Chapter Text
The fortress is not at all what Match expects it to be. The fortress is a very literal fortress, in fact–enormous and crystalline and looking some strange cross between an organically-formed mineral and a deliberately constructed building. From a distance, it looks like ice, but by the time they’re landing outside its enormous doors in the freezing cold, Match can see there’s just ice covering it, and the actual structure itself is literal crystal. Or . . . something crystal-like, at least.
Not any kind of crystal that he’s familiar with, though.
It’s not hidden. It’s very, very cold out here, but there’s nothing concealing the fortress itself aside from a clearly unintentional dusting of ice and snow. Match can’t tell what the security system even is, though there must be something.
Then again, if this place is Superman’s, maybe he’s actually just stupid enough that there's not.
Thirteen is rubbing at his arms and shivering. Match has already locked his muscles with his tactile telekinesis not to let them do the same. He’s felt colder. Much colder.
Though if they’re out here much longer, he’s pretty sure frostbite’s going to start setting in.
Superman, of course, is entirely unaffected.
“Welcome to the Fortress of Solitude,” he says, which seems like an incredibly melodramatic name to Match, and then he opens those enormous doors and gestures them through. “After you.”
Maybe it’s a trap, Match thinks warily as he stares down the crystal-lined hall stretching ahead. A trap would make more sense than Superman bothering to be concerned with his injuries. Much more.
But also it’s f*cking cold and Thirteen is already headed inside, and hell if he’s going to get left out here alone with Superman right now. He’d actually rather never be alone with Superman again, at this point.
Match follows Thirteen in, and Superman closes the doors behind them.
Match wonders if he's locking them, but really can't tell.
“Welcome home, Kal-El,” a voice says, and a luminous hologram of a man in long pale robes cut in a strange style appears in the high-ceilinged, arching hallway in front of them.
“Home”? Match thinks in absolute incredulity. That cannot possibly be accurate. Just–no. Not even slightly.
“Hello, Jor-El,” Superman says, smiling at the hologram with a slightly stressed expression. “We have a couple of guests.”
“I see, yes,” the hologram says, looking from Match to Thirteen and then back again, his eyes lingering assessingly on Match. “Jor-El”, apparently. “Well-done, Kal-El. You are proceeding very well, for lacking a proper birthing matrix to work with.”
“That’s, uh–that’s not–” Superman cuts himself off, looking flustered. “I didn’t commission them, Jor-El.”
“Isn’t ‘Jor-El’ your dad’s name?” Thirteen asks, peering curiously at Jor-El. “And you kinda look like . . .”
“I am an artificial intelligence uploaded with Jor-El’s memories and shaped in his image,” Jor-El explains. “I maintain the Fortress when Kal-El is away.”
“Sick,” Thirteen says, then looks embarrassed for some reason, possibly because he sounds like an idiot. Then again, Thirteen is rarely embarrassed by being an idiot, considering how often he is one. “I mean–uh, cool.”
“The current external temperature is 15°F,” Jor-El says agreeably.
Match cannot for the life of him figure out what he should be doing here, but “escaping this conversation” is an increasingly tempting option.
“I need to make a call,” Superman says, clearing his throat. “But first–ah, Jor-El, can you scan our guests for injuries and pharmaceuticals? Just–general health scans, actually, but focus on injuries and pharmaceuticals, please.”
“Kon-El has high levels of hypnotics and sedatives in his system,” Jor-El says. “And your youngest has moderate levels of sedatives and tranquilizers, along with low levels of opioids. He has one second-degree burn on his stomach, another on his right thigh, and a minor head injury. All other injuries are negligible.”
“What?” Superman startles, his eyes snapping to Match. “They drugged you?”
Match frowns, not understanding why the man looks so surprised by that idea.
“Yes,” he says anyway, since apparently there’s actually a question there.
“Why?” Superman asks. Match continues not to understand why he’s surprised, or why he’s asking questions with such stupidly obvious answers.
“To keep me manageable,” he says, because why else? Superboy is prone to anger and rage and drastic emotional spikes, and Match was made from the same template. And everyone knows what an angry Kryptonian can do.
Even just half of an angry Kryptonian.
Superman stares at him, looking . . . unsettled, almost. Thirteen grimaces. Match really doesn’t understand what the problem is.
“You mean they always drug you,” Superman says slowly.
“Obviously,” Match says dubiously. “I wouldn’t be manageable otherwise.”
“Jesus Christ,” Thirteen mutters under his breath, putting a hand over his mouth and looking nauseous. Match doesn’t bother wasting time on trying to figure out why. Thirteen never has rational reactions anyway.
“I’m . . . let me get you something else to wear,” Superman says abruptly, his voice a little tight, and then vanishes in a blur. Match barely has time to be annoyed before he’s back with a tacky purple sweatshirt and a pair of gray sweatpants with a drawstring waist. Both are definitely too big for Match, but apparently Superman isn’t concerned about that.
Match wonders where they even came from.
He doesn’t actually know how he feels about the idea of wearing civilian clothes. He never really has. Even when he’s pretended to be Thirteen, he never dressed like that.
His suit is burned and bloody, though, and not in particularly good condition. And it’s not like he’s going to refuse an order, even an implied one.
If Superman’s stolen him . . .
He thinks he’s supposed to follow his orders, if Superman’s stolen him. The Agenda always insisted on loyalty and obedience. Of course they did.
So if Superman actually meant it, when he said he was stealing him . . .
Match takes the clothes. The sweatpants are old and worn; the sweatshirt is an obnoxious purple with yellow lettering that says Metropolis Meteors in a large, bold font. Match is vaguely aware the Metropolis Meteors are a sports team, but doesn’t even know if they play football or baseball or f*cking field hockey.
He also doesn’t know why Superman has clothes that clearly have been worn and washed multiple times in his arctic fortress. If he didn’t know better, eyeballing it . . .
Well. They would fit Superman, if he actually wore them himself, but Match can’t even begin to imagine the situation in which the man ever would.
He starts to strip off his torn-up suit and Superman startles, then quickly looks away.
“Would you rather get changed in one of the bedrooms?” he attempts awkwardly. Match is mystified enough by the question to stop while only halfway undressed.
“Why?” he asks.
“. . . for privacy, Match,” Superman says, looking a little pained. “Modesty.”
Match has no idea what this man is ever thinking.
“Superboy sees me naked every day,” he points out dubiously. They look exactly the same, after all. And that "exactly the same" is also "exactly like Superman", on top of that.
“Also he was kinda naked when we met, so . . .” Thirteen shrugs.
“I was, yes,” Match agrees, then decides Superman’s just being ridiculous again and just finishes stripping off his ruined suit. He really doesn’t see why Superman thinks he should care about being naked in front of anyone at all, frankly. He’s lived in a lab all his life; he was born in a lab. “Modesty” isn’t a thing he’s ever either had or needed.
Superman still looks pained, for some reason, but it’s irrelevant.
Match pulls on the pants and sweatshirt, which both feel strangely soft and fit much too loosely, though at least that keeps them from dragging against the burns too much. The pain is irrelevant, obviously, but it'd be annoying if the fabric stuck. And if either of them got infected–
He wouldn't be performing to expectations, if he ended up with an infected wound.
