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Cat Grant was on her office balcony.
She stood overlooking the city, a glass of bourbon in one hand. The sun was setting behind her, and as Cat turned the light outlined her profile and set a fine glow around the edge of her hair, and Kara Danvers looked at her and thought, Woof.
Then Kara gave her head a little shake to clear it. Cat was always on the lookout for angles she could use as leverage to manipulate or mock people. Letting Cat know her assistant was nursing a thoroughly stupid and pointless crush on the boss (it was just a crush, it certainly wasn't anything more than just a crush) was a one-way ticket to abject misery, and Kara knew it. Just as she knew the reason Cat was standing on the balcony: Cat wasn't getting fresh air, or watching over her city like a patron goddess. She was watching for Supergirl.
The fact that Kara Danvers was Supergirl, and could have changed clothes and flown up to the balcony and made Cat Grant notice her, really notice her -- look at her with respect, with admiration -- didn't make having the crush any better. If anything, it made the experience worse.
She tore her eyes away from Cat's profile -- did the woman have to be so cruelly elegant? -- and stopped short, because the same profile was suddenly on every screen of the wall of monitors behind Cat's desk. The monitor views pulled back, revealing that Cat's picture was part of a standee title for a live weekly newsmagazine show. The number "25" was prominently displayed on the standee next to Cat's nose.
As Kara watched, a dour gray-haired anchorman stepped into camera. Kara recognized the aging anchor; her adoptive parents had watched him, and his rotating colleagues, and the show, faithfully every week. She searched Cat's desk for the custom remote and unmuted the sound.
"…ever since a stunning television debut," said the anchor, and the camera cut to -- oh my God, thought Kara -- a Cat Grant who couldn't have been much older than Kara's own twenty-four years. Those unmistakable luminous eyes and snub nose were shadowed by a military helmet, and Cat's slender frame was burdened by a flak vest. The young Cat Grant adjusted the helmet and vest, then checked her microphone, evidently preparing for a live shot.
"Christ," said the real-life Cat Grant wearily from behind Kara. "It's on."
"This is amazing, Ms. Grant!" said Kara. "How did I not know NewsTicker was going to do a story on you?"
"Because I called them myself and told them that if they called my assistant asking for an interview I'd fire you," Cat said. "I didn't want any part of this, and I don't want it now."
Kara blinked. "What? Why? When have you ever refused amazing publicity like this?"
The anchor said, "And this is the remarkable footage that aired twenty-five years ago today," and Cat said, "Ugh."
"Good evening, Garrick," said the young Cat onscreen. "I'm reporting here from a military base just outside of --"
"-- the front line area, where yadda, yadda, yadda," Kara's Cat grumbled. "If you really want to see this, you can watch it on YouTube. I'm surprised you haven't seen it, Keira. Before you worked here, you had heard of me."
"When I was growing up you were famous for your talk show, and then Catco," Kara said. "This -- this is the Gulf War!" She stared at the footage. "Wow," she said, thinking of her cover identity, "it's right before I was born," and Cat said, "Ugh," again.
"I was interviewing a Major Wyant Millson, who reported that --" Cat's onscreen voice was cut off by the sound of explosions. Kara, who'd been stealing a fond glance at her own Cat, whipped her head back to the screen. Twenty-five years ago, Cat was diving for cover as shrapnel and fragments of concrete filled the air. The camera tripod had fallen on its side, and Kara could see bodies and rubble in the background amidst the dust and smoke. One soldier who had fallen nearby was clutching his leg and screaming. The sound of gunfire rose in the distance -- automatic rifles, scattered. The younger Cat pushed herself up and scrabbled for the camera.
"Wow," said Kara, stunned. "And you just… picked up the camera, and covered it?"
Cat brushed at the remote control, and the television muted. Onscreen, muted, the younger Cat was seeing to her cameraman, calling for assistance, breathlessly covering the action. The real-life Cat Grant rolled her eyes and, sighing theatrically, turned her back on the monitors. "Keira," she said. "It's the end of a long and terrible day, and now I'm reminded that I'm twenty-five years closer to dying than I was when my career started. I'm sure you find all of this endlessly fascinating, and perhaps I would too, if I were you, or -- " she made a face, as if she found the prospect revolting "-- or someone like you, but trust me when I say that for me it's nothing but tiresome."
On the screens, a projectile streaked toward the satellite dish behind Cat, and the footage went to static -- Cat had kept broadcasting under fire until she physically couldn't, Kara realized. The newsmagazine show cut back to the studio. The aging anchor stepped closer to the camera, paused dramatically before his next sentence -- and suddenly recoiled in terror.
Something struck the camera, and it whirled, panning across the television studio to reveal the other anchors and the crew. They were running. And screaming. As Kara watched, something large and menacing flashed by the camera lens. Then Cat -- still facing away from the screens; she hadn't turned back to glance at them -- stabbed the remote control again, and all the screens faded to black.
