# Happy Harbor High School
**MONDAY, 0745 HOURS - SENIOR HALLWAY**
Connor Kent stood at his locker with the kind of intense, brooding focus that suggested he was either organizing AP Physics notes or contemplating whether free will was an illusion. Possibly both. His jaw was doing that thing where it looked chiseled enough to cut glass, and his 6'4" frame was hunched just enough to make him seem like he was trying (and catastrophically failing) to take up less space.
The problem with having Kryptonian super-hearing was that you couldn't *not* hear things. It was like someone had given reality a megaphone and then stapled it directly to his eardrums. Right now, that meant he was involuntarily eavesdropping on the football team's conversation three lockers down, and every word was landing in his brain with all the subtlety of a car crash.
"—I'm telling you, Morrison's *obsessed*," Marcus Webb said, his voice carrying that particular blend of amusement and genuine concern. Marcus was built like a refrigerator that had achieved sentience and decided to play football, but his emotional intelligence was surprisingly high for someone who spent most of his time tackling people for fun. "He's been watching tape of that catch Kent made for like two weeks straight. Frame by frame. Slow motion. *Reverse angle analysis*. The dude's treating it like it's the Zapruder film and Connor's the magic bullet. It's deeply weird, Jake. Like, objectively weird."
Connor's hand paused on his calculus textbook. His quantum consciousness immediately started running probability scenarios, none of which ended with "and everyone had a nice, normal time at high school and nobody exposed any secret identities."
"That's not obsessed, that's *preparation*," Tyler Chen countered, though even he sounded like he was trying to convince himself. "Jake's our QB. Analyzing athletic capability is literally part of his job description. He's being thorough. That's called professionalism."
"Thorough is watching the tape once, maybe twice," Marcus shot back. "This is like... Jake's got a *dossier* on Connor Kent. A literal dossier. When he shows up for school—7:42 AM, by the way, never varies by more than three minutes. What classes he takes. Who he talks to. How he moves through the building. The guy could probably tell you Kent's shoe size and blood type at this point. Actually, he probably *has* theories about Kent's blood type. It's giving 'Beautiful Mind' but for football recruitment, and not in a cute way."
Connor felt his stomach do something complicated that his Kryptonian biology textbooks probably hadn't accounted for. Being studied by the quarterback wasn't inherently threatening—probably—but the intensity Marcus was describing had his tactical subroutines lighting up like a paranoid Christmas tree.
*M'gann,* he transmitted through their telepathic link, which was both incredibly convenient and occasionally invasive in ways that made him feel like he lived in an emotional fishbowl. *Are you hearing this? Please tell me you're hearing this and it's not just me being paranoid.*
*Oh, I am HEARING this,* M'gann's mental voice came back, and he could feel her concern radiating through their connection like psychic humidity. She was in her chemistry class three hallways over, probably looking like the most adorable concerned person in the entire school. *Connor, Jake Morrison's emotional signature has been weird all week. Like, REALLY weird. Determined, yes, but also frustrated. And obsessive. It's like he's treating your recruitment as a personal challenge. Like you're a Rubik's Cube that insulted his mother and he's going to SOLVE you out of spite.*
*That's... not comforting.*
*It's not MEANT to be comforting!* M'gann's mental voice went up half an octave. *Connor, I can feel his emotions from here and they're giving me stress hives. Psychic stress hives. Is that a thing? I think that's a thing now. I think you gave me a medical condition through proxy anxiety.*
*Could this just be normal athlete recruitment intensity?* Connor asked, even though his tactical analysis was already screaming "NEGATIVE, ABORT MISSION, FLEE TO CANADA."