Match ties the drawstring of the sweatpants as tight as he can and rolls up the cuffs and sleeves above his wrists and ankles, just in case he needs to fight, and then doesn’t know what to do with his ruined suit. There’s not exactly an obvious trash can in this arctic alien fortress, much less any sign of a laundry bin.
“Your youngest’s name is ‘Match’, Kal-El?” Jor-El asks, frowning skeptically.
“Oh, ah–” Superman hesitates. Match frowns too. It is his name. Why is Superman hesitating? “Well, technically, but . . .”
“I require the literal one, Kal-El, or I will not be able to list him in the family register with Kon-El,” Jor-El informs him dryly. Superman looks startled.
Match is, again, mystified.
“I, uh–let me get back to you on that, Jor-El,” Superman says, looking flustered now. “I wasn’t even aware you’d put Kon in the–never mind, just–one moment, alright? I really need to make that call. Kon, if you could just take Match to the bathroom so he can clean up some of that blood and ash, or just directly to the infirmary so we can bandage up those burns properly . . .”
“Yeah, sure. Where are they?” Thirteen asks, tilting his head curiously. Superman . . . pauses, briefly, and an odd expression crosses his face.
“You don’t know where–” he starts, and then cuts himself off, still looking strange. “Jor-El can show you. Just . . . follow him, please.”
“On it, man!” Thirteen says, flashing Superman a confident grin that Match instinctively wants to smack off his face. Idiot.
Superman still looks strange. Almost . . . bothered, somehow.
That can’t be right, Match thinks, but he isn’t coming up with an alternate explanation for that expression.
“This way, if you please,” Jor-El says, and Match resignedly follows him down the hall with his ruined suit in hand as Superman heads off . . . who knows where, really. Thirteen comes along, which is obviously unnecessary since he doesn’t know where anything is either, but Superman ordered him to, so Match doesn’t point that out.
He’s tempted, though.
Very tempted.
Match doesn’t know why Thirteen is here. Or why he’s here. Just–what’s the point, exactly?
Superman is no longer available to provide an explanation, though Match doubts he’d say anything that made sense even if he were.
“So, um . . .” Thirteen says, peering curiously at Jor-El. “You’re always here?”
“I am, yes,” Jor-El says. Match just wonders why an AI is bothering to simulate walking ahead of them. Jor-El is displaying himself as a hologram, after all. He doesn’t need to “walk”. He doesn’t even need to display himself at all, presumably; he could just communicate through whatever theoretical systems keep this place running. There’s clearly something. “We did not meet on your previous visit because Kal-El wished to offer you your name and place in the House of El privately.”
“Oh,” Thirteen says, and then ducks his head and grins a little, as if he’s remembering . . . well, presumably that visit, given the conversation. It’s not an expression Match has ever seen on his face before. Well–their face.
Same difference.
“‘Name’,” Match repeats skeptically. He’d really just assumed that Thirteen had come up with the “Kon” thing on his own–used the leftover letters of “clone” after “El” was taken out of it and changed the “C” to a “K” to look closer to “Kal-El”, or something as obvious and stupid and contrived as that. It would’ve been a very Thirteen kind of idea, in his opinion. Certainly as f*cking presumptuous and undeservedly prideful as Thirteen’s always been, if nothing else, deciding he counted as an “El”.
Match isn’t sure what he thinks of the idea that Superman actually gave Thirteen that name.
It’s . . .
“Oh, yeah,” Thirteen says, looking over to him like that was actually intended to be a conversation starter. Ugh. “It’s Kon-El. Not sure if you actually, like, explicitly know that or whatever. We could probably get you one of those later, maybe. Like, if you’re done with being a dick and all. Or really just if you want one. Uh–I don’t actually know any other Kryptonian names, though, and we’d have to ask Superman if it’d be cool to use one of ‘em anyway, I guess.”
“. . . your name is Experiment Thirteen,” Match says.
“Yeah, not so much, dude,” Thirteen says, giving him a dry look.
Match gives him a blank one in response, pushing aside the idea that Superman gave Thirteen a name–a stupid and half-assed borderline insult of a name, but a name–and a . . . “place in the House of El”, apparently. It’s not relevant, and even if it were, it wouldn’t matter.
Superman never makes sense, so he's obviously not going to start now.
The hallway opens up before them, revealing an enormous, sparsely-decorated hall that takes up more space than is even remotely practical to. It's the kind of space that should be taken up by a training field or a stadium or at least a theatre, but it's mostly empty. There's a massive statue near the middle of a man and woman in long, strange robes together holding a large globe over their heads. Match can't tell what it's made of, but it looks almost golden in the cool light. It's much too big to belong indoors, whatever it is. He doesn't understand the purpose of it.
Match usually doesn't understand the purpose of things like unnecessary decoration, admittedly, but the statue seems especially unnecessary.
“A proper name will be required,” Jor-El says as he leads them past the unnecessary statue. Match has no idea why this is even a topic, much less a relevant one.
“I don't need a ‘proper’ name,” he says dubiously. “‘Match’ is perfectly functional.”
“Yeah well I always said I was fine just being ‘Superboy’, but when Kal said I could be ‘Kon-El’ too I was so happy that I literally f*cking cried, so I call absolute and entire bullsh*t on that one,” Thirteen snorts. Match stares blankly at him again. Why would Thirteen even tell him something like that? Much less react that stupidly to begin with?
“That's because you're an inferior design,” he says. “You experience unnecessary emotions. I behave rationally.”
“Sure. Then why don't you explain to me the ‘rational behavior’ behind you not murdering my uptight control freak team leader when you got ordered to,” Thirteen says dryly, looking unimpressed.
Match doesn't answer. It's–not relevant, why he did that.
And it's not something he'd tell Thirteen even if it were.
Obviously.
“Why does Superman have civilian clothes?” he asks instead. Thirteen–pauses, then just shrugs.
“Ask him,” he says, which means he knows and is just being an asshole. Figures.
“More thorough scans would be helpful as well,” Jor-El says as they approach a very large . . . well, Match genuinely doesn’t know. It might be a computer. There’s something screenlike involved, at least. The rows of crystals underneath said screenlike something are definitely not a part of any kind of “computer” he’s ever seen before, but it’s still the likeliest theory he has. “The infirmary is not currently optimized for cloned lifeforms, but we should be capable of extrapolation where necessary. And the Fortress’s programming is certainly familiar with Kryptonian-human hybrids, at this point.”
Match doesn’t respond, considering how obvious a statement that was. His genes are functionally identical to Thirteen’s, after all, so of course Superman’s already familiar with his physiology.
Well–of course he’d have access to Thirteen’s files, more accurately. Match has spoken to him as “Thirteen” enough times to know Superman is no kind of “familiar” with anything about him past the most simplified–and a good six months outdated–version of the basics.
“Um,” Thirteen says, frowning in confusion. “It is? I–oh, yeah. Uh. I guess it, uh . . . would be, huh.”
