#after she fell to the ground ray found some kind of ID on her body

[khaneaihoto]

Enjoy it while your luck lasts, but the Witch of Waltaiusunarga won’t lose forever.

I don’t have the time to listen to ghosts. 

[kikilefangirl]

New Light

Barry Allen x Reader

(Quick Note: Happy Inauguration Day! After all the craziness and stress four years in the making, I wanted to write someone as kindhearted and sweet as Barry Allen.)

(Word Count: 1837)

“I’m on my way, Felicity, my train was running late—“

A hard shoulder slamming into your chest cut you off mid sentence and knocked you all the way to the hard ground.

Between the roar of trains coming in and out of the platform, shuffling footsteps, and your friend’s worried yelling through the phone, disoriented was a nice way of putting it. Your still head was spinning as you stumbled to your feet.

“Oh my, oh my god, I am so sorry—let me, uh— and you’re...already...up.” He rambled.

So it was a man who ran into you. And he was going on and on nervously as he picked up your fallen items. He had a thin build and dark hair, but you could only focus on his clumsy hands and apologetic eyes.

“It’s totally fine, just be careful next time.” You joked and pushed your braids away from your face.

The man rose to his feet and held your phone and purse out towards you. As you took them and gave him your best smile. There was something about his absentmindedness that was kind of charming and intriguing.

“I, uh, um...Barry Allen. I’m Barry Allen....Barry is my name.” He said.

You held in your laugh for fear of flustering him more and settled on a curious gaze. Barry wiped a hand on his back pocket and offered it to you.

“Nice to meet you, Barry. I’m Y/N.” You replied as you shook his hand.

You decided to omit the Queen part of your name, for now. Barry seemed sweet and genuinely interested in you. Having a dead father, a brother back from the dead, an out of control sister, and a mother on trial for mass murder tended to scare away any potential partners. You shifted your weight.

You had to get going sooner rather than later, but not wanting to let Barry go just yet, you took out a pen out of your purse and wrote your number on his palm.

“Try not to mow anyone else down today, and maybe give me a call if you're still in town, Barry.” You told him.

He stuttered through a response and turned a bright pink. You nodded with a smile and promptly walked off to your awaiting car.

“Barry Allen.” You repeated his name out loud once inside and heat built up in your cheeks. You hoped he’d call.

...

Oliver was waiting in his office for you when you walked up to the entrance of Queen Consolidated.

Pushing through the glass doors, you didn’t spare a second thought on the curious stares people sent you, you had spent your whole life getting them. A ping on your phone made you smile as soon as you saw it.

Sorry I ran you over earlier...I don’t really know places to go out here, but I could find somewhere if you still wanted to go out with me?—Barry Allen (from the train station, sorry again!)

A warm, bubbly feeling took over your whole body. Barry gave you a feeling you had rarely experienced: he was genuinely good. You needed some positivity in the midst of your chaotic life.

Before you could reply back, a woman’s voice and body stood in your way. You had only made it to the front desk.

“Excuse me—“

“No unauthorized personnel, here.” She explained.

Your eyes narrowed into slits as you looked up from your phone. Tons of other people were free and clear to pass by, but of course you, the black girl was stopped. Clicking your tongue, you tried to move past her.

“Do you have an ID for Queen Consolidated? If you don’t I’m going to have to ask you to leave before I call the police.” She said.

Bullshit.

“My name is Y/N Queen. Move.” You sniped. You were already running late as it was, but today of all days a white girl just had to try you.

“I’ve never heard of you. I’m calling the police.” She threatened. Her hand was already on the buttons. You huffed. What had started as an annoyance had escalated into full blown danger.

You quickly dialed your brother’s number. He picked up on the second ring.

“You’re late, Y/N.” Oliver chastised from the other end.

“Actually, I’m downstairs being blocked from the elevator, in a building we own, and a company we have shares in. Get down here, now.”

For a few tortuous minutes, you stood there waiting at a stalemate. The security was bounding down the steps; they were big men in dark suits and earpieces.

You ran your tongue on the roof of your mouth, a mix of anger and fear and shame. Oliver wasn’t supposed to bail you out. You were just as much a Queen as he was and should’ve had the same access as he did. You ground your teeth and folded your arms.

You were relieved when the elevator dinged and Oliver stepped out of it.

His eyes widened in surprise for a split second, before the realization of what was happening sunk in. To anyone that didn’t know him, Oliver might have looked calm. But the clenched jaw, pulled back lip corners and the way he furled and unfurled his hands as he adjusted his suit said otherwise.

“Who told you that you could physically block and try to remove my sister from the area?” He said with a straight face, staring directly at the woman.

You smirked as she stumbled through a range of bullshit excuses and ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Queen’ over and over again to no avail.

Oliver protectively ushered you into the elevator, but before the doors could close you yelled, “Might wanna see who’s hiring!”

On the way up, you brushed off Oliver’s questions and concerns. You had lived your entire life black, this was nothing new to you. But after five years away, it probably was to him. You weren’t a teenager standing by his or your dad’s side anymore.

“I’m fine, Ollie. Drop it, please.” You pleaded.

“That woman was going to call the police on you, Y/N.” He continued, still bewildered.

“I get that being on that island wasn’t your fault, but I’ve held my own as a black woman for five years without you or dad. Things like that are just a part of the package.” You explained.

As the two of you stepped off the elevator, you softened when he gave you a long hug. It was his apology, and you leaned in, accepting it. Five years was a long time away.

“I only came by to check in on you. With the break in and all, plus Mom’s party tonight...” You trailed off.

Oliver offered a small smile as the two of you rounded the corner. You blinked in surprise when you saw none other than Barry Allen talking to Felicity. Your mood instantly brightened.

“Barry!” You called out. At the sound of his name, he saw you and fell flat on his face. Clumsiness was becoming a theme between you two. You hurried over and helped him up.

“I’m so sorry!” You exclaimed, but Barry stared at you, confused. You held Barry’s full attention as if no one else was in the room. It was refreshing, really.

“Hi-hi again, Y/N...What are you doing h-here?” He asked. You held Barry’s full attention as if no one else was in the room. It was refreshing, really. Too bad Oliver had to ruin it.

“Barry, how do you know my little sister?” He said it, more than asked it.

Oliver gave Barry an icy glare. The threat in his voice may have had an effect on everyone else, but it made you roll your eyes in annoyance. He just had to add the little sister part. Barry straightened up and swallowed nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the process.

Damn it, Oliver. You two were very hot and cold lately and it bothered you to no end.

“I met him this morning, Ollie, mind your business.” You snapped. You turned back to Barry and smiled.

“There’s a party at our house tonight, you should drop by if my idiot brother doesn’t kill you first. Text me for the address.” You declared. Your eyes burned with defiance as you stormed off, matching Oliver’s mood. You guessed you really were siblings.

As you left, you hoped Barry would show.

...

The annual Queen family Christmas party was honestly, the most awkward two hours of your life.

You, Moira, Thea, and Oliver stood in an almost empty living room. The only guests seemed to be the caterers. Barry hadn’t texted you, either.

“Maybe...people got lost on the way.” You offered. Moira smiled at you and patted your shoulder.

“Thank you, dear, but we all know the real reason. Nobody wants to be seen with the likes of me.” She said. She was right. You shot her an apologetic look and handed her another drink.

Oliver took the opportunity to whisk you away from your mother and sister, “Y/N, help me with the drinks, please.”

You obliged without protest. You had already been stood up by half the city and Barry. Family really was all you had.

“What, Ollie?” You asked in an exasperated tone.

“I know that you took on a lot, while I was on the island. And I know that being the oldest wasn’t easy, especially for you in the public eye. I read the tabloids.”

Oliver’s admission made you a little teary eyed. He was the first person in the family to truly consider you family. He was your big brother. He caught up on all of the horrible headlines and rumors that swirled about you after the news broke about the Queen’s Gambit.

“Which is why I invited someone special, tonight. For you.” Oliver said. You raised a brow in confusion.

“I’m not that great over text.” You turned around and your mouth dropped open a little. It was Barry, in a really nice suit looking finer than ever. You gave him a hug and he took your hand.

“I’m also not a great dancer, I’ll try not to step on your toes.” He admitted. You led him to the dance floor and nodded to the musicians.

“Don’t worry about it. There isn’t much of a crowd to judge you.” You joked.

You and Barry swayed to the music, talking and laughing the whole way through. Barry Allen, you found, really was the ray of light you needed in the moment. The past few months were some of the hardest in your life, filled with dark moments and uncertainty.