Cat hadn't been looking at the screens, but it wouldn't be long before she'd hear the inevitable police sirens responding to… whatever it was. Better for Kara to make her exit quickly, and now. "Yes, Ms. Grant," she said. "Well. End of the day. I think I'll go home, unless you need me."
Cat shrugged and waved a hand in dismissal.
Kara tore her shirt open to change to her costume while she was still running up the stairwell to the roof.
The television studio NewsTicker broadcast from was halfway across National City. Supergirl covered the distance in six seconds. After a quick check with her X-ray vision, she tore through the roof and landed in the main studio, right between a famous news anchor cowering against the transmission equipment and… something.
The something was a robot, she thought. It was metal, at least, and looked as if it had been built. The robot didn't look anything like a human. It was more like a spider, or a starfish, if either of those had somehow been arrested in the middle of turning a cartwheel. It stood on two legs that came together at a central hub, from which radiated even more legs. The legs were multi-jointed and sharp-tipped. At three points, distributed around the hub, were smaller limb-like projections that might have been sensors, or weapons, or both.
Supergirl clenched a fist and flew forward.
The robot was strong, and fast. It batted her from the air, then wheeled and stalked toward her -- using all of its limbs to locomote -- even as she slid across the floor. In the background, the anchor scrambled to safety. Good. Supergirl pushed herself up, kept going till she was five feet off the floor, then spun around with a double hammer fist. The blow sent the robot through a wall. She went to follow it, and one of the legs punched her in the jaw.
The robot hit with more force than she'd expected. Its limbs were slender, but they were heavy, and the blow carried momentum. Supergirl fell hard. Her head bounced off the concrete floor, leaving a substantial dent, but she was up in a flash and caught the next leg even as its sharp tip headed directly for her face. Gritting her teeth, she squeezed. The leg resisted, then buckled as its inner structure crumpled like cardboard, and one of the outer plates tore free.
The robot reeled in panic. Two of the other legs struck at her, bruising blows that tore her grip loose and tossed her aside. Then, as she rose again, the robot drew itself up to its full height and ejected a cluster of gas grenades. Some of the little bombs tore through the studio's interior walls, landing in rooms where staff were hiding in fear. As Supergirl raced to gather the bombs, they exploded with a gray gas. The humans who hadn't fled began to cough. Several fell to their knees.
Supergirl drew as much of the gas into her lungs as she could, gathering the little bombs in her cape as the robot leapt to the transmission equipment and smashed it. Then the robot was fleeing, but she couldn't deal with that now; she thought the gas was probably tear gas, but it could be something worse, and she had to prioritize the people's safety. She took in more and more gas, took to the air to expel it, threw the gas grenades well out to sea, then returned to the studio to check on the injured and the terrified.
The robot was long gone, of course. But the piece of outer plating remained. Supergirl picked it up, and brushed dust off of it with her fingers. Under the grime, there was a barcode of some sort. It looked machine-readable. She turned the steel plate over in her fingers, frowning thoughtfully to herself.
When she was certain the emergency personnel had things well in hand, she tucked the plate under her arm and rose into the sky toward her sister and the headquarters of the DEO.
The DEO control room was usually bustling, or close to it. Now, around dinnertime, it was a little quieter: the screens still glowed, the workstations still hummed, but there were fewer people, and most of them were silently occupied with tasks. After working there for months, Supergirl -- or possibly Kara; she tended to exist in between personas in the office, so she wasn't sure which identity actually worked there -- still didn't know most of their names. For their part, her colleagues tended to regard her with some distance, using her sister Alex as a buffer. They'd been put together as a force to monitor and control aliens, but evidently nobody had ever warned them that occasionally they might have to talk to one.
She made two mugs of tea at the canteen and made a beeline back to Alex, who was filling time waiting for her return by doing something that seemed to involve satellite photos and an unending muttered stream of profanity. The profanity subsided, eventually, but only when Kara handed her one of the mugs. Alex swept the satellite photos off her screen, bringing up an image of the robot's metal plate.
"So, the piece of metal that you managed to tear off of it has etchings on it -- they're coded in binary. I scanned and decrypted them, and what we get is --" Alex tapped at the keys, and the image resolved into letters.
Kara, still in Supergirl's costume, squinted at the image on the screen. "Project Oberon? What's that?"
"Nobody knows. Oh, it existed, I know that, and it was US military. But the actual details are still classified. Vasquez wrangled our military contacts, and all of them either knew nothing or shut up and looked really embarrassed when she asked. Guessing that whatever it was, it didn't go the way they wanted. All I've been able to find is basic stuff: when it was active -- early nineties -- and one name. Wyant Millson." Alex tapped her keypad again, and a photograph appeared: a man in his sixties, portly, avuncular.