Match cannot believe how incredibly stupid his gene donor is. Was Thirteen somehow under the impression that advanced alien technology couldn't have accessed Cadmus’s files by now? Hell, the Agenda can get into those with minimal effort. Cadmus’s security is not impressive. He's walked right in the front door enough times at this point.
“It is, yes,” Jor-El agrees. “If you could hold still for a moment, please. Both of you, ideally. We may as well scan you as well, Kon-El.”
Match–frowns.
Wait. If the Fortress already has Thirteen's files, then why would . . .
A pale blue-white light materializes from the crystals beneath the screen and pans over both him and Thirteen. He doesn't feel any hint of warmth from the light or hear anything, and there's no pain.
In addition to the pain he's already in, he means. Obviously.
The whole process seems very . . . simple, for a DNA scan. For–testing, he means. Not involved enough. Not complicated enough. Not even uncomfortable.
Not–what he would've expected.
That's all.
He assumes this is just a first step, and the actual testing Jor-El intends to perform will involve something more invasive or–
“Scan complete,” Jor-El announces as the light flicks off. “Genetic profiles now on file for Kon-El and the as yet unnamed new member of the House of El currently classified as ‘Match’. Proper name impending.”
Match has absolutely no idea what to say to any of that.
“I think the AI is malfunctioning,” he says to Thirteen, who scowls at him and folds his arms.
“Rude much?” he says.
“It just called me a ‘member of the House of El’,” Match informs him dubiously, because maybe Thirteen actually is oblivious to have missed that obvious glitch of a statement.
“. . . maybe Kal can run a virus scan or something,” Thirteen mutters under his breath with a grimace. Match resists the urge to roll his eyes. It's a superfluous gesture. And one he only ever started doing to impersonate Thirteen anyway.
“All Fortress systems are currently running at peak performance,” Jor-El says like a malfunctioning AI would even be an accurate source of information, then gestures off to the side. “The preliminary infirmary and basic medical supplies are this way. Please follow me.”
“The damage is minimal,” Match says. He's healed from worse without wasting medical supplies. The burns aren't even third-degree. And Superman can't possibly want to spend actual resources on him, much less anything that would presumably need to be replaced or recharged or reset later.
The clothes are strange enough, at this point.
“Then treatment will also be minimal,” Jor-El replies matter-of-factly before heading off. “This way.”
Jor-El is definitely malfunctioning.
Thirteen follows him, though, and Match doesn’t know what else to do, so he does the same. Either way he doesn’t want Superman to catch up when he’s alone, so . . .
He doesn’t even know what Superman is doing right now, aside from allegedly making whatever call he needed to make, and who knows what that’s about or for. Maybe he’s warning the Justice League about the likelihood of the Agenda causing problems for them, publicity-wise. Or . . . something to that effect, anyway.
They’ll take the opportunity to, he’s sure. The Agenda doesn’t miss opportunities like that.
The infirmary is sparse and open and both laboratory-bright and laboratory-sterile and mostly made of that strange crystal Match can't identify, but . . . off, somehow. Something about it just seems . . . off. The crystal is strange enough, but something else is stranger.
Match isn’t sure what, exactly.
Maybe it’s just that he can’t smell blood or bleach in it.
Jor-El instructs him through the process of using the cleaning wipes and disinfectant spray and strange alien bandages from the supplies–Match uses his tactile telekinesis to keep himself from flinching, like always–and Thirteen tries to help, which is irritating. Match glowers at him until he backs off, which takes twice as long as it should.
Superman probably wouldn’t appreciate him killing Thirteen, after all this fuss. And Superman is . . . in charge of him now, he thinks. Technically. Presumably. Or at least he owns him, if nothing else.
For now, at least.
The Agenda will want him back, so . . .
So–for now, yes. Until the Agenda reclaims him and disposes of him as a failed experiment. A defective result.
Superman would be–harder to reclaim him from, though. Harder than government custody. Maybe even harder than the Justice League, because Superman by himself doesn’t necessarily have to answer to the same specific pressures that the whole League altogether would.
So if he does . . . whatever Superman wants him to do, exactly–if he does whatever makes Superman want to keep him, for whatever reason Superman decided he wanted to keep him to begin with . . .
He won’t be disposed of as soon, if he does that. Eventually Superman will change his mind and the Agenda will take him back, but–only eventually.
Not yet.
So he just needs to do that.
Match can do that. Superman can't be any harder to please than the Agenda. He . . . thinks he can't, anyway. Superman tolerates Thirteen, so . . .
But Superman only tolerates Thirteen. He doesn’t keep him around. Thirteen doesn’t live in Metropolis or see Superman all that often, or even regularly. They don’t even know each other well enough for Superman to tell the difference between him and Match when Match isn’t trying to trick him.
And Match and Thirteen are the same build, technically. Match is an improved design, but he still came from the same base DNA. Still has the same powers; the same natural inclinations and the same genetic potential.
Match could do it all better than Thirteen, obviously, but . . . well, if Superman wanted any of those things, he could’ve gotten them from Thirteen already. So he’s an upgrade, yes, but he’s an upgrade of something Superman doesn’t even want. Which is . . .
It doesn’t matter. The Agenda will scrap him in the end no matter what, and that’ll be–all. Nothing will change. Nothing will be any different. It’ll all come to the same end no matter what.
It doesn’t matter, so it’s the only thing that matters.
Match . . . doesn’t know why he thinks that.
The bandages feel strange, partially because they're not standard medical supplies and partially because he just isn't used to wearing bandages. Definitely not while he's still on his feet and conscious enough to be aware of their existence, anyway.
It's not worth patching up a weapon that's going to heal on its own anyway. It's not worth patching up a weapon that won't heal on its own anyway.
So he isn't used to them, no.
Match doesn't understand why Superman is wasting resources like these on him. Or what Superman even wants him for at all. Or–any of this, really.
But it's this or he goes back to the Agenda to get culled, so he's doing as he's told.
What he's getting told is getting increasingly stupid, mind, but he's doing it all the same.
“All good?” Thirteen checks, trying to peer at the bandages. Match pulls the sweatshirt and sweatpants back over them and glares at him. “Just asking, man.”
“I’m functioning to acceptable parameters,” he says, irritated by Thirteen’s inexplicable interest. Especially because it’s only really “inexplicable” if he assumes Thirteen isn’t trying to identify weaknesses or vulnerabilities in him.
“What’s ‘acceptable’, exactly?” Thirteen asks skeptically.
“I could kill you with absolutely no effort whatsoever,” Match reports flatly, narrowing his eyes at him.
“Sure, no effort,” Thirteen snorts, rolling his own. Match considers proving his point, but Superman would probably consider that undesirable behavior. Superman isn’t going to cull Thirteen, after all. Even if he actually keeps Match.
It’s . . . a strange thought, even though it’s an obvious thing. Superman doesn’t kill people, after all.
Not that they’re people, just . . .
He’s not sure what the “just” is, there.
Maybe Jor-El does the culling, when it’s necessary. It might be an automated process. Something Superman doesn’t have to waste his own time on or dirty his hands with. Something . . .