As Barry held you and told you corny science jokes and yes, stepped on your toes once or twice, you realized you had never met anyone as sweet and as kind as him.

When the night was over, you couldn’t help but look forward to the next time you saw him.

[ariadne-rx300-blog]

(R)e:volution

Summary: The RX300, arguably the most elusive design of Elijah Kamski's creation. An undisclosed prototype tasked with human-android relations espionage, equipped with a real-time observational UI, social protocol, combat tactics and looks to kill. How does a painted genius so easily lose track of his own spy? (Android OC/Connor)

Additional Tags: Pre-Deviant Connor, Pre-Android Revolution, OC backstory, Mostly Canon Compliant, Elijah Kamski has ulterior motives, OC is Kamski’s surveillance android, sort of like when people say Google is listening to your conversations, she’s kind of like that, OC observes Connor at work, for “observational research purposes”, this totally isn’t one of those types of romances, except it totally is, probably, Drama & Romance, Fluff and Angst, Deviant Love, Connor Deserves Happiness, Big Brother is Watching

Link to Chapter 1

2 || At Any Cost

Chapter Summary: "What makes me what I am?”

RX300 #151 073 925 - 21

Awaken, fair Eve, skin as alabaster in the light of an artificial moon. The Garden has unfinished business with you.

                                                                                                    AUGUST 15TH 2038

P a r a d i s e

As dusk fell, Kamski's simulated arboretum[1] had taken on an ethereal light, jarring in Eve's vision as she stepped forward into inverted god-rays on the rocky path. One foot in front of the other, she pushed past glowing plants with fronds brushing synthetic skin, tickling her cheek had she been capable of the sensation. Her LED spun blue in the simulated darkness, displaying her calm distance from that which was subjectively beautiful. The pathway before her formed itself slowly but steadily, illuminated by her steps as she went with her main directive in mind.

He stood on a pedestal in this dreamscape, arm extended as he stroked a large paintbrush across a previously-incorporeal canvas, hues of blue forming on the pillar before him, contrasting the inverse nature of the world around them.

"Elijah," Eve addressed him, simulated breaths expressed in glittering plumes. He paused, a smile passing over his features as he set his idle painting aside. Stepping from his pedestal and down to her level, he regarded her with the kind of consideration that could only be expected of a man in constant search of answers.

"Eve." He hummed as he approached, eyes glimmering curiously, "I've been closely watching your work. As you're already aware, you are equipped with the latest observational technology--in particular, an interface that I as your sole director may obtain oversight of at any time." She stood still as he circled her contemplatively, her face fixed forward, expression unchanged. "You are my eyes. Anywhere that you can go, I can go. It is a great gift, but one we must hide."

She blinked like a child with tired eyes to his lecturing. He placed his hands upon her shoulders, reaching just a bit taller than his own, his eyebrows rising and falling as he processed her rigid response to his grasp. "Your task is of great importance to me," He gently chided, "to my company. To the world, inevitably. The information we need is imperative to the advancement of human history."

"I understand," she spoke deliberately, "it is my purpose to uphold the expectations you have for me. I am designed to impress, not disappoint." Words fit for the ears of her creator. He'd programmed her well enough to give him adequate lip service, even in the event of a miscalculation or subsequent error.

"Good," He grinned, heaving a sigh that seemed to betray his outright confidence in her abilities. "At the moment, I believe I have an urgent case worth looking into." He stepped backward, finding his place among the luminescence of simulated flowers, turning on his heel and spreading his arms wide. His hands closed, fingers splaying to conjure a transparent monitor in the space before him. Pictures and videos flooded the screen, as well as various taglines heading the articles that surfaced on its intangible display.

Eve surveyed the images, poised to take in only the details that would be deemed necessary. A prominent variable caught her attention and easily debunked this mentality, however; an android detective, purportedly on active duty in the same location, its[2] conventionally approachable appearance wavering in the ether.

"I've arranged transportation, your alibi has been forwarded to you. The authorization you'll need has just been cleared by the DPD. Survey the crime scene, and keep an eye--" Elijah gestured vaguely to the enlarged image of the android in question, "--on that one. Take note of its actions. Don't let anyone onto your motive. This is strictly confidential observational research."

New Objective Received.

A wave of sensory overload flooded Eve, causing her eyes to harshly blink open. Blueish, bruised moonlight caressed her arm where she stood at a large, arched window looking out over broken waves. CyberLife Tower. The room that greeted her was more or less a glorified walk-in closet, complete with an array of outfits fit to dress both androids and humans--or, in the case of Eve on covert occasions, androids posing as humans. This mission required as such, seeing as the DPD wouldn't take kindly to any android apart from the obvious showing up to observe an active deviant threat.

Tensions had risen so quickly, with curious attachment to the Detroit area. It made sense that Kamski would be so adamant about attempting to frame deviancy from every angle, as had been Eve's clear goal since her inception. Being unable to show up to a crime scene himself without flags being raised by reporters and by the American public as a whole--this was why he'd been so determined on sending her instead. On the outside, he'd declared his apparent resignment long ago, secluded himself away from the public eye for sake of personal privacy.

On the inside, he still headed the operation, pulling strings where needed and providing his legacy with the occasional adjustment; new amendments to his original formula where necessary. If he couldn't be where the action was to see for himself, at least he could have someone to act in his stead. In this case, something with the power to act as his inside source, his live feed.

                                                                                                    AUGUST 15TH 2038

T h e  P h i l l i p s '  R e s i d e n c e

Exiting the taxi had proven a hassle in itself. Eve moved through the throng of people who had gathered at the perimeter, buzzing with curious minds and excitable conversation over the active threat that was taking place high above them. The entrance of the apartment building burst open to reveal a disgruntled police officer holding a woman securely by the arm, escorting her through the flickering line of holographic police tape. She struggled frantically, and Eve saw her chance to move past personnel as the woman began to wail, much to the morbid curiosity of the gathered crowd.

"It has my child!" She bawled, "If you aren't going to save her, let me do it myself!"

Slipping into the complex and onto the elevator with ease, Eve ascended to the 70th floor. She prepared herself, armed only with words (to angle herself away from suspicion), a convincing ID (to provide evidence of the truth to her lies), a pen and notebook (to act as decoys; she had no real use for them aside from aiding her disguise), and an olivine polyester jacket (an aesthetic touch tailored to enhance her visual impression.) With some luck, the attention would be on the event at hand and not on her sudden, mysterious appearance.

She entered the luxury suite's foyer, casting her gaze around in silent surveillance. A framed photograph of the once-happy family to her right, a partly-drained aquarium to her left, shot-up yet still intact. On closer inspection, a single dwarf gourami swam within, unfazed by the circumstances that had befallen the household. The water that clung to her heels indicated the fish had recently been lying on the floor, leading to the conclusion that someone had carefully put it back in its rightful place. No human fingerprints... an android had saved it. Strange.

"Excuse me, miss, may I see your ID?" A prompt, as expected. Given the importance of the current events taking place across the country, DPD was sure to have the place on lockdown. What had once been a family home had turned into a crucial, currently-escalating case of deviancy.

Eve regarded the officer that questioned her, the woman's face drawn into a deeper emotion beyond her recognition. Eve shuffled in her jacket pockets, preserving her disguise as she put on a ruse of human forgetfulness. She 'found' her fake license soon after and proffered it to the officer, "I'm a journalist with Detroit Today," she lied, smiling with about as much excitement as she could simulate. "this is my first big break!"

The policewoman breathed out a sardonic laugh, "This is my first big case, too." Eve's expression faltered as the officer reluctantly handed back her ID. "I wouldn't look so bright if I were you, it's a bloody hellhole in there. That machine made a right mess of the place." The policewoman seemed satisfied thereafter and returned to her work guarding the entranceway, a slight stutter to her steps. Eve nodded to herself in delayed acknowledgment, taking a moment to recalibrate.

Proceeding to the main room, she quickly observed the damage that had been done by the perpetrator in question. Two bodies to the left and right; fatally shot by near-perfect aim. The first bodies Eve had witnessed. Glass had scattered on the ground from the ricochet of bullets leading back to the foyer. That mother was lucky to be alive; why would she have wanted to risk her life? She was untrained and would easily have been apprehended. If anything, her interference would have worsened the situation at hand. Her daughter, taken hostage by their own domestic android.