"Wyant Millson," Kara repeated. She frowned. "Wait. That name sounds familiar. Why does that name sound familiar?"
"I don't know, but I'm guessing this'll give you a hint." Alex tapped the keypad again. A new picture appeared on the screen: Wyant Millson, twenty-five years younger and in military uniform, talking to a fresh-faced young reporter --
"Holy crap," said Kara, her eyes widening. "It's Cat!"
"It is indeed. Wyant Millson, in the early days of Project Oberon, gave an interview to Cat Grant, then writing for the Daily Planet. Wasn't long before the footage on MEET THE PRESS that got her famous. She was talking to Garrick Utely when her position got mortared, live on television. TV loved her, ever after that. Cat's first taste of celebrity." Alex grinned. "Little-known fact: Cat was not actually supposed to be on MEET THE PRESS that week. Planet's other reporter in theater failed to return from the field because of a sandstorm. So Cat Grant filled in for Lois Lane, got famous… and now she has an empire."
"Is that why they hate each other?"
"They cordially hated each other long before then."
"Wow," said Kara, staring at the photograph as she took a sip of tea. "That's why I know his name. I saw that MEET THE PRESS clip earlier. She mentioned him in it. Is that clip online? Can you bring it up?"
Alex pressed a few buttons, and the clip came up: young Cat, helmet and all. "Scroll forward," Kara said -- "stop. There, play from there."
The image onscreen came to life. "I was interviewing a Major Wyant Millson," said Cat, "who reported that --"
Kara pressed the pause button. The image froze onscreen in the moment of the first cloud of dust, a bare instant before Cat transitioned smoothly into action.
"She mentioned his name right before she got mortared," said Kara. "Literally. The second before. And then they ran the clip again today, and right after they broadcast her saying that, the studio got attacked. Do you think that's… I don't know, significant?"
"Be one hell of a coincidence."
Kara bit her lip. "Okay. Let's think through this. Cat was attacked on live TV twenty-five years ago. Who did it? Did they catch anybody, or -- I guess, since it was war -- did they kill anybody?"
"Nope. Written off as an opportunistic mortar attack from enemy commandoes. Who were mysteriously never found. Incidentally, though, the date of this incident? Two days before every reference I can find to Project Oberon gets locked up tighter than a steel drum. So that's a nice little piece of the puzzle." Alex frowned. "If the first attack was the robot, though, still no idea why it would target Cat. Or, for that matter, a TV studio. Or how it got to National City from the Middle East, twenty-five years later."
"Where's Wyant Millson now?"
Alex shook her head. "Nobody's saying. I don't have any evidence that he's dead. On the other hand, I don't have any that he's not. He did have a driver's license, but it expired last year and he didn't renew. Address on it is a storage facility he apparently owned in Las Vegas. Or, it was. Millson Storage was just torn down for a new parking lot."
"All right, keep looking." Kara set down her mug and took a deep breath. "I guess I'd better go to Cat directly."
"What, as Supergirl?"
"The robot may not be going after her this time, but she may know something about Millson. Remember something. She's talked to Supergirl before."
"It's Supergirl," said Alex. "Cat's not going to just be beautiful, witty, and cutting. She's going to actually talk." Alex looked at her with concern. "Are you gonna be okay?"
Kara had told Alex about the Stupid Pointless Crush. She hadn't meant to. It had just popped out one evening, over beers and take-out deep-dish pizza from Chicago's Medici, and once the smallest admission was out the words had just kept coming, and coming, and coming. "I'll be fine," Kara said. She managed a shrug, and something vaguely resembling a smile. "I mean, I talk to her every day. It's not like this'll be anything different."
As she turned away, she felt Supergirl coming up around her like armor. She was confident by the time she made the door.
It was less than a minute after Kara had left the DEO that J'onn J'onnz, in the persona of Hank Henshaw, passed through the DEO control room. He looked left, then right; a puzzled expression crossed his face before he turned to Alex. "I thought your sister was here," he said.
Alex shrugged. "We got a lead. Turns out the robot that attacked the TV studio was related to a Project Oberon, and through that to a man named Wyant Millson, who has -- or had, twenty-five years ago -- some kind of a connection with Cat Grant. Kara's going to see if Cat knows anything about him."
J'onn frowned. "So, she's going to try to worm the information out of her as Kara?"
"No, she's going as Supergirl."
J'onn's Hank-face froze into a numb and stiffened mask. "As -- Supergirl?" he said, as if alarmed by what he'd just heard. "She's going to see Cat Grant as Supergirl?"
"…yyyyes?"
J'onn drew himself to Hank Henshaw's full height, then spun on his heel and marched from the room. By the time he reached the door, he was sprinting.
Alex stared after him in bewilderment.
