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“Welcome,” Kara says, spreading her arms out in front of the colorful electric sign. The “O” in “RODEO KARAOKE” flickers dangerously above her. “To paradise.”
From beyond the doors, a cacophony of horribly off-key singing and outrageously loud backing tracks pours through. Someone stumbles out the entrance, stone-cold drunk and vomits on the sidewalk, just nearly missing Clark’s shoes. He looks completely stunned, like the guy slapped him across the face instead.
“I’d like to go home now,” Clark says and Kara laughs and shoves him through the doors.
The first thing Kara learns about Clark’s friends is that they’re fucking weird. Mr. T–and she still doesn’t know if that’s his real name or a moniker–has the emotional range of a rock, Guy is a fucking dick and Kendra?
Well, Kendra’s actually pretty cool. She came back with a case of beers from the fridge, popped the tab off the first one and asked what the rest of them were drinking. Guy had turned so red Kara was shocked steam didn’t start pouring out of his ears.
Karaoke itself, though, is god-awful. Mr. T refuses to even go within 10 feet of the mic, Clark jumps at every loud sound which is ridiculous considering he has super-hearing and Guy keeps trying to sing long ballads in his horribly reedy voice.
“It’s your turn,” Kara says, pushing Clark forward. Clark eyes the microphone like it’s a bomb primed to explode, which is ridiculous considering he’s faced intergalactic aliens without breaking a sweat.
“Oh, I’m good,” Clark says, holding his hands up. He’s trying to push back against her but it’s super-strength against super-strength and Kara’s got more grit. He stumbles a couple of steps closer to the mic. “I’m having such a great time listening to all your… uh, unique voices.”
“Pretty sure lying goes against your super-code.”
“It’s not a super-code,” Clark says, pushing his glasses up because he’s a nerd. “It’s more like a set of morals I try to abide by. And I said ‘unique’, didn’t I?”
“That you did, cuz,” Kara says and slaps the songbook into his hands. “Now pick. Unless you want me to ask Guy to sing Bohemian Rhapsody again.” Clark winces because 6 minutes straight of Guy singing is more torture than anyone should be subjected to.
“Okay,” Clark whines like a kicked puppy. He thumbs the number of a song into the TV’s remote and Kara tromps back to her seat, satisfied. Kendra cracks a smile when she sits and offers her a beer.
“That was the most entertaining shit I’ve seen in days,” she says, shaking the can and Kara takes it because what the hell. She can’t get drunk on this planet but if she closes her eyes and swallows the crappy taste, she can almost pretend like she is. “Are you sure you two are related?”
Grinning, Kara fires up her laser vision and burns a hole in the spot right above Guy’s head. Guy yelps because he’s a drama queen and starts going off on some tangent about his hair routine that they both promptly tune out.
“Point taken,” Kendra says, grinning, and knocks their beers together. They both turn as the opening notes of Clark’s chosen song start filtering through the speakers. And then–
“No,” Kara says, staring in disbelief.
“I’m surprised this machine even had it,” Kendra offers and Kara stands up.
“Hold this,” she says and Mr. T sticks his hand out on reflex, taking her beer.
“Twinkle twinkle little star–whoa!” Clark yelps as Kara wrenches the mic out of her hand.
“Nope, you’ve lost singing privileges, go sit back down.” Clark droops and trudges back to the booth like a kicked puppy. She jams the skip button on the remote and some awfully slow piano music picks up.
“Oh, it’s my turn,” Guy says, picking up the spare mic and standing up. “And now, the end is near–what the heck, you skipped it!”
“Whoops, my finger slipped,” Kara says without glancing up. She finally finds the page the song she’s looking for is on and thumbs it into the remote. The bass kicks in immediately, practically shaking the whole room and Clark looks around frantically like he’s trying to find some place to duck for cover.
“If you not drunk, ladies and gentlemen,” she says, pointing at Clark. “Get ready to get FUCKED UP!”
“I can’t even get drunk!” Clark protests like the killjoy he is. Guy looks like he’s malfunctioning, trying to protest but struggling to find the proper words. Mr. T looks like he’s trying to become one with his seat and Kendra is laughing her ass off. Kara flicks her shades on despite the fact that the room is nearly pitch-black minus the cheap strobe lights.
“When I walk in the club,” she sings. “All eyes on me.” She picks up the second mic in her free hand and struts back to the booth. “I’m with the Party Rock crew, all drinks are free. We like Ciroc.” She points the mic at Mr. T who mutters the most deadpan “Uh-huh” imaginable. “We love Patrone.” She points the mic at Clark who says “Uh-huh” like it’s a question. “We came to party rock. Everybody it’s on!”