Eve stopped dead in her tracks as her view was obscured, thought process unexpectedly derailed. A tall man brushed past her, heeding her no mind as he went to examine the body in the living room. A correction was quickly made as she noted a spinning LED--a tall android had made its way to examine the body, leaving her in the lurch for a moment as she took in this new information. Given context clues and the general information she had, the only androids that had been permitted access to the crime scene (aside from herself, secretly) were that of the deviant perpetrating the crime and the android negotiator itself. This one, the one Kamski had wanted her to watch, the prototype detective.

SWAT bickered in the other room, apparently unable to make positive contact with the hostage or the deviant that had taken her. A few stood at the doorway to the terrace, arguing amongst themselves as they repeatedly aimed and lowered their weapons through shattered glass. Eve was invisible to them, a quiet bystander in an unexplained moment of weakness. She caught herself gawking and immediately straightened her back, keeping to the shadows as she observed the detective at work.

The android kneeled by the body of a dead man, stopping still as its programming kicked into gear. It stepped over the body, turning, and for a moment its dark, piercing gaze seemed to look right through her. Was it equipped with a function unlike her own? At most, she was aware of her own ability to pre-construct scenarios, had she the need to defend herself. But, the ability to recreate events that had happened prior? Now that was an interesting function of which she was not capable.

The detective blinked, then stooped to interact with an object on the ground. An electronic tablet likely dropped by the victim in his last moments. A look of recognition seemed to pass over the android's features; it turned its head to the terrace entrance, occupied by armored officers, then stood up to stalk over to the other body. A blue-blooded bloodhound, as was the comparable analogy that came to mind. It was strangely incredible, watching another android acting solely upon its programmed instincts.

In turn, Eve paused, blinking her eyes closed as she sent out a cursory report on her findings. Come to find, when she opened her eyes again, the bloodhound was standing before her, watching intently. "Hello," it smiled as it politely introduced itself to what it had apparently assumed was human, "my name is Connor--I'm the android sent by CyberLife. I couldn't help but notice that you seem a bit... preoccupied with my actions." Bouncing gently on its heels, it seemed curiously eager to interact with her, even despite its current, rather pressing objective. "You said that you were a journalist, correct? Is there anything you would like to inquire about my functions?"

Her chest expanded as she inhaled, pupils widening like camera lenses to little effect. It couldn't scan her... but oddly enough she couldn't scan it either. "Eve." She reciprocated the smile, settling back into a more casual, 'human' stance. "What can you tell me about the bodies, Connor? I noticed you had little trouble looking them over." She chose her words carefully, lips falling open as she processed each phrase. "Is that part of your programming?" She readied her decoy notebook and pen.

"Yes," It gave a small nod, LED spinning yellow as it seemed to take in every detail of Eve's face. It blinked excessively, struggling in its repeated attempts at an assessment of her identity. No doubt, had Kamski enabled it to detect anything past her inherent cloaking technology, it would have been able to uncover her true nature off the bat. It was dangerous to be this close to something that could so easily dismantle you, had it reason to, though evidently this thought was lost on her. After all, she wasn't a deviant; she wasn't prey, and even in the crosshairs of the hunter she felt no fear. She felt nothing, frankly.

"I am an RK800 prototype model, capable of high-grade military combat and investigative tactics." Eve noticed it fall into humanlike mannerisms as it explained, its head tilting slightly, a lock of synthetic hair falling over its forehead. It was undoubtedly designed to appear trustworthy to the human mind and had facial features that were overtly soft in nature, with brown eyes that were almost... gentle? Odd. "Per your inquiry, I am equipped with the ability to scan and reconstruct past events using the evidence that is available," Its voice piqued interest and carried a warm, unassuming tone. "and I even have a social protocol, which you've clearly noticed." A wink, followed by that rapid blinking again. Eve's eyebrows furrowed.

"Where the fuck is that negotiator?" The SWAT captain, on his last straw, broke the atmosphere between the two like an arm. The detective android, Connor, straightened itself at the first sign of urgency, wordlessly refocusing its energy on the task at hand. It didn't waste any goodbyes on the false-journalist, strict in its obedience, instead returning with long strides to examine the dead officer lying in the center of the room. Eve scurried back into the shadows and out of the captain's warpath, though he set his sights on her the moment she made any sudden movements.

"You're obviously not one of mine;" he sneered impatiently as he approached, "Are you authorized?"

"I am." Eve insisted, standing tall and nearly as forthright. "Eve Turing with Detroit Today. I've already been cleared." He looked her over, assessing a final judgement, though she attempted to null his suspicions with mirrored impatience. "Exactly how many more times do I have to answer?"

"None," The captain, 'Captain Allen,' she noted, puffed indignantly. "Your name's on the list." He crossed his arms over his chest and gestured with a nod towards Connor, his demeanor relaxing substantially. "Just, stay out of its way. This is a high-priority case, and things are about to get hairier." Technically, Connor had approached her, not the other way around. She didn't dare argue that fact, though, instead dismissing herself from the conversation with a submissive nod. Captain Allen promptly turned on his heel and returned to his team, likely deliberating over a backup plan in the master bedroom.

Across the room, Connor crouched low. Eve stepped forward despite the captain's warning, stooping to better capture the android's actions. The detective reached forward, retrieving the deceased officer's pistol. It was against the law for androids to possess any form of weaponry, as Eve had been programmed to acknowledge--watching Connor holster the gun in its back pocket caused a stir in her. Was it still a crime if used to further the mission? In Connor's mind, apparently not. It had said that it was trained with military combat tactics...

'Fascinating,' She shut her eyes tightly to the sensation that abruptly overcame her, standing upright as she felt as though someone were digging around in her head with a fork. Kamski's commentary moved through her mind as though they were her own thoughts, yet still clearly foreign to her processing. 'It didn't even hesitate.'

When she blinked her eyes open again Connor was poised to exit onto the terrace. The detective slid the door open and she scrambled to frame the oncoming scenario, ignorant to members of SWAT who voiced their concerns for her safety. She perched herself at the shattered window as the primary event commenced.

A fair-haired android stood at the opposite end of the terrace, a PL600 of domestic function with a small human girl in its grasp--the deviant and the daughter taken hostage. Somehow the previous descriptions hadn't done the actual visual much justice. Things became real as soon as the situation had presented itself before Eve's eyes. The girl squealed, deviant gruffly murmuring under its breath. A shot ripped through the atmosphere as Connor entered onto the scene, the bullet making impact with its clothed shoulder, spattering blue blood and rendering its wounded arm exposed and sparking.

"Hi, Daniel!" It shouted, much to the dismay of the offending android. "My name is Connor!" A SWAT helicopter flew to hover ominously over the scene, the wind from its blades tugging aggressively on Connor's suit jacket.

"How- how do you know my name?" Shock evident in its tone, the deviant's expression quickly twitched into unadulterated anger. It was hard for Eve to comprehend the emotion that struck its synthetic skin so easily, as though what it was feeling were more than simulation, bearing deeper roots than its superficial make.

Connor started forward, slow in its steps. Calculated, monitoring Daniel's rising ire. "I know a lot of things about you; I've come to get you out of this!" Pool furniture having been flung across the terrace in the all-encompassing gale, Connor reached to push a chair out of the way as it continued. "I'm an android, just like you." The detective-turned-negotiator pleaded despite steadily worsening conditions, "I know how you're feeling!"

"What difference does it make if you're an android?" Sneered the deviant with little regard to Connor's shallow empathy, "You're on their side! You can't understand how I'm feeling!" Daniel growled frustratedly and the hostage frantically screamed. "Are you armed?" The deviant spat, one arm clinging to the squirming child with a death-grip, the other pointing a pistol at Connor with potentially fatal aim.

"No!" Came the instant lie. "I don't have a gun!" Eve held onto the windowsill with bated breath, eyes wide. Connor was especially brazen, approaching a highly unlikely situation and directly working to increase its chance of success. It was particularly breathtaking and nonetheless unprecedented.

Daniel called Connor's bluff, though the detective's resolve remained unshaken. "You're lying! I know you have a gun!" A tango with ultraviolence; it was ironic that the one who'd committed the crime would appear more frightened than that of its foil.

"I'm telling you the truth, Daniel, I came here unarmed!" Another bold-faced lie in the face of clear opposition.

A wounded officer lay dying in a red pool of his own blood, barely conscious. Connor set its sights on the man, multitasking. "They were going to replace you and you became upset. That's what happened, right?"

Eve blinked as the deviant seemed to momentarily withdraw its guard, somehow affected by Connor's words. "I thought I was part of the family. I thought I mattered..." It snapped suddenly, firing up into chaos once more. It shook the gun in its hand exasperatedly, the child along with it. "But I was just their toy, something to throw away when you're done with it!"

