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lena-in-a-red-dress · 2 years

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Lena somehow expects the shadow in her apartment less than she expects the fist that collides with her temple. Honestly, it's been a while since her last assault so really, she had it coming. But what shocks her the most when she comes to bound to one of her kitchen chairs is the face who stares back at her.

Well. Glares back at her, anyway.

Her own eyes study her from her doppelgangers position by the windows, hard and calculating. Jesus. Lena can only hope she herself doesn't go that heavy on the eyeliner.

"So you're the one."

Not-Lena's voice is low, almost gravelly. Lena recognizes it as the tone her own voice sounds when she's about to cry, but the dark eyes regarding her are dry.

"Excuse me?" Lena clips back.

"You're the one she wanted to save."

Lena doesn't need to ask to know who 'she' is. Who else on this planet has had a recent encounter with a duplicate of herself? The knowledge burns low in Lena's chest.

Supergirl. Somehow, it's always Supergirl.

"You don't seem surprised to see me," her counterpart says.

Lena doesn't deign to answer, instead posing a question of her own.

"Did Lex make you too?"

In a flash, her double's features harden to ice even as sudden rage burns in her eyes. She marches towards Lena and grips Lena's jaw tightly, hard enough to bruise. Lena fights back a whimper of pain.

After a moment, Lena is released with a small push, nearly tipping her chair backwards. With a measured step her counterpart retreats a single step, head tilting laconically to one side.

"You have Mother to thank for this." With her free hand, Lena's counterpart reaches up and pulls down the collar of her sweater-- one pilfered from Lena's own closet-- to reveal the polished surface of a kryptonite shard buried in her chest. Lena's own chest tightens at the sight. "Though Lex played his part getting me under her knife."

"Metallo," Lena breathes. Her mind races to put the pieces together. Manufacture isn't out of the question, but Lena senses there's more to it than that.

"You've encountered something like this before," her double observes.

Lena nods. "Yes-- but not me. The assassin Lex hired to kill me."

Finally, Not-Lena's features twist into a morbid smirk. "So she already did save you. Supergirl."

Lena gives a single nod. As bitter as she is that her supposedly best friend got one over on her, Lena can't deny the many times Kara has saved her.

She watches her counterpart turn away, returning to her stance in front of the windows, this time gazing out at the cityscape beyond.

"It's different," Not-Lena observes. "I hardly remember what it was like, before..."

Curiosity piques, tickling Lena's brain. "Before what?"

A sigh answers her. "The end of the world." Not-Lena turns back to face her. "I brought it back from the brink-- along with a team of carefully selected allies. But the damage was already done."

An alternate reality then, Lena surmises. If she herself was so changed by changed events, then Lena could scarcely fathom what her doppelganger's world might look like. Despite her desire to learn everything about that distant world, Lena forces herself to return to the matters at hand.

"Will you let me loose?" Lena twists her hands against the duct tape pinning her wrists to the chair she's sitting in. "Or are you planning to single white female me?"

A satisfied smirk curls her double's scarlet lips. With deliberate strides she closes the distance once more, this time to bend and reach for the tape binding Lena to the chair. Before she can rip the tape away, Not-Lena freezes, her ear cocking towards the open balcony.

"She's coming."

Shit. "Quick, let me-- hey!" Lena protests as her counterpart grabs the back of the chair and drags her effortlessly towards the nearest closet. Lena is shoved in among the coats, chair and all.

"Stay silent," her doppelganger warns. "Or you'll both die."

The door closes before Lena can issue a retort. Not that she's sure she'd have anything to say-- she wants to know how the impending confrontation is going to play out.

She hears the muffled whoosh of Kara's arrival, the thud of heavy boots on the concrete balcony. If Lena's counterpart says anything, Lena doesn't hear it. But she hears Kara loud and clear.

"I know you don't want to see me, but I have something to say."

Oh. Oh. That's not Kara-- that's Supergirl, all pompous authority and brassy command. The fact Kara doesn't even have the courage to come and speak to her as Kara Danvers makes Lena bristle with anger. It reminds her of the way Supergirl condemned her for the harun-el research, and the memory of Kara Danvers' smiling visage through all of it feels like sandpaper on an open wound.