*Marcus—who is literally ON the football team and presumably knows what normal looks like—thinks it's weird,* M'gann pointed out. *When your own teammates are raising red flags, that's not standard behavior. That's 'maybe we should consider witness protection' behavior. Or at least a strongly worded letter to someone in authority.*
*I don't think witness protection is an option for someone who can benchpress a tank.*
*Then maybe METAPHORICAL witness protection,* M'gann countered. *The point is, Jake Morrison is doing A Lot and it's making everyone uncomfortable, including me, and I'm not even the one being analyzed like a science project. You're the science project. I'm just the concerned friend of the science project.*
Connor closed his locker with the kind of careful control that came from knowing he could accidentally rip the door off its hinges if he sneezed wrong. Which would be bad. Ripping doors off hinges was generally frowned upon in civilian contexts, he'd learned. Multiple times. Through unfortunate trial and error.
"You're doing the brooding thing again," Kara said, materializing at his shoulder like a blonde, cheerful ninja who'd gotten lost on her way to a shampoo commercial. She was wearing her varsity jacket and looked like she'd just walked off the set of a CW show about impossibly attractive aliens pretending to be high schoolers. Which, to be fair, was essentially their entire situation. "Your forehead's doing that crease thing. The one that makes you look like you're calculating artillery trajectories or contemplating the meaninglessness of existence. Sometimes both."
"I'm not brooding," Connor said. "I'm *thinking*. There's a difference."
"You're Kryptonian," Kara said. "For us, those are literally the same thing. Our people invented brooding. We made it an art form." She lowered her voice, though with their super-hearing, "lowering her voice" was mostly performative theater. "Also, Jake Morrison's watching you. Has been for approximately four minutes and thirty-seven seconds. His heart rate's elevated. His focus is *intense*. Like, 'laser vision but with eyeballs' intense. It's creepy, Connor. I'm calling it. This is officially creepy."
Connor resisted every instinct to look, which was difficult because his instincts were very loud and very insistent. "I know. His teammates think he's being weird about recruitment."
"He's being *extremely* weird about recruitment," Kara confirmed. Her blue eyes did a quick scan of the hallway that would've looked casual if Connor didn't know she was doing a full tactical assessment complete with threat matrices. "On Krypton, that level of focused attention would indicate either romantic interest or preparation for combat challenge. Since I'm *assuming* the first isn't applicable—"
"Definitely not applicable," Connor said quickly. Too quickly. He could feel his ears getting warm, which was absurd because Kryptonians didn't blush. Except apparently they did. Thanks, Cadmus, for that particular genetic quirk.
"—then he's treating your recruitment as some kind of dominance establishment ritual," Kara finished, looking far too entertained by his discomfort. "Which is concerning from a cultural anthropology perspective, but *probably* normal for human athletic social dynamics? Maybe? I don't know, I've been on Earth for like six months and I'm still figuring out why humans think 'reality television' is entertainment. That's still a mystery to me. It's people being terrible to each other for money. Why is that fun to watch?"
"You're asking *me*?" Connor said. "I've been conscious for four months and attending school for two weeks. My understanding of human athletic social dynamics is entirely theoretical and based primarily on Friday Night Lights, which Tim Drake says is not actually a documentary but 'emotionally true,' whatever that means."
"That's fair," Kara acknowledged. "Though for what it's worth, Tim Drake says Jake Morrison's behavioral pattern is consistent with someone who views you as an 'objective to be acquired' rather than a person, which is both dehumanizing and tactically concerning. His exact words were 'strategic asset acquisition mindset,' which sounds like something a supervillain would say."
"When did you talk to Tim Drake about this?"
"Group chat," Kara said cheerfully. "We have a group chat. For alien-related school issues. You're not in it because you don't have a phone. A real phone. With apps and everything."
"I have a phone."
"You have a *burner phone* that you use exclusively for emergency Justice League communication," Kara corrected. "That's not the same as *having a phone*, Connor. That's having a tactical radio that happens to be rectangular. It doesn't even have games. What kind of phone doesn't have games? A sad phone. That's what kind."
They started walking toward first period—AP English Literature with Ms. Rodriguez, who had the deeply inconvenient quality of being both perceptive and genuinely interested in her students' analytical capabilities, which meant Connor had to be very careful about not accidentally writing essays that sounded like tactical briefings written by a depressed robot.