Cat Grant's penthouse overlooked everything: the city, the mountains, even the ocean -- on a clear day, if you squinted. It occupied half of the roof of the building; the other half, the rooftop garden, was one of the most famous party settings in the city. Cat Grant hosted artists, writers, politicians, athletes, movie stars, business figures -- the elite of the elite. The garden's terrace was elegantly appointed; it included a bar, an open kitchen, and a barbecue pit; the garden itself featured a pool and ornamental fishpond.
Kara Danvers had been as far as the entry foyer. Once.
“Good evening, Ms. Grant,” said Supergirl, landing on the terrace. "I need to know if you know anything about a Project Oberon, a military experiment from the early nineties. You interviewed one of the heads of the project when you were covering the Gulf War."
Cat Grant, who was sprawled in a lounge chair with an Italian fashion magazine on her lap, said, "You're being very formal this evening."
"I'm looking for information, Ms. Grant," said Supergirl. "A man named Wyant Millson, it's important --"
"I'm sure it is," said Cat, rising and moving in the direction of a small cabinet at the outdoor bar. "Glass of wine?"
"…no," said Supergirl, after a short, puzzled pause. "I try not to drink and fly."
"You don't have to try so hard." Cat raised an eyebrow. Then shrugged. "Oh, well. If you're sure this time." She pulled an opened bottle of white wine from the refrigerated portion of the cabinet, and a glass for herself from the other side. "Your loss," she said as she poured. "This has a lovely bouquet."
"I know, Ms. Grant."
Cat turned toward Supergirl in surprise. Understanding followed a moment later. "Of course." She smiled. "Those remarkable senses. You can tell everything about it from where you're standing." A glint appeared in her eyes. "Except the way it tastes."
A moment of unease. Was she flirting? Is that what Cat flirting looks like? No, that wasn't Cat flirting. That was Cat making a straight-up double entendre. Supergirl felt a cold trickle of sweat on her back, inside the costume. "This is important, Ms. Grant --"
"Yes, I know it is; you said so already." Cat moved toward Supergirl, glass in hand. "You do know I listen to what you say, don't you?" She smiled again, a little smirk. "Very… careful… attention." She reached out with one hand, adjusting the lie of the cape on Supergirl's shoulder, and inside Supergirl Kara Danvers collapsed into a tiny quivering ball --
"Hi Mom!" said a voice from inside the apartment.
Cat jumped back. "Carter?" she said. She turned back to Supergirl, shock on her face. "He's not supposed to be home yet. He had a club meeting after --" She turned away. "Carter?" she called. "Is that you?"
Silence.
Cat said, "Excuse me," and walked into the apartment, scanning around for her son. The instant she was out of view, J'onn J'onzz phased through the wall of Cat's apartment and stood in front of Supergirl on the balcony.
Supergirl stared at the Martian in disbelief. "J'onn?!" she said. "What are you doing here?"
"Alex told me you had come here," he said. "I followed to warn you. You have to know: you have been here before."
"Yeah," said Supergirl. "As Kara, I've been here -- well, if by here you mean two steps inside the door --"
"No," J'onn said. "You. Have been here before." He gestured at the uniform.
Supergirl stared at him for a moment, puzzled. Then her jaw dropped in shock. "What -- you!? You mean, you've come here before? To Cat's home?! As me?!!"
"That's odd," came Cat's voice from inside. "I could have sworn I heard Carter --"
J'onn gave an anguished look and vanished back into the wall as Cat marched back onto the balcony, wineglass still in hand. "No, he's not home yet," Cat said. "So right now, I have you all to myself, Supergirl."
Supergirl said faintly, "Oh, boy."
"Yes," Cat said, "exactly what I was thinking." She stepped closer --
"Mom, I'm here!" said the voice again. It was accompanied by a crash of dishes, as if something had fallen over.
Cat said, "What in hell," and stormed back through the French doors and into the apartment.
J'onn passed through the wall again. "You have been here several times," he said. "I was flying past one night. I saw Ms. Grant. I remembered our previous meeting, and in the interest of practicing my impersonation, should it again be needed, I decided that I should -- visit. Briefly."
Supergirl glowered. "What. Happened."
"I enjoyed a pleasant evening of conversation," J'onn said. "You have to understand, I spend little time with people not under the auspices of the DEO. I found Ms. Grant, in conversation with Supergirl, to be intelligent, personable, and witty. It was an enjoyable experience. I found I wanted to visit her again. So I did." J'onn cleared his throat. "Several times."
Supergirl glared at him. "How many times."
"Six."
"Counting the first one?"
"…seven. Some visits were short, a matter of minutes. Others, a few hours."
Kara tried to keep the alarm from Supergirl's face, and failed. "Please tell me you haven't been intimate."
J'onn looked startled. "Of course not."
"So why is she coming on so strong? Have you been flirting with her?"