Just–something.
Match doesn’t really think Superman intends to cull either of them, but he also doesn’t understand what Superman actually wants, both in general and right now. He and Thirteen are irrelevant to Superman. They don’t matter to him. They're footnotes in his life, at most. Nothing to concern himself with past that.
Obviously they are.
They are, but then why did Superman retrieve Thirteen and steal Match and bring them both here, and why is he wasting resources on Match’s injuries and instructing his AI to scan their systems and put them in the . . . register?
It doesn’t make sense.
Which–Superman never makes sense. Obviously.
But it’s strange and suspicious and frustrating, because knowing what’s going on is the only way Match can ever . . . control anything. Not that he ever controls anything, just–it's the only way he can ever prepare for anything. That’s all. If he doesn’t know what’s going on . . .
Match hears the carefully deliberate rustle of fabric and the barest echo of a heartbeat he knows, and turns his head just enough to see Superman walk into the infirmary area. Thirteen straightens up in an obvious unconscious reflex. Match . . . isn't sure what to do. He's usually pretending to be Thirteen when he's around Superman. And he's never been around Superman for this long either way.
Superman always leaves before he's ever around him for this long.
“All good?” Superman checks in almost the exact same tone Thirteen did a minute ago. Match immediately eyes Thirteen, who looks torn between being pleased and uncomfortable about it.
Probably he wasn’t deliberately imitating Superman, then, but it’s still annoying.
“Medical attention has been administered,” Jor-El says. “Minimally.”
“Uh . . . good?” Superman looks briefly perplexed, then looks at Match and Thirteen and just looks stressed instead. “How are you two . . . feeling?”
“I’m good, man, no big,” Thirteen says with a shrug while Match is still mystified by Superman's use of the word “feeling”. “Not like I’ve never gotten kidnapped by an evil lab before, right?”
Superman looks even more stressed, for some reason. Match continues not to understand him at all.
“At acceptable functionality for field work,” he reports shortly.
Superman looks much more stressed.
Match really doesn’t know what’s wrong with this man. He asked for a report, didn’t he?
He doesn't know how to behave, if Superman is going to be like this. He doesn't know how to be–safe.
Not–he's not–
It's just–irritating. Superman's being more complicated than he needs to be about this and keeps making even less sense than usual and not giving clear instructions and–and that's all. Clear instructions make his job easier. Make it easier to be . . . useful. And being useful is–necessary. Performing to standard and being useful and–
He doesn’t know how to behave, if Superman is going to be like this.
Match feels like he's getting a headache, and not from the actual head injury.
“That's–alright,” Superman says, still looking stressed. Match doesn't let himself bristle. Doesn't let anything–show. “Jor-El, ah . . . if any non-emergency communications come in, just take a message, please. But alert me immediately if either Batman or Wonder Woman calls back.”
“‘Calls back’?” Thirteen looks puzzled.
“I spoke to them about the Agenda's plans so they could make certain that Robin and Wonder Girl were both safe,” Superman says. “The Justice League is going to be looking into things from here.”
Match frowns. Why does that matter? Looking into the Agenda, he means. That doesn't seem relevant to anything once Robin and Wonder Girl are secured.
“sh*t, I shoulda called ‘em,” Thirteen mutters, wincing to himself.
“You’ve just been abducted and drugged, Kon,” Superman says, looking briefly pained. “And I’m right here. It really wasn’t something you had to worry about.”
“Uh . . . I guess,” Thirteen says, clearly unconvinced. Well, at least he’s being less stupid than usual, Match supposes. There’s no situation in which Thirteen should assume Superman is going to do anything for him, in his experience of the man.
Save his life if something happens directly in front of him, maybe, but that’s about it.
Honestly, Match is a little surprised that it even occurred to Superman to call Batman and Wonder Woman at all, given his usual total lack of concern in regards to anything Thirteen might care about. Though he supposes it’s because Batman and Wonder Woman would be just as upset as Thirteen would if Robin and Wonder Girl were killed, so that probably explains that.
Still. It’s . . . unexpected.
“Just . . . don't worry right now, alright? Either of you. I'm taking care of everything,” Superman says. Match stares blankly at him. He can't possibly think they'd believe that. In what possible world would either of them ever believe that? Superman might take care of everything he thinks requires taken care of, perhaps, but the likelihood of those things being relevant to either of them is slim to none.
“Um–sure?” Thirteen says hesitantly, which sounds about as convincing as Match feels when he has to pretend an incompetent handler knows what they're doing.
“Excellent,” Jor-El says. “Then please provide your youngest's name for the family register now, Kal-El. All necessary medical care has been administered and all necessary information has been relayed to your allies, so there should be no further delays in updating it.”
“Ah . . . just . . . give us a moment here, Jor-El, if you don't mind?” Superman asks, looking awkward. “Uh–privately, I mean?”
“Very well, Kal-El,” Jor-El says, though he looks disapproving about the idea. He flickers out, which seems misleading; he's an AI, after all. He doesn't need the illusion of a physical presence to observe . . . whatever it is Superman wants to do “privately”.
Match isn't sure what to expect for that. More testing? Combat-related tests, maybe. Skill assessments. Or maybe Superman will wait until his injuries are healed for that, to be certain he's getting him in top form. That would be logical. Superman doesn't send Thirteen away like he did Jor-El, though, so maybe he does want to do testing now. Compare and contrast their results.
Or . . . something else.
Match can do that. Can outperform Thirteen. The pain isn't relevant.
But if he does outperform Thirteen, then . . . what does that mean, even? What would Superman do with that information?
He doesn't–know.
He doesn't . . . it'd be preferable. To know.
Obviously.
“Uh, should I go too, or . . .” Thirteen trails off, hooking his hands together behind his back and looking uncomfortable.
“Would you rather do this with just the two of us?” Superman says. Thirteen doesn't answer.
. . . Match blinks, very slowly, and tilts his head.
Superman is looking at him.
“I wasn't designed to have opinions,” he says. “It's unnecessary to inquire after my preferences.”
“Jesus Christ,” Thirteen mutters again, putting a hand over his face. Superman looks–
Very strange, for some reason.
“I didn’t destroy that lab badly enough,” he says under his breath. Match frowns. Why is that relevant? Why does Superman even think that? He saw the damage. There’s no way the Lyon lab is going to function again anytime in the next six months, assuming it ever functions again at all. If Superman had destroyed it any worse, in fact, it would’ve been easier to get it up and running again because there wouldn’t have been enough of it left for there to be a point in either attempting any form of salvage or for a demolition crew to be necessary.
“Don’t waste time on unnecessary questions,” Match says. “Just tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”
“. . . why,” Superman asks, very slowly. It’s a stupid question, and definitely unnecessary. Match barely resists the urge to glower at him for it. He just said not to waste time on unnecessary questions.
He should’ve known Superman would be the type to, though.
Superman doesn’t even ask it like it’s a test, which would at least have a purpose.
“You stole me,” Match reminds him. “Therefore you own me. I understand how to behave for whoever owns me. I’ll perform to expectations.”