Behind them, Connor's enhanced hearing picked up Jake Morrison's voice, and oh good, the quarterback sounded *annoyed*:
"Marcus, shut up about the studying thing. I'm not obsessed. I'm being *thorough*. There's a difference, and the difference matters."
"Sure, man," Marcus replied, and Connor could practically hear the eye-roll traveling through space-time. "There's also a difference between 'thorough' and 'concerning,' and you crossed that line around the time you started tracking Kent's movement patterns like he's a high-value target. If Coach Miller asks why you're acting weird, I'm telling him you've been running behavioral analysis on a junior like he's a top-ten NFL draft prospect and you're trying to figure out if he's worth a first-round pick. Which is insane. He's a junior. In high school. Who doesn't even want to play football."
"Kent IS worth a first-round pick," Jake shot back. "Did you SEE that catch? The vertical leap alone—the *physics* of that catch—"
"—was impressive, yes, we all saw it, you've shown us the tape forty-seven times, we could perform that catch in our sleep at this point—"
Connor felt his tactical precognition start generating probability branches, and none of them looked pleasant. They all involved increasing social complications, potential cover identity risks, and the very real possibility that Jake Morrison's "thorough analysis" would eventually notice things that normal humans shouldn't be able to do.
Things like never getting winded. Never getting injured. Never struggling with physical challenges that should be difficult for a seventeen-year-old, even a very athletic seventeen-year-old who was definitely absolutely normal and not at all a Kryptonian clone created in a lab.
*This is going to be a problem,* Connor transmitted to M'gann.
*Yes,* M'gann agreed. *Yes it is. A big problem. A problem of significant proportions.*
*Should I just join the football team?* Connor asked desperately. *Would that make it stop? If I just give him what he wants?*
*Or make it WORSE,* M'gann pointed out. *Because then Jake would have daily access to study you up close, and also you'd have to play actual football, which involves tackling, which involves you accidentally breaking someone's ribs because you forgot to pull your punches. Remember the dodgeball incident, Connor. REMEMBER IT.*
*I wouldn't forget.*
*You forgot last week in PE and sent that dodgeball through the gym wall. Through the WALL, Connor. There's still a hole. They had to put a poster over it.*
*That was different. That was surprise-based motor control failure. I was startled by a bee.*
*Connor, you have super-strength and the emotional regulation of a golden retriever who just discovered feelings,* M'gann said affectionately. *I love you, but football is a TERRIBLE idea. The worst idea. Possibly the worst idea anyone has ever had.*
Kara bumped his shoulder as they walked, her strength perfectly calibrated to "friendly" rather than "accidentally sending him through a wall into another dimension." "Stop overthinking it. Maybe Jake Morrison will get bored and move on to obsessing about someone else. Maybe he'll find a new hobby. Knitting. Competitive cheese rolling. Anything."
"You don't believe that," Connor said flatly.
"No," Kara admitted. "I really don't. But I'm *trying* to be optimistic. It's what Superman would do. He's very big on optimism. It's kind of his whole thing."
"Superman would probably just talk to Jake Morrison directly and resolve this through clear communication and mutual understanding and one of those inspiring speeches he does."
"Yeah, well, Superman's not a seventeen-year-old pretending to be a high school student while having an identity crisis," Kara pointed out. "He has the social advantage of being an adult who doesn't have to worry about cafeteria seating politics or whether his lunch table placement affects his social standing. He can just... be Superman. Must be nice."
"Fair point."
They reached Ms. Rodriguez's classroom, and Connor took his usual seat by the window—good sightlines, multiple exit points, strategic positioning that let him monitor the entire room without being obvious about it. Also there was a nice tree outside. He liked the tree.