"I made a mistake," Supergirl delivers firmly. "I was wrong to keep the truth from you. I know that. But the past is the past."

Lena scowls in the dark shadows of the closet. The past is the past. Funny how it's always the offender who says that first, rarely the victim.

"I made my choice," the hero continues. "And you're making choices of your own-- to not forgive me, to work with Lex... I'm done blaming myself for your bad decisions--"

The monologue pauses sharply. Lena waits for it to resume, as does her counterpart.

"You were saying?"

Not-Lena sounds almost exactly like Lena. So like her, in fact, that if she weren't the one in the coat closet Lena might assume the woman on the balcony were the real deal.

"Is someone here?"

"What makes you say that?"

In her mind's eye, Lena can almost see the crinkle between Kara's eyebrows.

"N-nothing. Just-- something seems... off."

"Well, if you could wrap up whatever you came here to say, I'd like to get back to my evening."

"R-right. I just--" Pieces of Kara Danvers peeks through Supergirl's facade as she stumbles to get back on track. "I came here to tell you that from now on-- you're accountable for your own actions."

Lena's stomach drops out from under her. It seems a part of her had still clung to a shred of hope that Kara would somehow know the magic words to heal them, to make everything right. Instead, Kara is washing her hands of it all-- washing her hands of Lena.

"If you continue to go down this path, if you go through with whatever you and your brother are planning-- I will do everything in my power to stop you. Just like any other villain."

Villain.

Lena can barely breathe. Her chest is tight with undefined emotion, the shadows blurring the tears in her eyes. To hear that word from Supergirl's-- no, Kara's-- lips, after everything that's happened.... Lena doesn't know whether to feel angry or heartbroken, and so she feels both together, intermingling in a twisting mess of rage and anguish.

How dare she--

"Is that all?" Lena's double drawls, a far cry calmer than Lena ever would be. If nothing else, meeting her doppelganger is worth it if only to save face when Lena herself wants to lash out at anything within reach.

"You're not Lena."

The accusation comes so sharp and so suddenly it nearly gives Lena whiplash. In the midst of eavesdropping, she'd forgotten the ruse of it all.

"Excuse me--?"

"You don't have a heartbeat." In an instant, Supergirl's voice had dropped into a threat, danger dripping from her words. "What did you do to her?"

Lena doesn't see her counterpart's reaction, but her next words are calm and slow, no longer Lena's own cadence.

"Do?" Ah. Lena hears another smirk. "Why don't you ask her yourself?"

The closet door is thrown wide, and Lena blinks briefly against the light as her double easily drags the chair back into view. Lena is plopped down in front of the balcony doors and a Supergirl whose anger quickly shifts into concern.

"Lena--!"

"Stay away from me."

Supergirl halts, hands outstretched. She retracts them hesitantly. "Lena, I--"

The hero takes a conciliatory step forward.

"Take a single step past that threshold, and I won't be responsible for the consequences."

A warm hand settles gently on her shoulder. Lena doesn't have to look up to see her counterpart pull down the collar of her sweater again. She can hear the crackle of energy sparking to life in the kryptonite, feel the faint heat of it charging. She sees the way Supergirl physically recoils.

"Lena..."

Lena squares her shoulders as though she were sitting on a throne, not bound to a chair.

"As you said," she issues past the lump in her throat. "You made your choice. It's time I make some of my own."

Supergirl draws herself up, regaining her composure. She made her bed, and it seems she's willing to lie in it.

"If you choose to forgive me, I will be here for you," Supergirl delivers firmly. "But if you--"

"Yeah. Villain. I heard."

Kara at least has the decency to blush, hopefully in shame.

"Leave," Lena delivers firmly. Her jaw firms resolutely. "Don't come back."

Supergirl gives her a final long look before lifting off into the night sky. Lena waits a beat, then two, before turning her attention back to her counterpart.

"Now let me go--"

Before she knows what's happening, a hand is around her throat. It squeezes, not enough to choke, but enough to let her know it's still an option.

"What could possibly compel you to work with Lex?"

Lena swallows thickly. "He's a means to an end."

"You're a fool--"

"I've been telling myself that for months." Lena glares at her doppelganger. "I have my reasons. It doesn't mean I trust him."