Steps away from the dying man, Connor poked at Daniel's nerve with a fine tool. "I know you and Emma were very close. You think she betrayed you, but she's done nothing wrong!"

"SHE LIED TO ME!" Daniel roared, "I thought she loved me... But I was wrong. She's just like all the other humans!"

The young girl in its hold, 'Emma,' wept openly. "Daniel, no..."

Connor's attention drifted from the dying man to the erratic deviant. It kneeled to address the wound that Daniel had caused--a bullet through the arm, the injury oozing blood onto concrete at an alarming rate. It was a wonder the officer hadn't already fainted from the trauma or faded altogether. "He's losing blood," Connor stated, expression vague. "If we don't get him to a hospital, he's going to die."

"All humans die eventually!" Daniel exclaimed with disdain and utter lack of sympathy, "What does it matter if this one dies now?"

The detective's lip twitched as conflicting orders flitted across its vision. "I'm going to apply a tourniquet," It said finally, moving to assess the officer's punctured arm. Daniel fired a warning shot, the bullet shooting sparks from where it crashed into the ground near Connor's kneeled position.

"Don't touch him!" The deviant ordered, "Touch him and I kill you!"

The threat was palpable enough. The PL600 had already murdered three people; Emma's father, and two first responders: one lying cold in the dining room, the other afloat, facedown in the terrace pool. Had attempted to murder a fourth, the officer under Connor's attention, and a fifth, the small girl helpless in his arm. Connor, however, was not a 'person' in that regard; solely by the given definition of being an android had it forfeited any right to individual importance.

"You can't kill me," Connor barked, quickly untying its tie and wrapping the wound tight. "I'm not alive." Daniel expelled a breath of frustration as the detective stood to its feet and resumed its careful approach. "Listen," It started, "I know it's not your fault." A pause, followed by a further move for sympathy. "These emotions you're feeling are just errors in your software!"

"No, it's not my fault... I never wanted this... I loved them, you know?" Daniel was selfish, shaken again by Connor's prodding and eagerly responsive with a volatile demeanor. "--But I was nothing to them!" It argued, still pushing back. "Just a slave to be ordered around!"

'Loved' them... A 'slave'... Eve's lips puckered in silent contemplation.

"I can't stand that noise anymore!" The deviant suddenly yelled, "Tell that helicopter to get out of here!"

Connor moved to optimal distance then did as asked, waving the helicopter away from the scene. "There," The terrace calmed as the windstorm slowly died. "I did what you wanted." Even as the negotiator acted in favor of Daniel, the deviant proved unsatisfied. Connor had reached the threshold, and the night was on its last leg.

"You have to trust me, Daniel!" It begged upon selective ears, "Let the hostage go and I promise you, everything will be fine!"

Daniel's pupils shook as retroactive weakness took hold. "I want everyone to leave... And I want a car! When I'm outside the city, I'll let her go!" With the gun to Emma's head, it switched objectives, attempting to bargain in the face of looming destruction. Striking a deal with the devil for the sake of self-preservation, a remarkably humanlike mistake.

With so many sins, what was there left to save? Connor's lips pursed into the fine line that kept the deviant away from its stained freedom. "That's impossible, Daniel." Justice to be served. It spoke logically, "Let the girl go and I promise, you won't be hurt."

"I don't want to die..."

"You're not going to die." It was almost laughable, the pile of lies that had built up to this point. "We're just going to talk. Nothing will happen to you. You have my word." The word of a being comprised of wires and synthetic skin, a mind made of mathematical equations and social protocol, of programming for the purpose of deviant suppression. The word of a deviant hunter. An untrustworthy, nonempathetic, inhuman being with no ounce of rank to live up to its own promise of credibility.

Hesitation. An atmosphere riddled with the pungent mixture of death, chlorine, and gunpowder. A final problem[3] waiting to be solved.

"I've spent my life taking orders..." Daniel lowered the gun, its free arm opening wide as it had inevitably surrendered to its fate, intending to take its hostage along with it as its shoes hit the edge. "...Now, it's my turn to decide."

Time slowed as the PL600 careened backward over the cityscape below. Emma's scream tore across the terrace, body struggling for purchase as gravity increased. Connor sprung into action, shedding its patience to meet Daniel's desperate act with its own. Eve gasped for air as the detective leapt for the girl[4], gliding forward to collide with the deviant and pulling Emma to safety in one fell swoop.

The two androids tumbled over the side and out of view as Eve left the scene with numbed haste.

                                                                                                    THE TRUTH IS INSIDE

1 Similar to Amanda's Zen Garden, but instead centered around Kamski, acting as a sister subspace to the prior. The two exist separately, with Amanda's Zen Garden existing for Connor and Kamski's Paradise simultaneously existing for Eve; two sides of the same coin ("nature versus nurture.") As opposed to Amanda's emphasis on both literal and metaphorical 'nature' in the environment around her, Kamski's is a combination of nature and technology, with an infusion of cosmic influence to represent knowledge and the 'nurture' side of the argument. The name "Paradise" refers to the Garden of Eden from the biblical tale of Adam and Eve... more or less showing Kamski to be a self-proclaimed 'God' figure.

2 This is written from the perspective of Eve, a nondeviant android. Although Eve perceives herself with female pronouns, she perceives the other androids around her to be "it"s, like nonsentient objects. It's a blind irony.

3 Referring to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's infamous Sherlock Holmes finale "The Final Problem," originally intended as the end to the beloved detective's stories as a whole. Holmes and his archnemesis Moriarty duke it out, inevitably perishing together by way of falling into the gorge of the Reichenbach Falls. This is mirrored by Connor's act of sacrifice, as both he and Daniel die by falling off of the apartment building.

4 Software Instability ^

[folerdetdufoler]

like my first trip to oslo, this one started with an impulse purchase of tickets: a performance of snøfall on november 30th. i didn’t have a flight or a place to stay or any kind of plan really, just the fact that i had to be at the theatre with haidee & nadège at 18:00 on friday. i knew they would be in oslo then because they were planning on going to the fan convention, so i guess there was that. i had also chatted with jenn and knew she was going too, and for a few days there were a flurry of messages and excitement. and then i stopped thinking about it.

which is how i, an adult, deal with things that stress me out. at some point i bought a plane ticket, and booked a hotel room, and bought a concert ticket for saturday, and talked to some more people about it, but i still managed to be wildly unprepared by the time wednesday rolled around. i managed to find my passport that morning and pull my suitcase down from the attic, but i was still in my pajamas trying to finish the last chapter of my fic by the time it hit 15, when i was supposed to leave for the airport. i threw a vague number of outfits into that suitcase and got out of the house before my ride (my brother) got too pissed off, but i was super stressed out and disappointed in myself before we hit the highway.

i had left so much behind: my fic on my computer, my gifts for haidee and nadege, the glucose tablets i bought specifically for the trip, half of my toiletries...and on top of that i was about to head into airport security with a new pump and cgm attached to me. i honestly was not sure if i was going to actually get on a plane that evening. i stood in line, sweating through my pajamas, dying to anxiety-tweet through the whole thing except i didn’t want anyone to know i was at the airport in case i didn’t make it out. on top of everything i’d managed to forget/give up on before leaving the house, i didn’t want to fail yet another thing.

i didn’t, obviously. it was stressful as hell, because i had to send my bag, phone, passport, everything through the x-ray scanner and wait for someone to escort me through for a physical exam. i stood in the middle of the room for what felt like hours (it was not hours) watching as people swirled around my entire identity at the end of a conveyor belt, out of reach, knowing that even if i saw someone lift my shit i couldn’t yell or run to intervene because i was surrounded by tsa agents just waiting to body slam the girl with a small black box attached to her to the ground. i felt like a threat even though i wasn’t. i had foolishly sent my only glucose tablets through the machine with my bag so if i happened to go low while waiting, turning into a sweating, shaking, suspicious mess, i wouldn’t be able to save myself or prove my medical needs because, lol, my medical ID was in my bag too. ugh. scratch that, i was a threat to myself.

i made it through. an agent finally helped me through and did my exam. my pump was deemed not an explosive device and no one stole my passport. i even had enough time to change my sensor in the bathroom before boarding. this, of course, should have been done at home in a sanitary environment and not immediately before ascending 30,000 feet above the earth but i think we’ve established how shit i am at planning so...moving on.