Superman covers his eyes with a hand for a moment and exhales roughly, which seems unnecessary too. Superman doesn’t even need to breathe, except to speak or use the ice breath. So why does he do things like that? Why does he breathe and move like a human would; why does he even blink like a human would?
It’s a waste of time and energy, and there isn’t a reason to do it.
Thirteen’s fists are clenched tight enough to visibly strain the seams of his gloves. He isn’t in an offensive stance, though, so Match doesn’t understand the purpose of that either.
He waits for Superman to collect himself. Doesn’t reiterate his statement. That would be unnecessary too. Talking too much.
He talks too much, his handlers all say. Runs his mouth too much; likes the sound of his own voice too much.
Don’t take after the obsolete version, Subject Match.
Match can talk to Thirteen as much as he wants. Could talk to Thirteen’s friends as much as he wanted, because Thirteen talked that much.
But Superman isn’t Thirteen, and Superman doesn’t even talk to Thirteen. He isn’t going to want to waste time on what Match has to say.
And Match has already been talking too much as it is.
“Alright,” Superman says finally, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. Match keeps waiting for him to say something relevant. “My first expectation is that you understand that questions about your opinions aren’t ‘unnecessary’. I want to know what you think about things. Especially things that matter to you.”
. . . Match will never, ever understand Superman. The Agenda didn’t even want his opinions on tactics or battle plans, much less anything else.
He doesn’t have opinions, so why would they?
“Nothing matters to me,” he lies, because he knows better than to say anything else.
Superman exhales, dropping his hand away from his face, and Thirteen glowers at Match. Neither reaction particularly makes sense, still, but Thirteen’s is at least more expected than Superman’s. Thirteen should be glowering at him. That’s normal, for them.
“If nothing matters, then answering questions about your opinions won’t either,” Superman says, because apparently “normal” isn’t good enough for him anymore. “So: do you want Kon here for this, or do you want to do it privately?”
Match, objectively, wants absolutely nothing to do with either of them. But–objectively–wants even less to do with just Superman by himself. He doesn’t even know what Superman wants right now. Is he intending to test his capabilities? Instruct him in something? Make sure he understands the rules he expects him to follow and the correct way to behave?
He doesn’t know the correct answer to Superman’s question, either. If Thirteen is here, will that make it easier for Superman to test and assess him? Is Superman even intending to do that yet? If Thirteen is here, will that affect the kind of testing Superman wants to do?
Will that kind of testing happen either way?
Match doesn't want–
Nothing. He doesn't want things. Ever.
He wasn't made to. So he doesn't.
“Privacy is not a concern,” he says, because Superman obviously still expects an answer and he isn't stupid enough to be difficult about it. Even if it's the wrong answer, well–then he'll know what to say next time. “Privacy” isn't exactly a concept that he's familiar with anyway. He’s never had it in his life, except for a handful of times when he was pretending to be Thirteen. Even when he was left alone in his cell or a training room or anywhere similar, there were always the cameras, and the guards were never far either.
And if Superman is intending to do assessments that involve Thirteen, then . . . then they'll be done.
Match doesn't know if it's better that way or not.
Superman lets out a little sigh, some tension draining out of his shoulders. He smiles at him, just a little. Match finds the experience unnerving, given that he’s never once had Superman smile at him. When he thought he was Thirteen, once or twice. But never when he knew he wasn't.
It's . . . strange. And it doesn't make any f*cking sense. But apparently he managed to pick the correct answer, so that's–good, then. That's what Superman wanted to hear, for whatever reason.
But Match still doesn’t know if it’s going to be better this way or not.
“Alright,” Superman says, and then looks–awkward, briefly. “Ah–Kon’s name is Kryptonian, obviously. I named him after a cousin from the second house of El who he's always reminded me of. But I don't–well. I don't know you well enough to have a suggestion like that, unfortunately.”
Match stares blankly at him. What is he talking about?
“I mean, Jor-El's gotta have a baby name book or something somewhere around here, right?” Thirteen asks, glancing towards the spot where Jor-El disappeared. Match continues to not understand this conversation, because it actually sounds like Superman’s gone back to trying to name him, as if that is any kind of priority in the current situation or even remotely necessary either way. “I dunno, did Krypton do baby name books?”
“I'm not an infant,” Match says irritably, narrowing his eyes at Thirteen on principle.
“You're younger than me, Matchstick,” Thirteen shoots back, making a face at him.
“I'm older, in fact,” Match reminds him dubiously, folding his arms. “I'm not the idiot who broke his aging process for the better part of a year.”
“That was your f*cking bosses’ fault!” Thirteen sputters indignantly, jabbing a finger at him. “And anyway, it doesn't count! You got made like six months after I did!”
“You expect to be treated as your physiological age,” Match retorts pointedly, raising an eyebrow at him. “So why wouldn't it count?”
“That's–okay, f*ck you, it does not!” Thirteen protests, gesturing wildly with both hands. “That is literal cheaty bullsh*t based on some sh*t supervillains did to me! You are the damn ‘infant’ here! You! Not me!”
“That's a very adult and mature approach to countering a logical argument,” Match drawls, keeping his eyebrow raised. Thirteen fumes.
“Who's your worst relative?” he demands of Superman, whipping around to face him instead even as he points at Match again. “Got anybody in the Phantom Zone or whatever? Name him after that asshole.”
Superman's mouth–quirks, slightly. He looks a little stressed, still, but also like he might be trying not to laugh, which is just . . . what? What the hell?
“I don't know if that's quite the sentiment we're trying to achieve here, Kon,” Superman says, smiling wryly, and Thirteen looks disgruntled and folds his arms. Match understands even less of the conversation than before. What the hell does Superman mean, “sentiment”?
The man is actually just unfathomable. Or clinically insane in a way that Match doesn't understand how to predict the pathology of, but it’s the same difference from his side of things.
He doesn’t know what to expect here at all.
“Just pick something, then,” he says, increasingly irritated by how long this is taking. It’s not important, so he doesn’t know why the hell Superman’s f*cking dithering about it. “Your planet is dead, you can’t possibly have that many relatives.”
“Technically, the House of El is fairly old, so . . .” Superman sighs a little, looking briefly wry again, but mostly just–unsettled, maybe. Off-balance? Match isn’t sure what to call it. “I just–I’m not sure what’s an appropriate choice to offer you, that’s all.”
Match really is having the stupidest day of his life.
“This is literally the least important decision you’ve ever had to make,” he says. “Just pick something so we can move on to assessments.”
“. . . ‘assessments’,” Superman repeats carefully, almost like it’s a question.
“Testing,” Match says, not looking at Thirteen. He still doesn’t know if Superman intends to involve Thirteen in that or not. “Or whatever you’re actually intending to do with me.”
Superman grimaces. Thirteen glares, but not even at Match this time, just the wall.
“f*cking Agenda f*cks,” he mutters. Match doesn’t even know what the Agenda has to do with this conversation, but fine, whatever. Thirteen’s said much stupider things, considering.
“This is a waste of time,” he reiterates, and then realizes that he’s definitely been talking too much and just–stops. Doesn’t say anything else.