Yet again, Not-Lena releases her with a small shove. This time the feet of the chair squeal sharply against the hardwood. But she does reach down and rip through the duct tape with ease, freeing Lena and allowing her to rise.

As she stands, peeling the remaining tape from her skin as she regards her double. "What are you planning to do?"

"I have no intention of staying here, if that's your concern."

It is, but Lena is careful not to let her relief show. "With more information, I can get you home."

Her double scoffs. "So can I. But first..."

"What," Lena prompts.

Her counterpart turns, revealing a dark glint in her gaze that makes Lena's blood run cold.

"First, I'm going to kill our brother."

#supercorp #metallo!lena #100th episode au #ficlet #its a little long #not sure if its done or not #but here it is anyway

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starry-bi-sky · 8 months

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There are two things that Damian knows that he knows Father doesn’t.

He has an older brother

He was dead

(And a secret third thing: Damian was glad he was dead. They did not get along.)

Well. No, correction, they were two things that Damian knew that Father didn't. Past tense. Strange magic swirled through the air and created a mirage before his eyes, and immediately a scowl forms across his face.

The mirage shifts and shimmers like the light hitting a slowly turning prism, and then it settles into a memory. One that Damian does not recall. Like looking into a tv screen, it shows, faintly, a room, with most of the magic going into the image of a crib.

His mother was standing on one side, and next to her, standing on his tiptoes was a small five year old boy looking up at her. With dark hair and skin that was only few shades lighter brown than Damian's, the little boy's resemblance to Damian was undeniable.

However, his eyes were blue. Not green. Damian's scowl deepens, and he sinks back. "Danyal." He mutters, and feels eyes turn on to him.

Danyal Al Ghul. Damian's older brother. A prodigal swordsman like Damian, and five years his senior. He'd be fifteen if he was still alive. His memory of the last time he saw his brother was still clear in his mind.

(A sword to Danyal's neck. Stars were glittering through his window. Damian was five, Danyal ten. He is not sure why Danyal had snuck into his room, all he remembers is hearing a sound and on instinct reaching for his sword.)

(His brother had intercepted easily. But had not shoved the sword away. Moonlight hit his blue eyes, and Damian remembers seeing the pupils shrink to let the light in. His eyes looked almost silver.)

(His brother bares his teeth at him. Damian wants to slice his neck more than anything, and he bares his teeth back. "Good." Danyal says, his voice low in a hiss, "Your reflexes are good, little brother.")

("Of course they are," Damian remembers snarling, and presses the sword closer. But it does not budge. "I am an Al Ghul.")

(Something unrecognizable passes through his brother's eyes, and his mouth twists into something like a smile. "I know." He says, and tilts his head downwards at him. "And you will be great.")

(His brother shoves the sword back, causing Damian to stumble. And like the wind, he is gone.)

(The next morning, he goes on a mission with mother and a few others. Mother is the only one to return with Danyal's sword, and a red-eyed look in her eyes. Damian does not mourn. Now there's only one of them.)

"Momma." The little Danyal-mirage speaks, a furrow between his childlike brows as mother lowers a bundle into the crib. His blue eyes watch her, and lifts onto his toes to peer into the crib as she sets the baby down. "Who is this?"

Their mother's hand comes to rest along his back. "This is Damian, my son." She murmurs, voice low. "He is your little brother. Protect him well."

Damian scoffs internally -- not likely. He remembers every spar he ever had with Danyal, every harsh word and insult. His pushing, pushing, pushing for Damian to get up. To try again. Do it again. The only kindness he ever showed him was when his fingers bled. And even that was harsh, firm. Rolling gauze around his wrist and scolding him, telling him how to wield his weapon better.

(It was the same as everyone else, but somehow it hurt worse coming from his own brother.)

But he watches his older brother's youngest self tilt his head to the side, and then reach his chubby hand through the crib's bars. He runs small, blunt fingers over the baby's arm, and the baby jerks. Through the crib's bars, Damian sees himself grab Danyal's fingers.

And he scowls even deeper.

And Danyal's eyes... widen. He lets out a little gasp, and a small smile Damian's never seen him wear tilts at the corner of his mouth as he looks up at their mother. "Mother," he whispers, "he grabbed me!"