the flight was great. i had an empty seat next to me. we were delayed about an hour taking off, but that just gave me time to text with lizzie, who was also at the airport then but on a different flight to oslo. i had missed her in my tsa daze but it was a fun realization that right then there was a tiny migration happening to oslo, a bunch of fans starting their journeys all around the world and getting excited. my sensor warmed up and functioned like a dream the whole flight, and i finally felt like i could breathe again by the time we’d landed at gardermoen.

at the airport i bought most of the things i had forgotten (a bitch needs tweezers, okay?) and zipped over to the hotel. they were super busy so i couldn’t check in, but i dropped off my suitcase and went to meet up with jasmine and silvia. god it was so nice to see jasmine again, that amazing norwegian ambassador. it’s so wonderful, just in general, being able to hug a person who is part of your life every day. i wouldn’t say we talk directly, but a day doesn’t go by where i don’t read her tweets and like, have this awareness of her life in my own, so on the one hand it’s like oh my god i haven’t seen you since the beginning of the summer and on the other hand i was just talking to you so uh, has anything new happened in the last hour? anyway, we hugged, i screamed, the usual, and then we found silvia, and after that hugging mission was complete it was on to the lunch mission!

the first photo i took on norwegian soil was the bar was passed: angst. this was where the book release party was held just the week before and i took a photo to capture my missed opportunity. i forget where we actually ended up for lunch but we ate and jasmine handed off the elle magazine i’d asked her to pick up for me and we talked about the fandom and the show and just...life in norway in general. as i spend more time there and talk to more people who live there, i’m convincing myself that i would like to try finding a job and staying for a while. i understand that all of my experiences thus far have been terribly positive because they’ve basically been vacations, with no basis for a regular lifestyle, but it still feels like the day-to-day reality wouldn’t be so scary either. check back in 2025 to see if i’ve made any progress on that.

after lunch we walked around with no real purpose. i wanted to go to the new h&m that had just opened that morning to see what the fuss was about with the collection that henrik & lea had modeled for. the store was pretty big but there was zero fuss. we stayed on karl johans, visiting the bookstore and wandering through the christmas market. then silvia had to leave so we said goodbye. in the spirit of a 220-lb. woman who barely has any social skills, i managed to hug silvia and lift her off the ground without realizing, so Io chiedo sinceramente scusa. it was a weird note to end on but up until that point it was just so nice being able to hang out with someone you’ve never met but instantly get. girl, you’re fabulous. vi ses snart.

the only other thing i had on my agenda was to visit the publisher to pick up my script books. it was a mini-nightmare getting into their office, which i wouldn’t have been able to do without jasmine’s help, but we managed to figure out how doors work and got to chat with someone. it turns out my books were still at the bar, so they promised to send them over to the hotel once they could get them back. they also told us about the book signing at tanum the following weekend, which was nice. i was bummed that i had managed to miss both the release party and the book signing but at least we had the information and could share it with the fandom.

then it was back to the hotel, where i could properly check in. i was greeted with a bathrobe with my name embroidered on it, which made me laugh. jasmine and i didn’t have any further plans so we decided to go find dinner and walk around some more. we took the elevator down (duh) and walked to johnny rockets for some milkshakes, which was fun. despite it being an american restaurant, i’ve never been, so it felt like i was being a tourist in my hometown. when i couldn’t give our waiter a fun fact about new jersey for him to entertain us with, he just gave up and drew a snowman in ketchup. not for his lack of trying though, it’s just that i live in the armpit of the united states and i don’t think that’s easy to illustrate in condiments. after dinner we went to find akrobaten bridge, which was on my list of sights to see even though it was only in the show for exactly six seconds in a couple of transition shots. no moment from season three is too small in my mind.

after that i think it was still pretty early but a bitch was done. i didn’t sleep much on the flight or the night before, so i was running on empty and literally fell asleep in front of jasmine at the hotel. i sent her off on her train after a more appropriate hug and the general idea that i’ll see her again. it didn’t happen that weekend but that was okay, because earlier that month i impulse-bought another ticket, so i knew i’d be back next year.

it’s just never enough, is it?

[robitusson]

The first time a man from the future showed up at Martha Kent's house, Clark Kent was two years old.

According to his birth certificate, anyway. She just kind of accepted that the details were a little fudged. Relativity, and all.

Maybe the stranger would have succeeded in whatever it was he wanted to do, except that he really did just show up. Appeared, like a ghost made flesh, right in the backyard. Clark, thank goodness, was out in the fields with Jonathan. He couldn't bear to be alone, that boy, and they could never bear to leave him.

Which left Martha free to shoot the ghostly intruder in the face.

Martha had not always considered herself a shoot first, ask questions later sort of a person. But that was before she found a baby in a spaceship where her corn was supposed to be.

They'd switch off, Jonathan and her, who got Clark and who got the shotgun. Martha got the shotgun more often than not. Guns made her husband uncomfortable. She was hardly a fan, but she'd always been a terrible pacifist. Too determined to defend herself.

The sight of all that blood and brain and bone was still nauseating. She compartmentalized, told herself it was no different from slaughtering a cow; didn't think about riot gear or tear gas or the friends she'd lost or all the things she'd moved away from when her heart couldn't take it any longer. This was different. This was her son.

She prodded the corpse with her foot. It remained a corpse. A real nasty looking corpse, all big and burly and holding a gun much too large. She didn't like making assumptions based on appearances, but she didn't imagine he'd been coming for anything nice. She bent down to search his pockets, found a metal wallet and flipped it open.

Born 2018.

Well, hell. Wasn't that just a kick in the pants?

Probably she ought to have been a bit more unsettled than she was. But she'd been waiting two years for someone to show up on her doorstep, men in black or UFOs or something. Hell, she'd half expected her sweet little boy to hatch into something worse.

Just because she brought home space babies didn't mean she was a damn fool.

Jonathan had rejoined her in long strides, was holding Clark in such a way that he couldn't see the corpse on the ground. "Well, shit," he said.

"Eyup," Martha agreed.

"Don't look government."

"Nope."

"We burying him?"

"I'll bury him," Martha said, standing up. "You get Clark inside and read him a book or something. I don't want him seeing any of this, getting him messed up in the head."

"You sure? Looks heavy."

"That's why we have a wheelbarrow. I'll stick him out behind the barn, might as well keep all our secrets in one place."

Martha had a long time to think as she dug a time traveler's grave. There were a lot of reasons someone might travel back in time trying to kill her kid. The first was her instinct as a mother, which was: he was a fucking asshole. Who killed a kid? Fucking assholes, that was who.

Now, it was also possible that her sweet little boy grew up to be some kind of space Hitler. She didn't think she'd raise that kind of a kid, but she didn't suppose there was any parent who set out to raise a Hitler.

Still didn't sit right with her. She didn't much like the idea of killing baby Hitler, either.

"I suppose I shouldn't keep this," she sighed as she hefted the traveler's gun in her arms. "Ought to bury it with the rest of the evidence." She turned it around in her hands, careful not to touch anything that looked like a mechanism. "Might be real handy if more of you show up, though." She knew her husband wouldn't approve, but she set the gun aside and kept burying.

Later, she'd hide it in the back of the woodshed. For emergencies, was all.

She patted the earth flat with her shovel, stuck it into the ground so she could lean on it. She pulled the dead man's ID from her pocket, and considered the details.

Jeremiah Jones the Third. No wonder he was going around trying to kill kids, a name like that. What kind of family inflicted that name on three kids in a row? ID was from Metropolis. Maybe she could work with that.

She waited until midnight, when Clark was asleep. Jonathan was on the porch smoking, same as most nights, and she kept the kitchen window open so they could talk. She was sitting on the kitchen table, receiver on her shoulder and a beer hanging from her fingers. A Metropolis phone book was open in her lap. Jonathan had a thing about big city phone books. Just in case, he said. In case of what, she never knew. But it sure as hell was handy now.

Jones, Jeremiah. No numbers or juniors after the name. Couldn't be that many, could there? Jonathan listened quietly, staring up at the stars.

"Jeremiah Jones?" she asked when the other end picked up. "How old are you? Jesus, kid, go back home, your ma's probably worried sick." Jonathan put a hand over his mouth to stifle a snort of laughter. "No, I called 'cause I've got a bone to pick with you. What the fuck kind of name is Jeremiah Jones? You're damn right I'm serious. That's a shitty fucking name, is what it is, and if I hear you went and had a kid and stuck him with a name like that I'm going to find you and whoop your ass personally." She slammed the phone back down on the receiver.

Jonathan's laughter had triggered a coughing fit, great big clouds of thick white smoke billowing into the night air. "Geeze, Marty, that was your plan? Was that it?"