"No more than your usual."
The blood drained from Kara's cheeks. "…than my what."
J'onn frowned. "I used my telepathic skills most carefully. I have only interacted with her in a manner appropriate to what she expects."
"That doesn't make sense!" Kara said. "Wait. Oh, no, no, no. You mean, appropriate to what she expects, or -- or to what she wants?"
J'onn said, "Telepathically, it can sometimes be difficult to tell --" and Supergirl grabbed him bodily and hurled him off the balcony just as Cat came back into the living room on her way to the French doors.
"No Carter," Cat said. "A serving platter fell over."
"Um," said Supergirl.
"You're nervous tonight. Usually, you're more talkative." An impish expression appeared on Cat's face. "Cat got your tongue? …well, no. I suppose not yet." Her fingers danced at a point just above Supergirl's collarbone. "I know, I'm being aggressive. But we've had such wonderful conversations. You always know exactly what I want to say, what I wish you would say. It's like you can read my mind."
Inside, Kara made a high-pitched scream of absolute panic. Supergirl smiled thinly. "Yes," she said. "Although that is not a power that I actually possess. But thank you." With an effort, she reached up and caught Cat's hands in hers. Cat's fingers were thin, but strong, and Kara's heart leapt to feel them against her own. "Ms. Grant…"
Cat said, "Have you thought about what I suggested last time?"
"…what you suggested?"
Cat looked up into her face expectantly. Kara opened her mouth to answer, then her breath caught in her throat. Behind Cat, J'onn J'onnz was rising through the floor of the terrace, not six feet away. His body rippled, twisted, shifting form into oh my God thought Kara he's a giant snake, please Cat for the love of God don't turn around. "What you said, um --"
J'onn's serpentine form rose into the air, bending in a way no living snake could have, forming a strange, cartoonish outline. It was a tree. A few frond-shapes projected from the top.
Kara said, "Trees? Palm trees?" J'onn's body formed a larger curve at the bottom. The tree was standing on something, Kara realized. A tree on, on -- "A deserted island?"
"Not quite deserted," Cat said. "Private. I try to get away for a week or two each year. Away from National City. Away from everything."
"Oh," said Kara. She cleared her throat. Behind her, J'onn formed a new shape, outlines, two bodies, female bodies, standing on the island, together -- "oh," said Supergirl. "Of course. About me going with you."
"I think you've seen my interest," Cat said. "I know I've been doing a pretty terrible time of hiding it, so I decided that the next time you came back I wouldn't even try. And I don't think you're entirely opposed. You flirt -- not well, of course, but you do." J'onn's serpentine face had the good grace to look embarrassed. "Will you come with me, Supergirl?"
"Ms. Grant," said Supergirl helplessly. She looked down, then up again, glaring at J'onn over Cat's shoulder. He had the good grace to melt away.
Supergirl took another breath, and held Cat's hands more closely in her own. She looked into Cat's eyes.
You could have her, she thought, and wasn't sure if it was Supergirl or Kara thinking. You could steal her away from the world all for yourself; you could have her, in your arms, in your bed; you could learn how she sounds, and feels, and tastes. You could know how she looks first thing in the morning, in the full of ecstasy, in the depths of sleep. You could fill your senses with her, and store the memories greedily, to cherish in the long years ahead. You could have everything you dream about, everything you imagine when you like awake at night and curse yourself for foolishness and wonder if wanting someone so much can actually drive you mad. And once you have those memories of her no one will ever, ever be able to take them away.
Cat Grant was looking back at her.
"I would love to go away with you, Ms. Grant," Supergirl said. "I think you're a remarkable woman, and I think you know that I'm drawn to you." She took a deep breath. "But I don't want to be a fling. I don't want to go away with you if all you want is to make Supergirl a notch on your bedpost, and then decide that anything more wouldn't fit into your life. And if you think about it, I don't think that's what you would want, either."
Cat said, "You're telling me what I want?" Her tone was dangerous.
"I'm telling you what I want, Ms. Grant," said Supergirl. "But do I think I know you, a little by now. And -- if you want something more, I hope you'll tell me."
In the long pause that followed, Cat Grant's cell phone rang.
She stared at Supergirl a moment longer, then turned her gaze to the phone. "No one has this number," Cat said. She stepped away, scooped up the phone from the low table, and stared at the caller ID, and made a confused face, and rejected the call. The phone immediately rang again.
Cat stabbed the answer button and snarled, "What."
"Cat Grant?" said the male voice on the other end. Supergirl was close enough to hear it clearly, without need of any but the most minimal super-hearing. "Listen to me carefully. If you recognize my voice, whatever you do, don't say my name. The last time you spoke to me was twenty-five years ago. The robot that destroyed the NewsTicker studio in National City is mine."