Damian... his scowl falters, for a moment.

He doesn't wait for a response, he looks back to the baby with sparking eyes. His expression melts like sugar as he bounces the finger being gripped tight by the small hand. "Hello, little brother." His brother says, voice its of usual firmness, but there's more fondness underlying it than Damian's ever heard. "My name is Danyal."

The mirage shifts before Damian can comprehend his older brother's voice. It shows the crib again, appearing as if a few days had passed. There is night lilting through the nearby window, and a creek of the door. The baby doesn't stir.

Danyal sneaks in, still wearing his training clothes and a sword strapped to his side. Damian's scowl returns, watching him creep over to the crib. Of course -- the last night he saw his brother wasn't the only time he'd snuck into his room.

Would he go so low as to attack an infant? Damian wonders, watching his brother cross the room to his crib. But while his fingers rest against the hilt, they never curl to unsheathe.

His brother peers into the crib again, and there it is again, that smile wider in the corner of his mouth. It's not a full one, but its as uninhibited as it gets. Dripping honey-sweet with awe. "You are so tiny." Danyal whispers, and pokes a finger back through the crib. It wriggles, then pokes Damian's cheek gently. "Was I as small as you when mother gave birth to me?"

There is no response from the baby. Not a coherent one anyways, the little thing snuffles and turns his head, mouth open to latch. Danyal stills, his eyes grow ever wider again.

Danyal says nothing else, just rests his cheek against the crib and watches the baby sleep in silence. The affection never leaves his young face.

Damian feels unsettled. Off-foot. This Danyal is foreign to him... He wonders what happened to have changed his brother's mind on him.

There's a scuffle, quiet, but there. Danyal picks up on it just as Damian does, and his head pricks up like a deer, head already turning away from the crib. The affection leaves his face, falling away like water into something serious. His blade is already slightly unsheathed.

Two assassins, belonging to grandfather, burst out of the shadows. Their swords swinging into the air and ready to strike.

Danyal kills them both, his back to the crib. It's not without struggle, and when the two assassins lay dead on the floor, the baby is wailing at the top of his lungs. Danyal has a laceration cleaving down diagonal of his cheek. It's close to his eye, just barely missed blinding him.

Damian never knew how he got that scar. He does now. (He doesn't know how to feel about it.)

His brother clutches his bleeding face, sheathing his sword as tears well up onto his face. But he turns towards the crib, and hurries over. "You're okay, you're okay, you're okay." He hushes rapidly, the League-drilled seriousness fallen away to reveal a panic-stricken five year old. He sticks one hand into the crib, the one not clutching anything, and grabs little Damian's hand.

Their mother comes bursting in that moment, and Danyal turns his head towards her. "Mother." He says, his voice cracks un-wantingly. Their mother steps over the bodies of the assassins easily. "They tried to kill Damian."

"But they did not." Talias says, kneeling down next to the crib to inspect Danyal's face and Damian's well-being. When she finds nothing of concern beyond the injury, she continues. "You killed them before they could, Danyal. Well done."

The mirage of his brother nods, his eyes teary and red.

Damian... is discomfited. he never thought Danyal would kill assassins for him. He would have thought his brother would sooner look the other way. The mirage shifts again, and it quickly shows time passing.

Danyal sits in Damian's nursery every night, after that. He lays at the foot of the crib with his sword, a pillow and a blanket with him. Some nights there is nothing but peace -- or as close to peace as a baby could achieve -- and some days assassins break in.

Danyal kills each one.

The mirage shifts again, and it shows more memories of Danyal interacting with Damian during his youth too young for him to remember. His first steps, his first words.

"Danya." The small toddler of Damian says, arms reaching for Danyal.

A frown curls across Danyal's face, and pulls Damian into his lap. "No, no, little brother." He scolds, voice firm but.. softer. "It is Danyal, Damian. Danyal."

"Danya!"

Damian's brother sighs, but there is that same-small tilt at the corner of his mouth. A glimmer in his eyes. A glimmer... that Damian is finding he recognizes.

(He always thought his brother got that look in his eyes when he was mocking him. Was he wrong?)