She stops in front of Kendra and offers her the second mic, one eyebrow arched.
Kendra stares at it for one second and then two and Kara feels her heart hammering in her chest with each beat. Then she finally cracks a grin, slams her beer down and takes the mic.
“SHOTS, SHOTS, SHOTS, SHOTS, SHOTS, SHOTS!” they scream and Clark actually picks up one of the tambourines to try and use it to cover his ears. Mr. T points at the cracked glass pane behind him in vain and Guy summons actual earplugs with his ring.
By the end of the song, they’re red-faced, chests heaving, and their voices hoarse. Kara collapses on the bench, surrendering the mic so Guy can start up another one of his awful ballads and Kendra slumps down next to her. Some of her perfect hair had actually gotten messed up with all the jumping, a couple of mismatched locks criss-crossing over her forehead. Huh, Kara hadn’t thought it possible.
“Hey, want to get out of here?” Kara asks and Kendra stares at her the same way she had when she offered the mic–momentary shock before it bleeds into something more mischievous, quick and cunning.
“I’d like that,” she says and Kara gets a front-row seat to the expression of absolute horror that Clark makes over her shoulder.
She rescues her coat from the floor and picks up Kendra’s jacket too because she’s gentlemanly like that.
“Later losers,” Kendra says, waving them off as they make for the exit.
“Have fun at the kids’ party!” Kara hollers. Guy, predictably, throws a tantrum befitting of a five-year-old.
“Holy shit, this view’s not half-bad,” Kendra says, sneakers banging against the golden globe.
“Right, Clark occasionally has good ideas,” Kara says and takes another giant bite out of her hot dog. Her hands look like a murder scene, a bloodbath of ketchup and mustard and she resists the urge to wipe them on her shirt. She settles for a couple of crumpled-up napkins instead.
Kendra wordlessly passes her 7/11 slurpee and Kara takes a sip even though the whole thing is an unnatural electric blue and tastes like shit after Kendra dumped half her flask into it. It goes well with the artificial flavor of the hot dog.
“So how’s he been?” Kara asks, going for casual and missing by a mile. Kendra shrugs, waving her hand out in the air.
“I’m sure you’ve seen the papers. I think he put out a fire on his way to work and he’s up for a Pulitzer. But his girlfriend’s probably gonna beat him to it.”
Kara chokes on her hot dog.
“Girlfriend?” she echoes and Kendra laughs. Her tongue is stained blue and Kara stares.
“You didn’t know? Yeah, she’s this kickass chick who strolled into our headquarters and chewed Guy out when Clark was in jail and she wanted to rescue him. It was the best day at work that whole month.”
“Clark was in jail?” Kara scrunches up her nose because wow, miss a couple of months on Earth and apparently the whole planet goes to shit. “I don’t think he’s ever even gotten a speeding ticket.”
“It was this rich billionaire’s intergalactic space prison. He was trying to take over the planet–or actually, more like rip the planet in half.”
“And, just purely out of curiosity, where’s this guy now?” Kara asks, smiling. Kendra grins at the half-manic look in her eye.
“Jail,” she says. “But who knows, he’s got so much money he might walk. You could pay him a visit if he does.”
“Sounds awesome,” Kara says and crams the last bits of hot dog in her mouth.
“So what do you do for work?” Kendra asks and Kara does a bow as best as she can while on top of a literal golden globe.
“Professional couch-surfer at your service,” she says. “Clark’s cushions hate to see me coming.” Kendra snorts, nearly choking on her drink. “You?”
“The superhero gig pays pretty well so I’m sticking with it for now,” she says. “We’re hiring if you’re up for it.”
Kara eyes the omnipresent watches strapped on her wrist, emblazoned with their godawful logo, all three of them perpetually at its beck and call.
“Nah,” she says, shrugging. “Don’t think being muscle for hire is my thing.”
“Funny, Clark said the same thing,” Kendra says and Kara laughs.
“Maybe we are related after all.”
Abruptly, Kendra’s watch starts beeping red, like all the talk about it has brought it to life.
“What’s the siren mean?” Kara asks as the device starts letting out a high-pitched shriek.
“It means Guy’s going to lose his shit if I don’t get over there in 5 minutes,” she says. Kendra passes her the half-finished slurpee and steps off the globe, her wings unfolding behind her.
“Well, this was fun. See you around, Supergirl!” she says and does a half-assed salute before jetting off into the horizon.
“See ya, Hawkgirl,” Kara says, staring at her silhouette against the sun.