She threw up her hands, beer sloshing in the bottle. "I'm sorry, Johnny, I didn't hear you offering any better plans. You got a better plan? You want to let me in on the plan?"

"I'm just saying," he said.

Martha went upstairs while Clark was sleeping, sat on his floor to rest her arms and her head on the edge of his bed. She might have drank a little too much. She probably shouldn't have been smoking with Jonathan. She'd just wanted to take the edge off, but her day had been nothing but edges. She didn't mean to wake Clark up, but maybe she was noisier than she thought she'd been. His eyes were the most beautiful blue in the moonlight. Always had been.

"Hello, baby," she whispered. He raised a tiny hand and set it on top of her head. He did that less than he used to, these days. That made her sad, like he was losing something.

"Hello, Ma," he said sleepily. "Did you have a nightmare?"

He was growing up so fast. Already too smart for a crib, for diapers. Not much of a vocabulary, but he was careful with it. Wasn't reading yet, but she was sure he'd be doing it sooner than later. Mind like a steel trap, quick as lightning. She thought she might homeschool him. He was so clever, it would be so much safer.

"Yeah," she sighed. "Real bad nightmare."

"Do you want to sleep in my bed?" Just repeating the same thing Jonathan told him, but it still made a lump in her throat.

"Yeah. Yeah, baby, I do. Is that okay with you?" Clark nodded, and wiggled over to one side of the bed. Martha felt huge and clumsy as she crawled in sideways beside him, curling her body protectively around his. He pressed his forehead to hers.

"I love you, Ma."

"And I love you, Clark. More than anything in the world."

She listened to him breathe as he fell asleep, clumsy noisy toddler breaths. Always so slow, always took him so much longer than it should have. His lungs were different, she was pretty sure. Someday, he'd need to get an x-ray, and she'd have to say no, because she didn't know what they'd find.

But not today. Today, he was safe. Slowly, she drifted off to sleep.

There was no body behind the barn. There never was. There was never any ID left out on the counter, either, no gun hidden behind the firewood. There was nothing to remember, and so Martha remembered nothing.

The first time a man from the future showed up at Martha Kent's house, Clark Kent was four years old.

The man looked like he'd been through hell already, bloodied and bruised and battered. If Martha hadn't opened the door before he made it onto the porch, he probably would have kicked it down. "Out of the way, lady," he said, and his voice was the most absurd bit of gravel she'd ever heard in her life. No one in the world needed a gun that big.

Her gaze went over his left shoulder, her eyes widened. "Oh my Lord—"

He turned to look. Martha shot him point blank, muzzle of the shotgun right under his chin.

Blood and brain and bone and that hideous splatter, but that body armor made it easier. He looked like a soldier. It was almost cathartic. She compartmentalized. She'd think about it later.

Jonathan came running down the stairs, came up behind her but stopped short of touching her. She was using the clean parts of her shirt to wipe her face. "Well, shit," he said.

"Eyup," Martha agreed.

"Don't look government."

"Nope."

"We burying him?"

"I'll bury him," Martha said. "Get back upstairs and make sure nothing's trying to get to Clark. Tell him Ma's shooting at cans again."

"With a shotgun?"

"Ma's got weird hobbies."

After the body was buried behind the barn, his gun hidden in the woodshed, she read the letter he'd had in his pocket. Mission info. Kill the tyrant Kal-El before he comes to power.

Kal-El. The name gave her a chill. That wasn't her son's name. That wasn't a name for a boy she'd raised, loved with all her heart. Maybe that was the name of the boy who'd been tucked into a spaceship, but it wasn't the name of her son.

Anyway. Whoever's son he'd been before, they'd lost their naming privileges. That's what happened when you shot a baby into space. He was hers now. A little boy named Clark, and he belonged to blue skies and green grass and cornfields.

Martha showered, threw her clothes on the fire and poured bleach over the stains on the porch. Then she went upstairs, and she joined her husband and her son on his bedroom floor. Clark was building a castle out of wooden blocks, and letting Jonathan help. He had to wear special glasses, now; his eyesight was fine, but something about the light hurt him. She had to smother the fear in her heart that this planet was slowly killing him.

"Clark, honey, what do you think about going to school?"

Jonathan looked more surprised than Clark did. But then, Clark had not spent as much time listening to Martha complain about the state of public education.

"On a school bus?"

"Yup. On a school bus."

Clark looked at the green block in his hands. "Would you come with me?" he asked, looking first at Martha, and then at Jonathan.

"We'd take you on the first day, so we know you're safe," she said, "but after that, you'd go alone."

Clark continued to contemplate his block, looking so serious in his little glasses. "Is it scary?"

"At first. But you'd meet lots of other kids you could play with. You'd make a lot of friends."

"What if no one likes me?"

Her heart broke a little. Clark, her little baby Clark. "They'll like you," she promised, knowing no such thing. "But if you decide you don't like it, we won't make you keep going."

He needed friends. Real friends, friends he saw every day. Not just two old hippies and a bunch of goats.

That night, Clark came into their bedroom. Tiny hands nudged at her shoulder, and she wiped at her eyes in the dark. "What's the matter, baby? You have a nightmare?"

"I thought you did," he said, and she shut her eyes against the pang in her chest. "Do you want me to sleep in your bed?"

"... yeah. Yeah, I do. Come here." She picked him up and pulled him into the bed, set him between herself and Jonathan. He settled in like he belonged there, and he didn't complain when she rested a hand on his chest to feel it rise and fall.

On his first day of kindergarten, a little redheaded girl asked Clark if he wanted to play princesses. He forgot his parents were even there. They forgot all the things that had never happened. Nothing behind the barn, nothing in the woodshed. Martha forgot the name Kal-El.

The first time a man from the future showed up at Martha Kent's house, Clark Kent was five years old.

He was exactly the man that Martha had always feared. A man in a nondescript suit, a man with a nondescript face. He had a gun under his jacket. Clark was at school. She didn't know if she was glad. What if someone had taken him? Surely someone would have called, if they had. It was a small town. Even men in suits couldn't take a little boy without someone kicking up a fuss.

He knocked and he smiled, and Martha itched to get her shotgun.

"I'm here on behalf of the U.S. Government," he said, and she hoped it didn't show on her face how much those words were a punch in the gut. "It's about your son."

Martha fluttered wide-eyed lashes, tried to look the appropriate kind of alarmed. "My son? What's wrong with my son?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't mean to scare you. There's nothing wrong with your son. Actually, we think he may be... special."

"Well of course he is," she said, the way any mother would. "I don't see what that has to do with the government."

"May I come in?"

"Oh, of course." She let him inside, lead him to the kitchen so they could sit, hated him all the while. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"No thank you, Mrs. Kent."

"Are you sure? I'm making some for myself, so you really might as well. I'll feel like a terrible hostess, otherwise."

"If you insist." After a moment's puttering about the kitchen, she set two mismatched mugs on the table, both of them horribly tacky. Beside them, she set the sugar bowl. "There. Now what's this all about?"

"Mrs. Kent, can you tell me about the night your son was born?"

"I don't see what that has to do with anything..."

He took a small sip of his coffee, and she wasn't surprised he didn't care for it. Those beans were awful. He spooned sugar into his mug. "Humor me."

"Well, if you say so." She tapped her nails against her mug. "Oh, it really was such a wild night," she lied. "I'd just had the toughest time with my pregnancy, you know, and I wanted to have him at home—but he's always in such a hurry, even when he was born, he came much too early. There was a great big storm, the power at the hospital went out... I always said it was an omen that he was destined for great things."

So many mysterious circumstances. Definitely, absolutely mysterious. Certainly didn't find him sitting in a damn spaceship.

The nondescript man smiled faintly. "A mother's intuition rarely lies."

"Now, that's what I've always said," she said, beaming.

God. She sounded like her mother. She hoped it was working.

"Mrs. Kent, we have reason to believe that your son is... special. I can't go into details, but I can tell you what we're offering."

She furrowed her brow, pursed her lips. "I suppose?" She sipped delicately at her coffee.

"We would like to enroll your son in a special boarding school. You'd be able to come too if you'd like to stay with him, though it's not obligatory. We'd pay all his living expenses, he'd have the best teachers in the United States... we might even be able to fast track his way to college. Tuition-free. If you decide to join him, we would pay your living expenses as well—for at least the next ten years, if not longer."

She fluttered her eyelashes again, setting down her mug. "Oh, but that sounds much too good to be true."

"The catch, of course, is this would all be done under the utmost secrecy. You wouldn't be able to be in contact with your family, your friends... and, of course, the entire program is contingent on your son meeting our expectations."