The mirage shifts again, and this time it shows only mother and Danyal, alone. Danyal is older, taller. Seven, if Damian had to guess. Mother has a stern look on her face, her hands tight on his shoulders. "Damian will be starting training soon, my son."

Ah, then close to eight then. Training starts, always, at three years old. He watches Danyal nod, his expression mimicking their mother's. His arms are folded, always folded, behind his back, always neat.

"You can no longer have the relationship with your brother as you did before." Mother says.

Danyal's expression... falters. It shifts, it fluctuates. He looks surprised, thrown off. Like he isn't quite sure he heard what mother just said. His brows furrow. "What... do you mean, mother?"

"I mean what I said, Danyal." Mother says, stern, "Ra's will be keeping a closer eye on Damian now that he is of age to begin his training. He will not like if he sees you both getting along."

"I am sorry, my child. But your relationship with Damian ends here. You are rivals now, not brothers." In a cruel form a gentleness, mother raises her hand and tucks a stray curl out of Danyal's face.

Of course. Damian never had a relationship with his brother because of Grandfather. Of course. No, he's not feeling a little bitter. No. There's not an inner child that still, like a candleflame, wishes that he'd had a bond with his only flesh and blood.

Danyal is dead now. So it's not like it matters. He's happy about this.

Danyal frowns, and he steps back. He looks lost in thought. "We are still brothers, mother," he says, argues, and looks up to meet mother's eyes. "Let me train him, I will make sure he gets the skill he needs. If we must be rivals, then I will teach him how to defeat me. If he can defeat me, he can defeat anybody."

Their mother, and Damian, both blink in unison. Then mother smiles something sharp, calculated. She folds her hands behind her back. "Then do it. But you will make him hate you."

"...So be it."

Damian.... Damian is silent. His world axis has been tilted on its head. He is sliding, and sliding, and sliding down. Spinning. Many things click into place at once.

More memories from the mirage show. It shows Danyal training Damian. It shows their arguing, their bickering. It shows Danyal going to their mother to praise Damian and his skills, how fast he is picking up on the sword. How one day he will surpass even him.

It shows Danyal sitting outside Damian's bedroom door every night, listening in for anyone who dares to break in. His knees drawn to his chest, his sword at his side. Sometimes he sneaks in, sword drawn, when he hears a sound.

Some nights, Damian wakes up. He remembers those nights. Danyal standing over his bed with his sword unsheathed and tight at his side. He remembers the instant terror as he immediately reached for his own weapon.

His brother always scolded him for his lack of vigilance. That had he been anyone else, Damian would have had his neck cut. He would've been dead already. It only made Damian's hatred of him grow.

But he understands now. Because there were assassins in the room that Damian, four years old, three, did not notice. Not until later. He always assumed the attacks on him after Danyal's death had been because now there was a new heir to target.

It had been the only lesson he'd been even somewhat grateful for.

Then finally the mirage shimmers, and it shows Danyal, ten years old, in one of the training rooms, mid-spar with Mother. It's fast, sharp, impressive and like a blur. Damian is unsure if at ten which one of them was the better swordsman. Some of the assassins who have never met Danyal said Damian was, but the ones who had said it was Danyal. He'll never know.

In a lull in the fight, when their swords are crossed, mother speaks. "Ra's wants you and Damian to fight." She says, teeth grit into a deep scowl. The cross breaks and Danyal jumps back, he frowns.

"We have fought, mother." He says, and dives in first, swinging for mother's feet. Mother dodges, and slices at his arm. He swerves out of the way, twisting on his feet like a dance. "We are always fighting, doesn't he see our spars?"

"Not a spar like that, my son." Mother says, a snarl in her voice. She lunges, and Danyal blocks her blade. "A fight to the death. Father has grown tired of having two heirs."

That gets Danyal's attention -- or, more accurately, it distracts it. His eyes widen, and his sword lowers for a single moment. A mistake. "What?" Is all he gets out before mother has him on his back, her blade pressed to his throat.

He freezes. As does Damian. Danyal's brows furrow, then unfurrow, only to knot up again. "Mother, what do you mean a fight to the death?" He flips to his feet when mother removes the sword. She walks over to grab her water.