Ms. Rodriguez was writing the day's discussion topic on the board: *"The Unreliable Narrator in Modern Literature."*
Connor looked at the phrase and felt his quantum consciousness generate an uncomfortable observation: wasn't his entire existence essentially an exercise in unreliable narration? He was literally lying about who and what he was, every single day, to every single person in this building.
Except M'gann. And Kara. And technically Artemis, though they hadn't really talked about it because that would require acknowledging feelings and neither of them was good at that.
*Stop having an existential crisis,* M'gann transmitted. *You're doing the thing where your emotional signature gets all tangled and philosophical. We're in HIGH SCHOOL, Connor. Save the existential dread for college like a normal person. That's what college is FOR.*
*I'm not normal.*
*No,* M'gann agreed warmly. *But you're OURS, and that's what matters. You're our disaster and we love you.*
Connor felt something in his chest unclench slightly. Which was good. Because he had a feeling the Jake Morrison situation was going to get more complicated before it got simpler, and he was going to need all the emotional support he could get.
Outside in the hallway, he could still hear Jake Morrison talking to Marcus, his voice carrying that particular quality of someone who had definitely not let go of an idea and probably never would:
"I'm telling you, Marcus. Connor Kent is exactly what this team needs. I just have to figure out the right approach. The right... angle of recruitment. The right strategy."
"You sound like a supervillain," Marcus said. "Like, genuinely. You sound like you're planning to kidnap him and make him play football against his will. Do you hear yourself?"
"I sound like someone who understands strategic asset acquisition," Jake corrected.
"THAT'S WORSE," Marcus said. "That's somehow worse. You made it worse."
Connor put his head down on his desk with a soft *thunk*.
*M'gann, I think I'm being strategically acquired.*
*Welcome to high school,* M'gann replied. *It's weird here. Everything is weird. Accept the weird. Become one with the weird.*
---
# **0800 HOURS - AP ENGLISH LITERATURE, ROOM 314**
Ms. Rodriguez had that particular energy this morning—the kind that radiated from teachers who'd had *exactly* the right amount of coffee and were about to ruin everyone's day with pointed questions about metaphors and existential themes. She was wearing a blazer that somehow managed to look both professional and like she could absolutely take you in a fight, which was frankly the entire Ms. Rodriguez aesthetic. Connor respected it.
Connor settled into his usual seat with the careful precision of someone who'd mapped every exit, sightline, and structural weakness in the room within the first thirty seconds of entering it on day one. M'gann slid into the seat on his left, radiating warmth and concern like a psychic space heater made of kindness. Kara took the right, looking like she was *trying* to slouch but her Kryptonian posture kept betraying her into sitting up straight like she was about to recite the Pledge of Allegiance.
The three of them had developed what M'gann called "optimal defensive classroom formation" and what Connor privately thought of as "the we're-definitely-not-aliens configuration."
It wasn't working. They looked extremely suspicious. Connor was pretty sure they looked extremely suspicious.
"Alright everyone," Ms. Rodriguez announced, once the final bell had rung and the last stragglers had stumbled in looking like they'd been personally victimized by Monday morning and possibly also by consciousness itself. "We're finishing our *Frankenstein* unit this week, which means we need to discuss the text's *complicated* relationship with parental responsibility and the consequences of creating life without considering what happens *after* creation."
Connor felt every molecule in his body go still.
Oh no.
Oh *no*.
*Oh NO,* M'gann transmitted immediately, her mental voice doing that thing where it went up half an octave with concern. *Connor, this is—this is bad. This is a bad topic. Abort. Abort mission. Fake a medical emergency. I'll back you up. I'll say you're having a stroke.*
*Fine,* Connor cut in, his parallel processing already spinning up defensive protocols like his brain was loading an emotional firewall. *I'm fine. This is just standard literary analysis that happens to mirror my personal circumstances in ways that make me want to walk into traffic, but I'm FINE.*
*That's not what 'fine' means,* M'gann pointed out gently. *That's actually the opposite of what 'fine' means.*
*It's what it means today.*
Ms. Rodriguez was pacing now, the way she did when she was building toward a Point with a capital P. "The creature's fundamental tragedy," she continued, and Connor could feel his enhanced hearing picking up every syllable with painful clarity, "is that Victor Frankenstein created him but took *no responsibility* for that creation. The creature had intelligence, emotions, moral reasoning—everything that makes someone a *person*—but his creator abandoned him because he was afraid of what he'd made. Afraid of his own success, essentially."