Cat and Supergirl exchanged a glance. Immediately, Cat pulled the phone from her ear and hit speaker. "Whoever you are," said Cat, "I'm here with Supergirl --"
"I know who you are," Supergirl said. "You were in the military, and then you owned a storage facility in Las Vegas. Why shouldn't she say your name?"
"Because that's what keys the robot," the voice said. "The idea was that it would scan for mention of desired keywords on a variety of frequencies within its operating range, at which point it would eliminate the point of broadcast, targeting transmission source and, if necessary, personnel. Useful for restricting intelligence loss or for targeted assassination."
"YOU TRIED TO KILL ME?!" Cat yelled.
"No! No, no, no! I set my own name as a targeting directive during a testing phase! I didn't realize that it hadn't been properly purged from Project Oberon's memory! When you spoke my name during your live television broadcast, the robot picked up the signal, and targeted your broadcast equipment and anyone around it. It was the most terrible accident. We all felt awful. Thank God no one actually died. The project was closed down immediately, and I was forcibly retired."
"It's not a danger to the city, then?" said Supergirl.
"It shouldn't be, without stimulus. I really hope your people made all those calls on secure landlines, Ms. Grant."
"Calls?" said Cat. "What calls?" and Supergirl thought, uh-oh.
"Don't think I'm naive. I have friends. Some of them let me know that people were calling asking about me after the incident at NewsTicker today. I assumed the only person in a position to put those pieces together would be you."
Cat looked at Supergirl. "You have people?!" she said.
"Another time, Ms. Grant," said Supergirl.
"No," said Cat, "now is a pretty damned good time. This idiot has his stupid robot tearing up my city, and you've got a horde of people investigating behind my back --"
"I'm not an idiot!" the voice on the phone squawked.
"No, your vanity Googling just tries to kill people," Cat snapped, "so they kicked you out out of military R&D and you wound up running a storage unit in Vegas. I wonder why I didn't sense this greatness in you when you were busy hitting on me during our interview twenty-five years ago. Clearly I missed the mark of genius. I bet when the President of the United States gets stuck for an answer he picks up the phone and yells, 'Get me Wyant Millson!' -- " Cat's face froze. "Oh, shit."
On the phone, Millson said, "Oh, my God," and Kara heard the sound of a rocket incoming. She whirled, blasting the rocket from the sky with her heat vision, but saw the robot was already climbing the apartment building opposite, getting into a position from which it could leap to the terrace outside Cat's penthouse.
"We'll have to continue our discussion later, Ms. Grant," said Supergirl, and tackled the robot through a startled hedge fund manager's living room at three hundred miles per hour.
Even as she body-slammed the robot down thirty stories, her super-hearing let her follow the conversation on the terrace. "The robot itself was some of my best work," Millson was saying mournfully. "The technology itself wasn't highly classified, and I had some friends… so eventually I managed to get it sold off to a contracting company that a friend of mine was running, and I took it out to the family storage business in Las Vegas. I planned to work on it, restore it, but time went by, and one thing and another --"
"What the hell is it doing destroying National City?!"
"I sold the business and my nephew and I must have overlooked some of the storage units. The robot was in one of them. The unit was sold at auction very recently. The old directive must have been still in the robot's memory, so once it rebooted in National City, the television studio's broadcast of that footage of you mentioning my name would have been sufficient to -- "
"Auction? Who bought it?" snarled Cat.
Winn Schott opened the warehouse door and said, "Here it is!"
James Olsen, entering behind him, wrinkled his nose. "What's that smell?"
"I'm guessing former meth lab. Don't worry, it's cool."
"Former. Meth lab."
"No, it's fine. Means I rented this place for a song, and I don't even get a headache till I'm in here a couple hours!" Winn bustled ahead, rubbing his hands together with expectant glee. "Look, you've gotta trust me. I do storage auctions all the time -- looking for cheap electronic and robotics parts, you wouldn't believe what old things people toss away -- and I hit the mother load. It's a huge insectoid robot! And somebody was just letting it rot in storage in Vegas."
"So what're you doing with it?"
"I'm gonna rebuild it as a vlog project. Not for Catco, just for me. But I wanted your advice on the filming and photo set-up. You can take some pictures if you want, man. I'm telling you, it'll be amazing."
James cleared his throat. Pointed. Winn stared at him for a moment, then turned and looked.
They stared, in silence, at the eight-foot hole in the warehouse's wall.
"Okay," said James, "I'm guessing that is not what you wanted to show me."
Winn said faintly, "Did Kara's sister set up that forwarding thing where you can make in a phone call to Kara's cell and then punch in an emergency code to get to her Supergirl earbud?"
"I don't know, why?"
"Oh, no reason," said Winn, scrambling frantically for his smartphone.
"Little busy," said Supergirl, as she dodged the robot's laser.