Even if Superman is, objectively, wasting time, and also being irritating about it.
Superman stares at him for a long, strange moment. Match very badly wants to hit him. At least that’s a script he knows how to follow. Not that he actually wants–it’s a figure of speech. That’s all.
Obviously.
“So like, who all’s in the House of El, anyway?” Thirteen asks as he glances back to Superman again, which is still annoying but at least more productive than just staring at Match like an idiot like Superman is. Match doesn’t appreciate it, obviously, just–it’s more productive. That’s all. “Aside from, uh, the obvious.”
“It’s an old house, like I said,” Superman replies slowly. “Thousands of years old, in fact. The founder of the original house was Erok–he was the first to take the name ‘El’, and his great-grandson Hyr-El is the common ancestor of the . . . surviving line. Bur-El was an archivist. His son Val-El was an explorer. Jaf-El was a prophet. Im-El was a scientist. Nox-El was an entertainer. Sul-El was an astronomer, and his son Hatu-El lead a revolt against the–”
Match is aware that Superman has an eidetic memory, but had never previously realized that could be a character flaw.
“Um,” Thirteen mercifully interrupts, looking overwhelmed. “No offense, man, but is there maybe, like, a shortlist, or . . .?”
“Er.” Superman looks–embarrassed, almost, which is actually insane, and then clears his throat. “Well–personally relevant members were my father Jor-El–and, well, my mother Lara Lor-Van. And Jor-El had a brother named–”
“Understood,” Match cuts in shortly, because he is not sitting through another list as long as the last one. “Which designation are you assigning me?”
Superman looks pained.
“It’s a name, kid,” he says. “I’m not assigning it to you, I’m offering it. I told you, I want to know what you think about things. It matters, what you think about things.”
Seeing as no one actually listened when Match pointed out that this entire idea is an unnecessary waste of time that he has no interest in, that’s an obvious lie, but fine. He’ll pretend to believe it. He knows how to do that.
“Understood,” he repeats. Superman looks no less pained, which is–frustrating. Match is doing what he wants, so why is he upset about it?
Superman just never makes sense at all, and less and less the longer Match actually spends in his presence.
“I mean it,” Superman says, and then lets out a sigh. “Just–alright. Just . . . don’t worry about it, yet. Ah–Jor, then. Jor-El.”
So the most obvious and least appropriate option. Fine. Match doesn’t care either way. It doesn’t matter if Superman wants to rename him. The Agenda named him to begin with, so–it’s a claim, obviously. A declaration of authority. Match isn’t stupid enough to require proof of his owner’s authority, but he’s put up with worse than answering to something that isn’t his name.
Much worse.
“‘Jor’?” Thirteen repeats, sounding a little skeptical. Match is much more skeptical, but again, clearly no one in this conversation cares about that. “Uh–you-know-who isn’t gonna think that’s weird?”
Superman frowns, looking puzzled.
“‘You-know-who’?” he repeats questioningly, and Thirteen looks awkward.
“You know,” he says. “Uh–naming him after your dad and all. Isn’t that weird? ‘Cuz you named, uh . . . you-know-who after–uh, your dad. Like–also. Right?”
“. . . ah,” Superman says, and clears his throat. Match cannot possibly imagine why the AI would care about sharing a designation with him, though he supposes it might be annoying for clarity-related purposes. Depending on how long Superman deigns to keep him, anyway, and if he keeps him specifically in the fortress for that length of time. Probably overlapping labeling in unrelated assets is something that would bother an AI, considering. “I didn’t, er . . . mean it like that.”
“Um, yeah, I know,” Thirteen says, fidgeting slightly and rubbing at his arm as he glances just past Superman’s ear in an unimpressive attempt at looking like he isn’t avoiding making eye contact with the man. “So that’s why it’d be weird, right? Because it’s–not like that.”
Superman looks at Thirteen for a very long moment, and then his jaw tightens just the slightest bit before he just–sighs, again, and his shoulders slump a little.
Match has literally never seen Superman’s shoulders slump. He’s seen pictures of his “corpse” after Doomsday, both collapsed on the broken street and laid out on a table in Cadmus, and they weren’t even slumped then.
He doesn’t even know what Thirteen means by “like that”, though hell if he’s going to admit to that.
It’s a stupid name anyway. The most obvious and least appropriate one, again. And also annoying for clarity-related purposes, on top of that.
“Lara,” someone says, and Match only realizes it was him when Thirteen and Superman both look at him.
. . . that wasn't . . . intentional, exactly.
“What?” Superman asks carefully. Match feels an erratic thrum of tension under his skin; locks his muscles with TTK and ignores it.
“Lara,” he repeats, less because of any actual “want” than because “Jor” really is irritatingly unclear. Even Thirteen thinks so, for f*ck's sake. Anyway, Superman wants him to state “opinions”, so this should either placate him or prove that he's a liar. And then Match will know that he's lying, and can behave accordingly. “‘Jor’ is a flawed identifier. So–Lara.” It's still parallel to Superman's incredibly stupid suggestion, but at least less stupid. Unless there's another AI somewhere around here, anyway.
Thirteen blinks, looking confused. Superman . . . tilts his head, slowly. Match doesn't let himself react, but braces himself for–whatever reaction Superman is about to have.
“. . . sorry, I might've made some assumptions,” Superman says carefully, not quite frowning. “Are you a girl?”
Match has no idea why he'd ask a question that ridiculous. Superman has Thirteen’s files, and whatever scans the AI took too. And on top of that, he knows Thirteen was made in his image and that Match was made in Thirteen’s image, and just saw him naked on top of everything else. How is that even a question that would occur to him at all?
“No,” he answers anyway, because ridiculous and pointless as it is, he knows better than to ignore a direct question.
“The masculinized version would be ‘Lar’,” Superman says. Match has never met a more exhausting person in his life, including Thirteen.
“How is that relevant?” he asks irritably. Does Superman want his damn “opinion” or not?
“. . . alright. Lara-El it is,” Superman says after a moment’s pause, looking at him . . . thoughtfully, almost. Match doesn’t let himself bristle. “And, well . . . a human name, if you'd like it. You could both probably use one of those, at this point.”
“Huh?” Thirteen says, looking bewildered. “Bewildered” is not a strong enough word to cover what Match is currently feeling, or his absolute exasperation at the idea of doing a second round of this stupid nonsense. “What for?”
“For . . . being human, still,” Superman says with another quiet sigh. “Part of you both is, after all.”
“Part of us is Paul Westfield,” Match reminds him dubiously. “I don't really see how that's the genetic heritage that you want us getting in touch with.”
“Part of you is Clark Kent, too,” Superman says, and Match–frowns. Thirteen stares bug-eyed at Superman, looking like an absolute moron about . . . whatever he’s doing that about, exactly. Match doesn’t like not knowing what that is. Doesn’t like not knowing–anything, really.
Obviously.
“Who’s Clark Kent?” he asks suspiciously, because as far as he knows there weren’t any other gene donors included in Superboy’s design, so who would Superman even be–
“I am,” Superman says.