Connor's jaw tightened. Beside him, M'gann's hand moved incrementally closer to his on the desk, not quite touching but close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off her skin.
*Breathing,* M'gann reminded him gently. *You're supposed to do that. It's a human thing. Humans do it. Constantly, actually.*
*I'm only half human,* Connor replied.
*Then do it HALF as much, I don't care, just BREATHE before you pass out.*
He took a breath. It felt mechanical. Everything felt mechanical suddenly, like he was piloting his body from somewhere far away, watching himself sit in this classroom and pretend to be normal while discussing a book about a creature abandoned by his creator.
The irony was not lost on him. The irony was actually very present. The irony was sitting on his chest like a weighted blanket made of existential dread.
Ms. Rodriguez stopped pacing and turned to face the class, her dark eyes scanning the room with the intensity of someone who Actually Gave A Damn, which was both admirable and deeply inconvenient for maintaining emotional distance.
"So," she said, and Connor's tactical precognition immediately flagged this as Incoming Difficult Question That Will Emotionally Devastate You. "What responsibility do creators have toward their creations? Is making something *enough*, or does creation carry inherent obligation to nurture and support what you've made?"
Several hands went up immediately—eager students who probably had opinions about Frankenstein that didn't involve personal trauma. Connor kept his hand very firmly on his desk and stared at his copy of *Frankenstein* like it had personally betrayed him.
Which, in a way, it had. Mary Shelley had really called him out from beyond the grave.
"Connor," Ms. Rodriguez said, because apparently the universe had decided that today was "Let's Emotionally Devastate Connor Kent Through Victorian Literature" day and everyone was invited.
*You don't have to answer,* M'gann transmitted, her concern bleeding through their link like psychic humidity. *Just say you didn't do the reading. Fake a coughing fit. Literally anything. I will create a distraction. I will SET something ON FIRE if you need me to.*
*Please don't set anything on fire,* Connor replied. *I can answer. I can do this academically. Analytically. Without making it personal.*
*Connor, it's ALREADY personal—*
But he was already talking, his voice coming out steadier than he felt. "Creation carries obligation proportional to the creation's capacity for independent function," he said, and he could hear himself shifting into Tactical Briefing Mode, which was at least better than Emotional Breakdown Mode. "Victor Frankenstein's creature had human-level intelligence and emotional capacity, which created parental-level responsibility. Abandoning that responsibility was ethical failure regardless of Frankenstein's fear or discomfort with what he'd made."
The classroom had gone quiet in that particular way that meant people were Actually Listening, which was deeply unfortunate for Connor's desire to remain unnoticed.
Ms. Rodriguez leaned back against her desk, her expression thoughtful. "That's a strong stance," she observed. "You're saying creators can't just walk away from things they've made?"
"Not without consequences," Connor said, and okay, maybe he was gripping his desk a *little* too hard. Not hard enough to crush it—he had *some* self-control—but definitely hard enough that his knuckles were white and his fingerprints were probably permanently embedded in the wood. "The creature didn't choose to be created. He didn't choose his appearance or capabilities or circumstances. Frankenstein made those choices, which created responsibility for their outcomes. Abandoning the creature wasn't a neutral action—it was an ethical violation that created the tragedy driving the narrative."
*Connor,* Kara transmitted through M'gann's psychic conference call, *you're doing the thing where you sound like you're testifying at a war crimes tribunal. Maybe dial it back like ten percent? Fifteen percent? Any percent?*
*I'm being analytical,* Connor defended.