Winn said, "Please tell me it's not because you're fighting an eight-armed metal starfish that's got some cool lasers and micro-rockets and some other things I haven't figured out yet."
"Winn."
"I knew it," said Winn mournfully. "Oh, God, this is such a disaster."
"What's going on? Do you know who's behind this?"
"…me? I mean, not really, all I did was turn it on and run a few tests and diagnostics after I bought it blind in a storage unit auction in Vegas because it was listed as containing robot components and electronics parts. But if you mean 'who brought the thing to National City, refurbished it, and reactivated it so that it would be in a position to go about a reign of terror and destruction,' then yeah, me. It was me, I'm the -- oh my God, Kara, I'm a supervillain."
"You're not a supervillain. You didn't screw this up. Somebody else did. It's running a twenty-five-year-old program that's targeted Cat Grant for assassination."
"Seriously? I found this thing and out of everybody on the planet it's linked to Cat? Talk about 'all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world --'"
"How do I stop it, Winn?"
"Uh, well, it didn't really come with an operating manual."
Right, thought Kara, heat vision it is. She let the charge build, feeling the energy gathering in her eyeballs --
Winn said, "But whatever you do, don't fire full-force into the center of it with your heat vision!"
Supergirl said, "Why?"
She could hear the wince in his voice: "…because it runs on a teeny-tiny nuclear reactor?"
Kara said, "Oh, God dammit, Winn --" as she dropped the heat vision charge, and the robot grabbed her, slammed her into the ceiling, slammed her again into the floor, then whipped her around and smashed her head into a concrete pillar.
"Oh, no," said Winn miserably, "my dad is going to be so proud."
"Alex," said Supergirl, "I need you to make a phone call for me."
"What phone call?"
Supergirl winced, and not just because the robot had just smashed her in the ribs with a chunk of rubble that was stuck on the end of one of its feet. "I need you to call Cat Grant."
"Oh boy. Hang on. I'm just going to stay completely off the line."
There was a click, and a hum, and then Cat Grant's voice said, "Another blocked number. Yes?"
"Ms. Grant," said Supergirl, "listen to me --"
"Oh," said Cat Grant witheringly. "You do have a phone."
"Ms. Grant," said Supergirl, dodging the robot's blow, "I need to talk to the person on your other line. Could we please have this conversation another time --?"
"We can talk about it on the island! Oh no wait, we can't, because I've just decided I'm going there alone."
"Please just merge the call with your other caller right now."
Cat said, "You mean Wyant Millson?"
On cue, the robot leapt into the air toward Cat's penthouse. Supergirl barely caught it by the tip of its lowest leg and frantically hauled it back to earth, slamming it into the asphalt. "Ms. Grant!"
Cat sighed theatrically. "Fine." She tapped at the phone, and suddenly Wyant Millson was in Supergirl's ear mumbling, "oh God, oh God, oh God."
"If I smash your robot to pieces, I'll contaminate the neighborhood with plutonium," Supergirl said, as she kicked the robot in one of its knees. "How do I stop it? Where do I turn it off?"
"There's a keypad in the center of its chest," Millson said. "The code to disarm it is one-two-three-four-five."
Supergirl opened her mouth and Kara said, "Are you shitting me," and the robot reached up and grabbed her again. It slammed her to the left, right, left, and right again, then threw her through a wall.
"No, no," Millson said, "I promise, that's the combination, I use it on everything, all my bike locks --"
"Great," said Supergirl, rising groggily to her feet. "Keypad. All I have to do is settle this thing down long enough to get to it." She ducked, barely, under a great sweep of two of the robot's arms.
Cat said, "Wait, it's homing in on my cellphone signal, is that correct?"
"Yes," said Millson, "that's its target. Its goal is the destruction of the broadcasting equipment." His voice was coming closer over the course of the last sentence, and Supergirl belatedly realized that was because Cat had tossed her cellphone over the edge of the roof. It plummeted thirty stories and shattered on contact with the pavement.
The robot halted mid-blow. It stiffened, then stood straight upright and returned to a neutral pose, waiting for instruction.
Supergirl limped up to the robot, slapped open the keypad cover, and typed one, two, three, four, five. The robot squatted down and folded up into a neat, squared-off package, suitable for transport and shipping. Supergirl breathed a sigh of relief. "One robot, deactivated," she said. "Ready for pick-up."
Alex said, "All right!"
Cat said, "Who the hell was that," and Alex made a small squeak and vanished from the line.
"If you don't mind, Ms. Grant," said Supergirl, "I'll take you up on that glass of wine now."
She stood, somewhat unsteadily, on the edge of the terrace. Her uniform was torn at the shoulder and covered in dust. Her hair, she knew, was a wreck, and while she was impervious to almost any harm as far as humans were concerned, tackling a robot through a skyscraper and a street and a few cinderblock walls had left her sore and possibly a little bruised.