Match stares blankly at him. Thirteen cringes. Match . . . keeps staring.
What. What did he just–
What?
“. . . you have a secret identity,” Match says, slowly.
“Yes,” Superman says.
“. . . you have a secret identity, and you just told me it?!” Match demands in disbelief, raising his voice without even meaning to. He needs to not–he’s not allowed to–just–just what the actual, literal, entire hell?!
“Yes,” Superman repeats.
“Okay, wow, I like had to save multiple realities from my evil Hypertime self to accidentally find that out and you still didn't even actually admit it until that time you got mentally compromised by getting turned into a teenager and forgot how to keep a secret,” Thirteen says, staring at Superman in utter bemusem*nt. It doesn’t feel like enough bemusem*nt, frankly. Match needs him to outsource some, at this point.
And maybe share, while he’s at it.
“Yes,” Superman repeats again, just barely wincing as he folds his arms. “That was . . . a mistake. I should've told you my identity long before I did, Kon. So I'm going to avoid repeating that mistake now.”
“Oh,” Thirteen says, his voice sounding–odd, a little, and his expression turning uncomfortable. Match is fairly certain that Superman has lost his mind to a degree of which the Justice League should probably be informed, so can’t even blame him for it. Thirteen glances towards him, and he has that flashed thought that they might be thinking similar things again, which is no less bizarre than the first time.
What even is this conversation?
“You are actually making a much worse mistake, in fact,” Match says, because when the Agenda takes him back–what, does Superman think he won’t tell them? Think he won’t follow his owner’s orders, no matter who that owner happens to be? Is he actually that stupid? “And for completely irrelevant reasons, because 'Clark Kent' isn’t human.”
“By nurture, if not nature,” Superman says, and sort of . . . shrugs, almost. “Humans raised me. And they raised me well, and more kindly and compassionately than they needed to. And when no one else would've blamed them for not doing it.”
“I have no idea what you think you’re saying,” Match says, because he really does not and doesn’t know how to fake it. He’s a very good liar and very good improviser, for obvious reasons, but this is just–there is just no logic to what Superman is saying right now. Nothing he can figure out from context or deduce or just brush over.
“Westfield was some of the worst of humanity,” Superman says. “My parents are some of the best.”
. . . Superman has parents. Superman has parents, who are human. Superman has parents who are human, who are apparently alive, and who he apparently thinks highly of and presumably cares about, and he just told Match they existed.
Match might actually not get culled for this, if he told the Agenda that.
Doesn’t Superman know that?
“I mean, they are both really nice,” Thirteen says hesitantly, rubbing awkwardly at his arm. “Like, from what I know about ‘em, I mean. Like–just the couple of times we've met and the stuff you've said and all, not . . .”
“They are,” Superman says, and glances at Match. “And I suppose it’s time you met them too.”
“. . . what,” Match says, because apparently he’s experiencing auditory hallucinations now or maybe something in the fortress just echoed strangely or–
“You're . . . you were right, Lara,” Superman says quietly like it’s a real name, letting out an even quieter sigh. He reaches over and puts a hand on Match’s shoulder, for some reason. Squeezes it, for some reason. “You and Kon both exist because of me, whether we share DNA or not. So you're both my responsibility. And you're both as much of the House of El and as much of a Kent as I am, too.”
“. . . what,” Match says, because auditory hallucinations could not possibly account for a single word that he just heard.
“Uh,” Thirteen says, and looks overwhelmed and confused and unsettled, and Match, unfortunately, does not see any similarly logical reactions in Superman’s expression. Superman looks . . .
If Match were absolutely stupid, he’d say Superman looked regretful.
“I mean it,” Superman says, his voice very gentle. Thirteen hunches his shoulders and shrinks in on himself a little warily, his posture something between him folding his arms and wrapping his arms around himself–and, Match is sure, his TTK. Match cannot even account for how insane this situation is, because clearly Superman doesn’t think he’s Thirteen right now, but also, what, does Superman think he’s Thirteen right now? Does he actually think he’d keep any of his secrets or–or be–or that he’s–
He doesn’t. He can’t. Not even Thirteen is stupid enough to think any of that, and Thirteen was stupid enough to call them brothers the first time they met. Superman cannot possibly be enough of an idiot to actually believe Match won’t be reporting all this word-for-word to the Agenda in debriefing as soon as they reclaim him. There is literally no possible way that he could be. If nothing else, being on a yellow sun planet couldn’t let him be.
So why is Superman saying all this?
It doesn’t make sense.
“You do?” Thirteen asks hesitantly, digging his fingers into his own arms. Superman glances towards him, but doesn’t take his hand off Match’s shoulder. Thirteen stiffens and tries to straighten up and puff up his posture back to its normal bravado, but it’s not remotely convincing.
Match doesn’t know what to do about Superman’s hand still being on his shoulder.
“I do, yes,” Superman says. “You’re both my responsibility, and I’ve . . . neglected that. Neglected you.”
Thirteen visibly swallows, just barely ducking his head as his eyes slide away to the wall, but doesn’t say anything else. Match–it’s accurate, arguably, that Superman has “neglected” them. More accurate that he’s ignored them, but probably the argument could be made. It’s definitely accurate that they only exist because of him and his behavior. He decided to make himself Superman, and other people decided to react to that fact. He decided to make himself a symbol and a declaration, make himself something and someone that everyone knew existed. Made his DNA unspeakably valuable and then went and left his dead body lying around, and then proved to the whole world that nothing could ever stop him from doing what he wanted to do. Not even being dead.
Superman can do anything he wants, but all he wants to do is help people. Or so Match has heard people say, anyway, mostly while pretending to be Thirteen. It’s certainly not how the Agenda talks about him, and not Match’s own experience of him either. But . . .
Well. He and Thirteen aren’t actually “people”, so maybe that is true. Maybe that really is all Superman wants to do.
Match really doesn’t know, but it’s not like it changes the results of his behavior either way. Not like it changes the fact he told everyone exactly what he was like, and exactly how impossible to contain or control.
And exactly how valuable his DNA was.
Match’s DNA is all he has. It’s the only thing he’s ever had. It’s not even actually his, but it’s the only reason he was ever made; the only reason he ever existed. The only reason he was ever worth anything to anyone at all.
And now he’s a defective subject, and his DNA will be all he’s good for once the Agenda culls and dissects him. The only thing he’s ever been good for.
Assuming the word “good” could ever even apply to him anyway.
But Superman is saying . . .
“You’re literally insane,” Match says, because as much as he doesn’t want to be culled, he wants to listen to Superman lie to him even less. “I’m a weapon. A clone. A supervillain. And did I mention the being a weapon part, because that’s what I am.”
“You’re a part of me,” Superman says carefully, which is true, but also not something he’s ever previously cared about. And anyway, it’s only true through the theory of transitive property. Thirteen was made from Superman, and Match was made from Thirteen; ergo, Match was made from Superman. Made from a part of him, anyway.
But Superman has never cared about that before.