*You're being INTENSE,* Kara corrected. *There's a difference. A meaningful difference.*
Ms. Rodriguez was watching him with the kind of attention that made Connor's threat assessment protocols light up like a paranoid Christmas tree made of anxiety. "That's a remarkably *passionate* defense of the creature," she said slowly, carefully. "Personal investment in the text, or just strong analytical opinion?"
*ABORT,* M'gann transmitted urgently. *ABORT ABORT ABORT—*
"Both," Connor said, because apparently his mouth had decided to just... keep talking without consulting his brain first. "I think Shelley's text raises important questions about responsibility and personhood that are relevant beyond just fictional monsters. Anyone who creates something with capacity for suffering has obligation to consider what happens after creation. That's not controversial—that's basic ethics."
Several students were staring at him now. Connor could feel their attention like physical weight, which was absurd because attention didn't have mass, but apparently his Kryptonian senses were sensitive enough to detect concentrated human focus.
He was going to have *words* with Superman about this. So many words. An uncomfortable number of words.
"Even if creation was well-intentioned but resulted in something the creator didn't expect or want?" Ms. Rodriguez pressed, and Connor felt something in his chest twist painfully.
Because that was the thing, wasn't it? Cadmus had created him with *very specific* intentions—weapon against Superman, tool for human supremacy, contingency plan for when the aliens inevitably turned on humanity. They'd abandoned him not because he was unexpected.
They'd abandoned him because he'd *refused to be what they intended*.
Because he'd looked at their programming and their plans and their expectations and said "no."
And they'd responded by trying to kill him.
Fun times. Great memories. Really stellar parenting.
"Especially then," Connor said, and his voice came out rougher than intended, like he'd swallowed gravel. "Good intentions don't absolve you of responsibility when creation has capacity for independent thought and feeling. If you make something that can *suffer*, you're responsible for that suffering whether you intended it or not. That's not negotiable."
The silence in the classroom had weight now. M'gann's hand finally closed over his on the desk, warm and solid and real.
*You're okay,* she transmitted. *You're safe. You're here with us and you're okay.*
*I'm fine,* Connor replied automatically, which was his default response to everything.
*Connor Kent, you are the WORST liar I have ever met, and I'm a literal shapeshifter who lies professionally,* M'gann shot back. *You're not fine. But you're going to BE fine. We've got you. I've got you. Always.*
Ms. Rodriguez was nodding slowly, her expression somewhere between impressed and concerned and maybe a little bit sad. "That's a very *empathetic* reading of the text, Connor. Most students focus on the creature's violence or Frankenstein's scientific hubris. You're emphasizing the fundamental relationship between creator and created, which is arguably Shelley's actual point. The horror isn't the creature—it's the abandonment."
"The violence is response to abandonment," Connor continued, because apparently he'd decided to just fully commit to this emotional vulnerability thing and ride it all the way to its uncomfortable conclusion. "The creature doesn't start out monstrous—he becomes monstrous after repeated rejection and isolation. That's not excusing the violence, but it's recognizing that Frankenstein's abandonment created the conditions for tragedy. The creature wanted love. He wanted acceptance. He wanted what everyone wants—to belong somewhere. And Frankenstein denied him that because he was afraid."
*That was good,* Kara transmitted. *Complicated, but good. Very 'I've thought about this extensively for reasons that are definitely not related to my own traumatic origin story.'*
*Thanks,* Connor replied dryly. *That's exactly the impression I was going for. Really nailed the casual vibe.*
The discussion continued, other students jumping in with perspectives on creation and responsibility and whether the creature was sympathetic or monstrous or both. But Connor could feel Ms. Rodriguez's attention returning to him repeatedly, like she was taking notes in her head and building some kind of profile.
Which was *deeply* concerning from a maintaining-civilian-cover perspective.
When the bell rang—finally, mercifully—and students started packing up with the chaotic energy of people escaping intellectual examination, Ms. Rodriguez called out: "Connor, Kara, Megan—could you three stay for a moment?"