"Must I repeat myself, Danyal?" Mother snaps, rubbing her forehead before swigging from her canteen. "Father wants to find out which one of you is the stronger heir, and so you will fight to the death after your training in a few days."

Danyal's tan face loses a shade of color, he looks ashy. "There must be some mistake!" He exclaims, his arms gesturing out as he peers around mother. "There is a five year disparity between us, Damian has only just started training two years ago. It would be an unfair fight!"

"Do you think me unaware?" Mother whirls on him, and there is a grief-stricken look on her face. Like she is already mourning Damian's death. Damian feels ill. "Your skill is far beyond what Damian can accomplish right now, and there is nothing that I say that can convince Father otherwise."

Danyal wears an expression like he is scrambling for answers. A white knuckle grip on his weapon. There is a long silence, and his lower lip curls up. His throat bobs, he swallows. "Is there really nothing we can do?"

Mother makes a frustrated sound, pushing her loose hairs out of her face. "Not unless Father changes his mind, or I send one of you away. But Father would surely send someone to look for you or Damian."

"What if one of us faked our death?"

Mother stills. As does Damian. No, he thinks, stiff as a rod, no way. These mirages were lying, nothing but figments of an imagination. Of some quiet what-if that Damian had not yet stomped out.

Mother's expression shifts, and then turns contemplative. Danyal notices, and keeps pushing, he looks as hopeful as he could get beyond his usual unwavering, stone-like expression. "One of us could go to father--"

"No." Mother cuts off, voice sharp. Danyal wilts, confusion flittering across his face. Damian, from the corner of his eye, sees Father tense as stone. His white-slit eyes have not left the mirage. Nobody's has.

"Father will undoubtedly check there first, it would not be a good idea. You or Damian will have to go somewhere where he would not think to look. Someone unaffiliated with the League."

Danyal's face falls, shutters, and then closes up again into stone. Mother begins to pace, and Danyal's blue eyes follow her. "So a stranger?" He asks, and there is disgust lilting into his voice.

Mother nods, and she looks just as offput as Danyal.

The mirage of Damian's brother rolls his shoulders back. "Then I will do it, mother." He says, voice unwavering. There is a stubborn note behind it all, one that Damian recognizes. "I will fake my death, and Damian will stay here."

Mother's eyes turn sharp on him, and she stops in her spot. She pivots. "Are you sure?" She asks, eyebrow raising, "There is a chance you will never meet your Father if you leave. Nor will you see I or Damian again, if you do this."

Something like fear flickers across Danyal's face, eyes widening momentarily -- as if that very thought had not crossed his mind. But then it smooths over to sharp determination. He nods. "It would be the same for Damian if it was him instead. I will do it, Mother."

Damian feels ill again. Father has a strong set in his jaw, his teeth grinding.

Mother stares at Danyal, and then her expression softens. And like before, it is grieving. "In a few days time, I and another member of the League will be going on a mission to the American States. I will tell Father that you will accompany me, once there we will dispose of the other member and then orchestrate your death."

The American States. Danyal was here, in the country. He was out there somewhere -- but no this was fake. It had to be. Danyal was dead. A fool who got himself killed on a mission with mother and left the title of Heir to Damian.

Or maybe it had been his plan all along. His and mother's both.

...Was mother ever going to tell him?

The mirage of Danyal nods, sharp. Understanding. There is a gleam in his eyes that is not pride, it is tears. And when Mother leaves the room and leaves him alone, the stone-like expression on his face crumbles and falls.

His brother, ten years old, curls up his lip in an ugly way. It wobbles as the tears in his eyes do, and he brings up his hand to slam it over his mouth. And sinks to his knees, a yell-like sob muffled behind the skin.

His brother, ten years old, looks smaller than Damian remembers him being, and cries.

Damian has never seen Danyal cry. Not once in the mirage of memories, nor in his own.

The memory holds for a minute, and then disappears. And no new one shows up. The magic is gone, and it leaves a silence in its wake. Heavy, staticky, and full of revelations.

So there are two things that Damian knows that his Father now knows too.

He has an older brother

His older brother is alive.

(And a new secret third thing: Damian wasn't sure how to feel about it.)