“I don't know quite how to define our . . . relationship, to be honest, but–you're a part of my family,” Superman continues, his tone still slow and careful like he thinks they’re stupid or something. Thirteen is stupid and Match is now concerned about his own genetic risk factors for sudden-onset psychotic breaks, but it’s irritating anyway. “You have my DNA, but more than that, your creation was a direct result of my actions. My choices. Same for Kon. You're both my family.”
“That is absolute trash logic,” Match says flatly, and doesn’t even care that he’s talking too much anymore, or about talking back or telling Superman what an unbelievable idiot he’s being. Doesn’t even care what Superman wants anymore. He’s not making sense anyway, and even when Match does what he wants, the bastard just gets upset about it. So Match just turns to the only other person in the conversation with any trace of sense left in their head and snaps, “Thirteen, make Superman shut up and find me a reasonably ethical telepath so they can erase my memory of this idiot’s identity before the Agenda takes me back and debriefs me. Is Dubbilex still with Cadmus? Yes? Get moving, we're going right now.”
“Uh–” Thirteen starts, glancing between Superman and the door hesitantly, and Superman just–sighs, a little. He won’t stop doing that. It’s irritating.
“You don’t need to go to Dubbilex, Lara,” Superman says, steady and certain and clearly even stupider than Match thought he was. “I'm trusting you not to tell the Agenda who I am. And if they try to take you back, I’m not going to let them. Even if they do manage to take you back, I’m going to come for you. Just wait for me. I’ll come.”
Match stares at him. So does Thirteen. It’s the only reasonable reaction to have to anything about this situation, as far as Match is concerned, but especially the only reasonable reaction to have to Superman saying any of that.
“What in the history of our entire non-relationship has made you decide to do that?” he demands incredulously, still staring at the man. Superman has parents. He has a name and a life and presumably people he has at least a passing tolerance for in it. He has parents. Why would he ever trust him with that information? He shouldn’t even trust Thirteen with it, and clearly he knows that because he didn’t actually tell Thirteen about it until he was mentally compromised!
“I'm doing it because you deserve at least that much from me,” Superman says quietly, his voice tight but even and arms still folded, and Match nearly malfunctions from absolute disbelief. “I abandoned you. I knew you existed, I knew what the Agenda was like and what they were doing, and I never came for you. I left you alone with them. I let them hurt you. I thought–I don’t know what I thought. I thought you didn’t want anything else, and I didn’t consider whether or not you knew you could have anything else.”
. . . oh, alright. This is just clone degradation, Match realizes. His DNA’s finally collapsed and he’s just hallucinated this entire experience while dying on an examination table in whichever satellite lab he’s currently in.
That makes more sense, yeah.
“Uh,” Thirteen says again, and swallows roughly. “That’s, uh–I mean, Cadmus would probably hire him too, if we asked? Like–they hired Heat Wave, Lara’s not any worse than him or anything. And they’re pretty okay to work for, it’s not–”
“Kon,” Superman cuts Thirteen off, looking pained. “I’m not letting Cadmus take you back either.”
Thirteen . . . stops. Stops, and stays very, very still. Match wonders when to expect the hallucinations to dissolve into the experience of vivisection. He assumes vivisection would probably be enough to interrupt hallucinations, anyway, even ones this thorough. Especially a complete one, as opposed to the kind of procedures he’s used to.
Superman apparently wasn’t really dead, when he was dead. Was . . . aware, at least on some level. Apparently.
Match would–prefer not to have inherited that trait, considering there’ll be an autopsy too. And they’ll be breaking him down for parts and samples, even if he’s degrading this badly, so–
“Neither of you belongs in a lab,” Superman says evenly, his jaw tight and eyes strange and unreadable. “And I don't want either of you to ever be left in one again.”
Never mind. Match isn’t hallucinating. There is no possible reality in which he would even hallucinate Superman saying something like that.
He looks at Thirteen again on reflex, like an idiot–exactly like an idiot, because Thirteen looks at him too. He doesn’t–he’s not–
Just–again, what the actual f*cking hell is Superman doing? What is he thinking? What does he even–what’s even–
Match doesn’t understand.
“You, uh . . .” Thirteen swallows, glancing back to Superman with a strange expression on his face, hunching in on himself again. Match is actually almost impressed with him for once in their lives, because he can’t even begin to figure out what to say to any of that. “. . . you actually, like . . . really think that?”
“Yes,” Superman says. Simple. Certain. Insane.
“. . . oh,” Thirteen says, his voice very, very quiet. Match still can’t figure out a single thing he could possibly say. He doesn’t even–what is Superman even–
This isn’t what Superman does. Isn’t how he acts. Isn’t consistent with his previous behavior. Not in regards to Thirteen, anyway, and even less in regards to him. Not . . .
“Jor-El,” Superman calls, and the AI’s hologram reappears beside him. Superman clears his throat, then gestures to them. “Kon-El and Lara-El. Or–let’s say . . . Conner Kent and . . . Lane Kent. For, ah–the family register. If you’re both alright with that, that is.”
Match stares at him again, and is sure Thirteen is doing the same.
“Um–uh–yeah?” Thirteen manages, sounding uncertain and unsettled and blinking very quickly a few times, his shoulders tight. “Um–yeah. Yeah, that’s . . . uh, that’s alright. With me.” Then he glances sidelong at Match, looking unnerved, and Match is still too busy trying to reconcile the impossibility of this entire conversation to even understand the question. It’s–that’s–
Why the hell does Superman want their opinions about this? About any of this? Of anything, ever, at all? Why is he–why would he–
“Yes,” he says stiffly, because that’s what Thirteen said and Superman didn’t get upset at him for it, so–it’s the right answer, then. Isn’t it? Thirteen knows Superman better than he does, so–so it must be.
And he doesn’t know what would happen if he said the wrong thing right now, but he’s even less sure what he’d do about saying the wrong thing right now.
Superman smiles at them, and it looks sad and strange and a little painful on his face. Something in Match’s gut–twists, almost, and his chest feels like there’s something heavy on it. Heavier than even his tactile telekinesis can seem to affect.
“Thank you,” Superman says in that gentle tone again, like he thinks either of them is a thing that ever needs either thanked or anything gentle. Even Thirteen’s not that useless. He reaches out and puts a hand on both of their shoulders, and squeezes them like before. Match doesn’t know what to do about it. “Then–Kon-El and Lara-El. Conner Kent and Lane Kent. Welcome to the family. Both of you.”
“Lara,” Jor-El repeats, and sounds–longing, almost, even as he smiles too. It looks even sadder and stranger and more painful on his face, though Match doesn’t understand how or why. “Grandchild. It’s so good to meet you.”
Match can’t decide if it makes less sense that the incredibly advanced alien AI looks like he’s about to cry or that said AI just called him “grandchild”, but–but he doesn’t know what to say, still, and when he glances back to Thirteen, he clearly doesn’t either.
He can’t even blame him for it, for once.
“Alright,” Superman says, and lets out another sigh before smiling at them both again. It’s still sad and strange and painful, and Match still doesn’t understand it. “Then . . . well, I suppose we still have a few things to figure out, but . . . let’s go home, boys.”
. . . what?