"You look like you could use something stronger," said Cat. "God, you're a mess." Her voice was heavy with concern. "Are you all right?"
"I'll be fine. Thank you."
Cat walked over to her bar, and poured two glasses of bourbon: one in a rocks glass, one in a collins glass. She sipped from the smaller rocks glass herself, and handed the tall collins glass to Supergirl. Supergirl drank it down like water, and Cat said, "Jesus Christ."
"The truth is," said Supergirl apologetically, "I don't drink in the suit for social distance and for appearance. Alcohol doesn't actually affect me very much. I'd pretty much have to drink your bar."
"Well," said Cat faintly, "it's good to know that if we do see each other socially, you can keep up with me." She tapped the side of her glass with her fingernails. "I," she said, and then fell off, and took another sip of her bourbon.
Supergirl said gently, "I should really be asking if you're all right, Ms. Grant."
"If you must know, I'm afraid," Cat said softly. "I've had two marriages that I thought were going to last forever completely fall apart on me." The vulnerability in her voice was breathtaking. Kara had heard it only once before; when Cat had seen her estranged son standing, unexpectedly, in her office. "I don't know if I can think about putting myself through a serious relationship again."
Kara had never thought of that. Cat was powerful, Cat was dynamic, Cat was in control. The last word she would ever have considered to describe Cat was afraid. But standing on the terrace, a half-empty glass in hand, shifting from foot to foot, Cat Grant -- who ran an empire, who'd been to war, who'd just beaten a monstrous robot without breaking a sweat -- looked terrified.
Supergirl said, "I don't ever want to hurt you, Ms. Grant."
Cat snapped, "Then why the hell did you offer me this choice?!" Then she shook her head. "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair." She took a sip of her drink. "But you haven't played exactly fair with me, have you."
"No. I haven't." Supergirl hesitated. "I can't. Not yet."
Cat said, "And what can we build on that?"
"I don't know," said Supergirl. She swallowed; Kara's throat was dry. "I'm sorry."
That was it, then. She turned to go --
"Wait," Cat said. Supergirl turned back.
Cat had set down her drink. She was standing firmly upright. She wasn't the confident, controlling figure Kara was used to. But she wasn't shrinking away.
"Come by more often," said Cat. "Give me a chance to… to see if I want to try."
Kara's smile spread across Supergirl's face. It was ridiculous; Cat hadn't said yes, the only thing she'd said at best was maybe, but Kara was grinning, and so was Supergirl, and Cat was rolling her eyes at them even as Kara's feet were moving in Supergirl's boots and both of them were next to Cat now and cupping her cheek in one hand as Cat's hand rested on the back of hers.
Cat closed her eyes and swayed involuntarily forward. The positioning was perfect for a kiss. And oh God Kara wanted to give her one. But she would be pressuring Cat if they rushed. Supergirl leaned her head to the side and pressed a long kiss onto Cat's cheek, instead, then pressed her cheek against Cat's own, inhaling Cat's scent for several moments before whispering, "Soon," and stepping away.
She rose into the air giddily, leaving the city far below, and turned lazy barrel rolls for an hour under the moonlight for an hour, just because she could. Oh God help me, she thought, this is either the stupidest or the most wonderful thing I've ever done.
And then she grinned again, because she knew that far down below her, Cat Grant was thinking exactly the same thing.
Cat Grant was smiling.
It was just after four, and it had been a godawful day of trying to get comment out of a host of military figures about Project Oberon and sell-offs of outdated equipment, and then nagging the reporters while they wrote and made more phone calls seeking comment. And there were budgetary issues, and tax issues, and a state senator whose ego had needed to be soothed. And still, Cat Grant was smiling.
Kara took that as a good sign.
"I might leave work a little early this afternoon, Ms. Grant," said Kara. "If that's all right." She glanced at Cat's office balcony, involuntarily, as she said it.
She hoped Cat hadn't noticed, but there was no way she hadn't; Kara had been occasionally glancing at the office balcony ever since she'd gotten back from lunch to find that Cat's balcony now featured two chairs and a small dining table, and that the small refrigerator in Cat's office contained a beautiful cheese and charcuterie plate sized too big for Cat but perfectly for two.
"That's fine, Keira," Cat Grant said. "I think I'll be fine if you… take off a little early."
Kara looked at her carefully. Cat's face wasn't betraying anything. No smirk, no knowing look. If she knew, or suspected, she was respecting a boundary scrupulously and not even hinting at the effort. Kara felt a grin rising, but held it in.
"Thank you, Ms. Grant," she said. "See you soon."
Cat turned back to her paperwork, and Kara dashed through the office and up the stairwell with her brain urging her to relax and her heart singing, singing, singing.
She forced herself through three lazy laps of the city before she found herself waiting off the balcony, her cape fluttering in the breeze.