"What are those expectations, exactly...?"

"Hm." He was trying to decide on a lie. He was trying to appeal to her poverty, and now he wanted to appeal to her vanity. On her son's behalf, if nothing else. "It's a new program intended for only the best students of every age in the country. We believe your son is one of those students—someone with the potential to be a genius. In the right environment, of course."

"Oh—that all sounds wonderful." The nondescript man picked up his coffee, and she turned her attention to her own as he drank.

"Obviously, this won't happen all at once. There will be paperwork to fill out, we'll also need your husband's approval, there will be a testing period as—" Martha stood without warning, turned and started to leave the room. "Mrs. Kent, what—?"

His attempt to follow her ended very quickly, with a crash to the floor that she could hear behind her. Leaving was not strictly necessary, but she was worried that he'd realize what was happening and try to shoot her.

She also, if she was honest, didn't want to watch him die.

He was on the floor when she came back into the kitchen, his face red. She took the sugar bowl and his mug, and threw them straight into the trash. She'd never trust them again, she didn't think. Better not to risk it.

Jonathan hated keeping cyanide in the kitchen, and she didn't blame him at all. An accident waiting to happen, was what it was. But this was the exact kind of emergency they kept it around for.

Her husband caught her in the middle of dragging the body out behind the barn. "Well, shit," he said.

"Eyup," Martha agreed.

"Looks government."

"Eyup."

"We burying him?"

"You're battin' a thousand. Go get a couple shovels, Johnny, we need to get him in the ground before Clark comes home." Because he would come home, she was sure of it. She had to be. He would get on the bus and come home safe, the way he always did.

She searched the body before they buried it to be sure there were no tracking devices or any other such thing. Lord knew what the government had these days. She found a badge that said 2021. She showed it to Jonathan.

"Well, don't that just beat all."

"Don't it just." She sighed as she considered the seal of the CIA. "I haven't been looking forward to this at all," she muttered as she picked up her shovel.

"What's that, Marty?"

"I'm going to need to teach that boy how to lie worth a damn," she said as her shovel sank into the dirt. It was such a shame, when he was so sweet and so open and so kind. But he would find out, eventually, where he'd come from and what he was. And he needed to know how to keep his mouth shut—so they wouldn't be arrested for keeping him, if nothing else.

When the body was at the bottom of the pit, they burned it just to be safe. Who knew what he might be hiding in his clothes? They smothered the fire with dirt, and by the time Clark came home, there was nothing left to see but a patch of disturbed soil.

Martha hugged him entirely too tight, for entirely too long, when he got home. He tolerated it, but also reminded her that he wasn't a baby anymore. She missed the days when he was small, when he'd press his forehead to hers.

She enrolled him in a local children's theater program. He wasn't very good—but then, none of them were. They were children. It wasn't Shakespeare. He developed, if nothing else, a basic grasp of the intent.

The body disappeared. There were never any nondescript men in nondescript suits, much as she never stopped fearing it.

The first time a man from the future showed up at Martha Kent's house, Clark Kent was seven years old.

This one was young. He was haggard. He was thin. He looked so very, very tired.

That didn't stop Martha from leveling her shotgun at him.

"Please," he pleaded. "You don't understand."

"He declare himself King or something?" she asked, and it was so difficult to keep her heart hard. This was a boy, just like so many boys she'd known, he was begging and she was the one holding the gun. She refused to think of any boy but her son.

"No, he's just—he's perfect. He's perfection incarnate."

"Sounds real unfortunate."

"He sets this standard, this amazing standard, he says if we just tried we could be like him, we could be strong like him, we could be perfect like him. All these problems would go away if we just worked for the greater good, and people—people listen, it's so hard not to listen, he says he's making a better world but there's no room in it for people like us. See, maybe it isn't even his fault, maybe he doesn't even mean it like that, but we can't help it, can we? People, I mean, human beings, we can't handle it, knowing perfect exists. And I'm sure, I'm sure you love your son, but he's not human—"

She shot him. She didn't want to shoot him. But she told herself it was a mercy. A miserable boy from a miserable future that never should have been. She stared down at the body, blood and brain and bone. She didn't know it, but it was getting easier.

"Can't say as I care for this much at all," she said to no one.

Muscle memory she didn't know she had, things that had never happened, burying the boy behind the barn. And when she was done she cried, cried as she burned her clothes and cried in the shower. All she wanted, all she ever wanted, was for her son to be safe.

There were so many sons.

"Don't take your coat off," she told Clark when he came home. She was pulling on her coat, grabbing her boots.

"Where are we going?" he asked, setting down his backpack. "Should I bring a book?"

"If you want," she said. "Don't know if you'll be reading it much. You know that Brady family down the way? Got a kid goes to your school?"

Clark made a face. "Tristan? He takes the short bus."

"Your school's not big enough to have a separate bus," she said, and she was angry, so angry. Not at Clark, but at the world that made little boys into men and lied about what it meant to be great. At herself, for not seeing the trouble her husband must have been having relating to a little boy Clark's age. Jonathan tried so hard to be a role model, but he didn't know what it was like to be a son, didn't trust himself not to steer Clark wrong.

Martha didn't know what it was like to be a son, either, but she found she didn't much care. Sons the world over would be lucky to grow up into a man like her husband, and damn anyone who said otherwise.

"That's what Caleb says," Clark said, defensive. "He takes the short bus and that's why he smells weird."

Lord, but she couldn't remember the last time she'd been so angry. "You go tell Pa to start up the truck," she said as she pulled on her boots, "because I'm going to go have myself a talk with Mrs. Brady, and you're going to have yourself a little playdate."

"What?" Clark was horrified. "I don't want to!"

"And I do not care," she said.

"You can't make me!"

"Oh, you'd better believe I can," she said, and Clark went silent as he recognized the fire in his mother's eyes. "I can, I will, and you will keep your fool mouth shut about what that Caleb says if you know what's good for you. We're going over there, and we're going to keep going over there, until you two are the best of friends."

"You can't make me," he mumbled again, and this time Martha was at his side, knelt down beside him and took his face in her hands so that he'd look at her. His eyes were still such a beautiful blue through his glasses; she didn't think he'd even know what it meant, even she didn't really know what it meant, but she pressed her forehead to his.

"I know I can't make you," she said. "But I know my son. I know you like I know my own heart, baby, and I'm not going to have to make you. It's just what's going to happen. Now go tell Pa to bring the car around while I phone ahead. Okay?"

Clark was sullen, but he went outside to find his father anyway. Martha shut her eyes, and tried not to cry again.

Two months later, Mr. and Mrs. Kent were called to the school to pick up their son. He and Caleb had gotten into a fight at recess. Clark's glasses were broken, he had tissue paper in his nose. Jonathan spent twenty minutes giving the principal a lecture about bullies. Clark stared at his father with a naked adoration she didn't think she'd ever seen, utterly rapt and absorbing every word.

She was so proud she thought her heart would burst.

There were never any boys lying dead in her yard, too young and too helpless. She had never cried for the sons she couldn't save.

The last time people from the future showed up at Martha Kent's house, Clark Kent was ten years old.

Martha didn't remember things that had never happened—how could she? And yet there was an awareness in her, born of meddling she did not know she'd done, fractured futures and split timelines. She didn't know what she knew, she didn't know how she knew it, the ghost of a thought against the edges of her mind.

Without thinking, without even entirely knowing what she was doing, she grabbed her shotgun and filled her pocket up with shells.

The tractor was still running, but Jonathan wasn't on it. She headed for the barn, where the door was ajar, and held her gun at ready.

"I'm sorry, I really don't understand what you're asking here," Jonathan was saying.

"Don't play dumb, Mr. Kent. Please just direct me to Kal-El's vessel, and this will all be over soon." The voice was... wrong, somehow. Not a human voice, not an animal, not anything she'd ever heard.

Kal-El. That name made a pit in the bottom of her stomach.

"Do you mean Clark?" Jonathan asked, and she could tell he was trying to buy time.

"If it makes you feel better to call him that, then fine."

"Now, I hate to disappoint you, fella, but we got rid of that thing a long, long time ago. Now if you want to go check out in the lake—"

"Don't waste my time."

Jonathan screamed. Which was all the encouragement Martha needed to burst in the door and start firing.

Her husband, thank goodness, was already on the ground. No chance of friendly fire. She'd just have to hope whatever the thing did hadn't killed him.

