lately. 

She thinks–well, it’s a good sign, she thinks. It means she’s still getting stronger. And the stronger she gets, the better a Laborer she’ll be, and the better she’ll be able to take care of Kal. She’s been learning how to do more and more of the farm chores, and the more of those she learns, the easier it’ll be for her to find farming work later. Just–the more she knows about how the aliens farm and how their technology works and their language, the more useful she’ll be, and the more employable she’ll be. 

She needs to be as good at this as she can be. She needs to be worth hiring; worth keeping. 

“Thah-suh ow-urr gurr,” Pa says, and gets out another ball and grins at her. “Reh-dee, Ka-Lair?”

“Reh-dee, Pa,” she says like she’s supposed to with a smile like Kal needs to see on her face, and brings the club up to her shoulder again. 

She needs to be so much better than she is. 

Maybe this pretty little yellow sun will help her do that, if she can prove she’s a good enough “Kent” to it. 

.

.

.

They play Pa’s “ketch” game all afternoon, or they pray all afternoon. Kara doesn’t know either way, but just hopes she’s doing it right. If this is some kind of ritual or meditation or something meant for the sun or the harvest, she really wants to be doing it justice. 

They lose every ball she clubs out into the distant fields and Pa makes excited noises about it every time, so she thinks at least that much she’s managing to get right. 

Or–hopes, again. 

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After they play–or pray–the day goes . . . different. Ma makes sup-purr early, but only enough for Kara and Kal, and Pa says–Kara thinks what Pa says is that they’re . . . that they’re leaving, and her gut twists, and her heart clenches, and–

It’s their farm, she reminds herself. Ma and Pa’s farm. They–they won’t leave for good. They’ll . . . they’ll come back. 

They will, won’t they? This is Ma and Pa’s farm, isn’t it? They don’t just–stay here for the season, and then leave? 

She knows that’s not right. She knows that even if they do leave, they’d have been packing, and there’d have been a harvest, and . . . and they would’ve . . . 

She thinks they would’ve told her. 

They’re . . . they’re always so kind. Wouldn’t they have told her, if they were going to leave? 

She . . . she thinks they would’ve told her. 

Ma and Pa put their jackets on–those sturdy blue ones with the flat metal studs and odd fasteners, like the one they lent her once; like the one they bought for her later. Lots of people in Smoll-Veel wear jackets like them, all of them cut just a little bit different, and some of them wear pants made out of the same odd, thick and heavy fabric. Ma leaves sup-purr on the table for them, and she pats Kara’s face and Kal’s head, and Pa pats Kara’s shoulder and Kal’s back, and Ma points at the timer on the wall, and then they fuss a little more, and then they go outside together and get into their see-dann together. 

The rumble comes back longer, and closer, and louder. She can hear something else now, like the spatter of water in Ma and Pa’s strange bath with the spray head but dozens and dozens of times over. Like . . . 

The spattering sound comes closer too, and starts echoing through the house; hitting the roof and windows and all the walls. Kara . . . blinks, slowly. 

Is that . . . rain? Just . . . in the middle of the day, out of nowhere? Who in Rao’s name scheduled rain for the middle of the day when they could’ve done it overnight, or at least in the evening after the workday was over? Especially in an area with so many farms and Laborers and outdoor work going on, on top of that? 

Kal fusses; whines again and tries to wriggle out of her arms. Kara doesn’t feel any less unsettled and doesn’t let him go. Just–once she’s sure it’s safe, and that this is just some ridiculous bureaucrat who’s never seen a farm in their life picking a stupid time for rain, or some strange quirk of nature that means this planet’s plants need midday rain, for . . . whatever reason. She’ll let him go then. Just . . . 

Just why would anyone schedule rain during the day? 

“Pa?” she asks uneasily, even though she knows she won’t understand anything he says. He pats her shoulder again; gives it a little squeeze. The aliens touch each other much more freely than any Kryptonians she’s ever known who weren’t on each others’ family registers, but she’s gotten . . . well, at least from Ma and Pa, she’s gotten used to it. 

Definitely not from strange boys who don’t care if she drops Kal, though. 

“Jes thunn-darr,” Pa repeats reassuringly. Or . . . she thinks he’s trying to sound reassuring, anyway. “Mar-Tha, lett-suh–”

The rain suddenly starts roaring, pouring down harder than Kara’s ever heard rain in her life, and the rumble bellows from the sky overhead louder than their crashing ships hit this planet, and Kal startles with a distressed knell, and Kara–Kara shrieks, clapping one hand over one of her ears but needing to leave the other to keep Kal wrapped up safe in her lap, and it’s the loudest thing she’s ever heard and it just keeps going and– 

Pa covers her other ear with one of his own hands, making the strange hissing noise he and Ma try to comfort her or Kal with sometimes, and she wonders distantly if the aliens evolved from reptilian lifeforms, but his hand is warm against her ear and–and– 

The rumbling crashes again, louder, and Kal starts knelling louder and louder, distress-chimes ringing in and out of his voice, and Kara covers his ears instead of her own and tries to curl her body down around his, tries not to sob, tries–it’s so loud! Why is it so loud?!