Connor felt his stomach drop approximately six inches, possibly more. Physics didn't work that way, but his stomach apparently didn't care about physics.
*Oh no,* M'gann transmitted, her mental voice achieving new heights of concern previously only theorized by scientists. *She NOTICED something. She noticed something and now she's going to ASK about it and we're going to have to LIE and I'm terrible at lying when people are being NICE—*
*M'gann, breathe,* Connor cut in.
*YOU'RE ONE TO TALK,* M'gann shot back. *YOU'RE THE ONE WHO JUST HAD AN EMOTIONAL BREAKDOWN ABOUT FRANKENSTEIN.*
*That wasn't an emotional breakdown. That was passionate literary analysis.*
*SAME THING.*
*Fair point,* Connor acknowledged.
They approached Ms. Rodriguez's desk with expressions that Connor hoped read as "casual high school students" and not "aliens trying very hard to appear human while having minor panic attacks about their teacher maybe figuring out their secret identities."
Ms. Rodriguez settled against her desk, crossing her arms in a way that somehow managed to be both casual and authoritative. She had perfected the teacher lean. It was impressive. "I want to talk to you about your responses to *Frankenstein*," she began. "All three of you have demonstrated unusually strong emotional engagement with the text's themes about creation, abandonment, and identity formation. And before you say it's just because you're good students—I teach a lot of good students. This is different."
*Here we go,* Kara transmitted. *She's profiling us. This is it. This is how we die. Death by perceptive English teacher.*
*She's a TEACHER,* M'gann corrected. *She's concerned. There's a difference between profiling and caring.*
*Is there though?* Kara countered. *Both involve uncomfortable questions.*
"The text raises universal questions," Connor said carefully, deploying his best Reasonable High School Student voice, the one he'd been practicing in the mirror. "Anyone who's felt like they don't quite fit in standard social categories can probably relate to the creature's experience. It's a pretty relatable narrative about alienation and—"
Ms. Rodriguez gave him a look that suggested she was Not Buying It but was willing to let him try again because she was a good teacher. "True," she agreed. "But your engagement goes *beyond* typical relatable-protagonist identification, Connor. Your defense of the creature was passionate and *personal* in ways that suggest the themes resonate with lived experience rather than just academic analysis. I've been teaching for fifteen years. I know the difference."
*She's perceptive,* Kara transmitted unnecessarily.
*TOO perceptive,* M'gann added. *What do we tell her? Do we lie? I don't want to lie to her. She's nice.*
*Partial truth,* Connor decided. *Enough to explain our reactions without revealing we're literally not entirely human and also fight crime on weekends.*
"Ms. Rodriguez," Connor said, and he was surprised by how steady his voice sounded, like he'd somehow achieved emotional stability through sheer force of will. "All three of us have... complicated backgrounds. We've experienced feeling like we don't quite belong in standard social structures. *Frankenstein* resonates because Shelley's exploring themes about identity and acceptance that we relate to personally. That's all."
"Complicated how?" Ms. Rodriguez asked, but her tone was gentle. Concerned. Not interrogating. Actually caring, which was somehow worse because it made lying feel terrible.
"Family situations," M'gann supplied quickly, her voice hitting that perfect note of "uncomfortable but honest" that she was remarkably good at when needed. Which was technically true, if "family situations" included "I'm a White Martian pretending to be a Green Martian pretending to be human" and "I was created in a lab by a shadowy government organization" and "I'm an alien refugee whose entire planet exploded."
So, you know. Complicated.
Ms. Rodriguez's expression softened with understanding. "That makes sense," she said, and Connor could tell she meant it. "I noticed the three of you tend to cluster together, supporting each other. That's good—found family is important, especially for students who feel alienated from standard social structures. Sometimes the family we choose is more important than the family we're born into."