And it was definitely a thing, some slender twisted thing in only the vaguest approximation of a man, and the only advantage Martha really had was the element of surprise. She wasn't sure that it would be enough, when it kept moving, when it advanced toward her. Reloading took too long, firing took too long, everything took too damn long. But finally it crumpled, and her ears were ringing, and her relief was so profound that she almost crumpled herself. Moreso, when she saw Jonathan start to roll on his side so he could get up.

But then he looked behind her, with what was obviously genuine alarm.

So Martha turned as she reloaded, fired once before her gun grew too hot in her hand to hold. She dropped it and tried to shake her hand free of the heat, distantly aware that her gunfire had been completely useless. "Son of a bitch."

"Ma!"

"Oh, ma yourself," she said irritably, sizing up this apparently bulletproof threat.

Except that he wasn't standing there like a threat. He was standing there like he was very concerned. And confused.

And, lord, those beautiful blue eyes.

She stood straighter. "Clark?"

What in the hell was he wearing? And who was his friend? And his other, lady friend? What the hell were they wearing, for that matter? Some kind of a... bat... demon? And a flag girl? Maybe? This was a Halloween nightmare, was what it was.

"Ma, what happened?"

She put her fists on her hips, because the fact that her son had just appeared in her barn as a grown man in a ridiculous outfit did not excuse that tone. "You'd know better than I would," she said, looking back towards the twisted metal on the ground. "Johnny, do you know what the hell just happened?"

He was sitting up, wincing as he held his head. "Not a damn clue."

"Ma! Pa!" This older Clark sounded very scandalized. Martha smacked him straight in the middle of his chest with the back of her hand, and it felt like hitting a wall.

"Honestly, Clark, you're a grown man. I'm sure you've heard a bad word or two before." He started turning faintly pink. His lady friend covered her mouth, but the one in black remained expressionless. "You are a grown man, aren't you? Not some kind of aged-up ten year-old, or something?"

"Yes, Ma, I am a grown man—"

"Well would you go help your father, please? I'd do it myself, but as long as you're going to stand there showing off all those muscles you might as well use them."

"Ma." Now there was a familiar whine. Nonetheless, he was at his father's side before Martha could even blink, air whooshing around him.

"Now, was that necessary?" she asked. "Nobody likes a show-off, Clark."

"Yeah, Clark," murmured the man in black. Martha turned her head to look him over. She wondered if she imagined that he stood straighter.

"Is this just how people are going to dress in the future?" she asked, gesturing to both her son's companions. "Because I don't think I'm going to be able to pull that off."

"No, Mrs. Kent," the woman assured her. She couldn't place the accent. Lord, there was a time when she would kill to have a body like that. Especially those arms. Now it just seemed exhausting. "These are uniforms. Do you mind if I inspect the evidence?" she asked, pointing to the mangled metal she'd been shooting at.

"You may as well," Martha said with a wave of her hand. "What in the hell am I going to do with it? I'm assuming you're all from the future for some reason, is that about right?"

"That's correct," the woman said, kneeling beside it and picking at various... parts? Presumably she knew what she was doing.

"You're taking this remarkably well," the man in black observed.

Martha arched an eyebrow, then gestured to her son. "I found a baby in a spaceship. I have spent ten years now hiding a space baby from the government, and you think some kind of time foolishness is going to blow my mind? I was expecting aliens."

"You were half right."

He had a very dry sense of humor for a man with pointy ears. "Clark, are you going to introduce me to your... coworkers?"

Jonathan seemed to be feeling better. Clark was still sitting by his side, and it made her so happy to see them together. Even if it was still very weird. "Ma, Pa, this is Bruce and Diana. Bruce, Diana, these are my parents. Who are, apparently, unbelievably reckless—"

"Excuse me?"

"—because if Brainiac hadn't been in such a weakened state already he'd have killed you, Ma, and then where would we be?"

"Dead, obviously. Why does the robot have a gender?"

"I was wondering that too, actually," Jonathan said.

"That's—Ma, you tried to shoot me! What if it had been someone else?"

"Buried him behind the barn," both Kents said at the same time.

"You shouldn't sneak up on a mother with a shotgun," she added, though she was still mortified that she'd shot at her son. "If you're here for the manbot, why was the manbot here?"

"He was trying to get Kryptonian technology," Diana said, "so that he could rebuild himself. He came to a time when Kal-El's ship was still intact, and therefore of the most use to him."

"Don't call him that."

Diana raised an eyebrow. "Kal-El?"

"Right. My son is named Clark."

"They can both be my name," Clark said gently, standing back up. Lord, he got tall. Would get tall. Someday.

"I named you Clark," she said.

"We have a fight about it," he said. "When I'm seventeen."

"Oh, good, I'll know to look forward to that."

"You won't remember," Bruce said.

"No?"

"Time foolishness," he said.

"Oh, hell. I should have known. Ain't that just a kick in the pants."

Clark hugged her, suddenly. It felt very strange, being hugged by her son, her little boy, and he was bigger than she was. Still: it was very nice to know she'd raised a man who still hugged his mother. She'd done at least one thing right.

"You're not hugging me because I'm dead in the future, are you?" she asked.

"Ma! No, you're fine. I just saw you last week and I come home for holidays."

"You invited me last Christmas," Bruce added helpfully.

"Is that what you wore?"

"Yes," he said, and she didn't think she believed him. "But with a sweater over it." Martha cackled, and she was pretty sure when Bruce coughed he did it to cover a smile. "You didn't have a shotgun then, though," he said. "You baked cookies."

"Did I really?" Martha was impressed. She looked back to Clark, and cupped his face in his hands like he was still small. "I probably got real nice once I found out you were bulletproof." She beamed. "I wish I could remember this," she said. "I'm just so happy you... lived."

"Aww, Ma."

"I'm serious! I've spent ten years, now, scared to death that you were going to get stolen or vivisected or god knows what else. Every time you get the flu I'm scared you're going to die because you're an alien. You still can't be outside without your glasses—"

"That gets better."

"I see that, but I won't know that when you're gone. For all I know, just being on this planet is killing you. And I don't know what you'll be when you grow up." Martha looked at Diana. "I spent three years convinced this kid was in some kind of larval stage, I was going to wake up one morning and he'd be a giant crab." Diana smiled, and Bruce cleared his throat unconvincingly.

"She ain't kidding," Jonathan said. "You wouldn't believe how many nights she had me go over the 'our son is a crab' action plan."

"Pa, you knew I wasn't going to turn into a giant crab, right?"

Jonathan had finally managed to stand, and he grinned at his wife. "Kiddo, I spent the eighties recovering from the seventies, I would have believed it even if you hadn't come from space."

Clark rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Diana put her hand gently on his arm. She'd thrown the broken metal man over her shoulder. "Clark, we need to leave soon—before the portal closes."

"There's a portal?"

"There usually is," Bruce said.

"I'm sorry, Ma, we have to go."

"Oh, fine, give me a hug first, then." And he did, without even complaining, and Martha was indescribably pleased. "Diana, do I get to hug you, too?"

"Of course, Mrs. Kent. I have also enjoyed your Christmas cookies."

"Oh, hell," she said as she hugged the taller woman. Clark was hugging his father in the meantime, and that made her even happier. "I'm going to have to learn how to make those. Bruce?"

"Technically, you won't remember whether or not I hugged you."

"No," she agreed, "but you'll have to live with knowing that you disappointed me, and I don't even remember it for you to make it up to me."

"Ouch." That was apparently enough to guilt him into hugging her, but secretly she thought he wanted to anyway. Mostly because he hugged her much tighter than was strictly necessary. "Stay safe, Mrs. Kent."

"You know that I will," she pointed out.

"Stay safe, anyway."

She tried to remember. She really tried to remember. She tried to remember her son's face, some far off day in the future, when he was safe and happy and she could embarrass him in front of his friends. She tried to remember the way he hugged her, and how much taller her got, and how strong he looked. How he was bulletproof, how he came home at Christmas and he brought his friends and she needed to learn how to actually make cookies instead of buying them from the co-op bakery.

She forgot.

"Why do I feel like I fell off the tractor?" Jonathan asked, rubbing at old scars through his shirt as they stood in the driveway. Martha looked at the tractor, still running.

"Johnny, I don't mean to alarm you, but I think you might have fallen off the tractor."

"Well, shit."

She kissed his cheek. "How about you go inside and rest? I'm sure Clark can help me finish whatever else needs to get done."

He took her hands, lifted them so that he could kiss each one of her fingertips. "What's got my favorite girl in such a good mood today?"

She sighed, blushing like a schoolgirl. "You know," she said, "I have no goddamn idea."