"Found family," Kara repeated, testing the phrase like it was new vocabulary, which for her it probably was. "That's... actually a really good description. We chose each other rather than being assigned through biology or circumstance. We're not related, but we're family anyway."
"Exactly," Ms. Rodriguez said warmly, and Connor felt something in his chest unclench slightly. "And Connor, I want you to know that your analytical insights are consistently excellent, but you don't need to hide personal reactions behind academic frameworks. It's okay to engage with literature emotionally as well as intellectually. You don't have to perform perfect analysis all the time. You can just... feel things. That's allowed."
Connor felt something uncomfortable settle in his consciousness—the realization that his constant tactical distancing and analytical frameworks weren't invisible defensive mechanisms. They were *visible* defensive mechanisms that perceptive people could see through like glass. Like very obvious glass. Glass with a neon sign that said "EMOTIONAL AVOIDANCE HAPPENING HERE."
"I'll work on that," Connor said, and was surprised to find he meant it.
"Good," Ms. Rodriguez replied with genuine satisfaction. "All three of you are brilliant students, but you're also teenagers navigating complicated social environments. Don't forget that it's okay to be human—"
She paused.
Stopped mid-sentence.
Reconsidered her word choice with visible precision, like she was editing herself in real-time.
"—to be vulnerable and emotional rather than just analytically perfect all the time."
The silence stretched for exactly 2.3 seconds, which Connor's enhanced perception made feel like approximately forty-seven years of uncomfortable eternity.
*She almost said something else,* M'gann transmitted, her mental voice very quiet and very concerned. *She was going to say 'don't forget you're human' and then she STOPPED. She stopped herself mid-word. Why did she stop herself? Why would she stop herself unless—*
*Coincidence,* Connor replied, but his tactical analysis was already generating concerning probability matrices that suggested it was absolutely not a coincidence. *She couldn't possibly know. That's impossible. We've been careful. So careful.*
*Is it though?* Kara asked. *Because she just caught herself mid-sentence about reminding us to be human. Specifically. To us specifically. That's suspicious, Connor. That's objectively suspicious.*
*We're being paranoid,* Connor decided, because the alternative was too concerning to contemplate. *She's just a perceptive teacher who noticed we had strong reactions to thematically relevant literature. That's all. Nothing more.*
But even as he thought it, he wasn't entirely sure he believed it.
They departed Ms. Rodriguez's classroom with slightly elevated heart rates and significantly elevated concerns about maintaining civilian cover.
"That was close," M'gann said once they were safely in the hallway, her voice low and worried. "She *definitely* noticed we're different. Like, she KNOWS something's up."
"Different doesn't mean enhanced," Connor pointed out, but his voice lacked conviction even to his own ears. "Lots of students are different without being secretly superhuman. We just need to be careful not to demonstrate capabilities that would move her from 'these students are complicated' to 'these students aren't human.' There's a gap there. We just need to maintain the gap."
"Right," Kara said flatly. "Easier said than done when we spend half our time fighting supervillains and the other half pretending to be normal teenagers while discussing our traumatic origins through Victorian literature. This is a nightmare. A very specific, weird nightmare."
"Welcome to civilian integration," Connor replied. "Where maintaining cover requires constant vigilance and also emotional vulnerability through metaphor. It's great. Really great. Best time ever."
"I hate secret identities," Kara announced to the hallway at large. "I hate them SO MUCH. Why can't we just tell people? Why can't we just say 'hey, we're aliens, please don't freak out, we're here to help'?"
"Because humans freak out when they find out aliens exist," M'gann said gently. "Trust me. I've seen how that goes. It goes badly."
"Everything goes badly," Kara muttered.
"Not *everything*," M'gann corrected. "We have each other. That's not bad."
Connor felt something warm settle in his chest, pushing back against the anxiety and the tactical concerns and the lingering emotional rawness from discussing *Frankenstein*.
"No," he agreed. "That's not bad at all."
*Even if Ms. Rodriguez maybe possibly suspects we're not entirely human?* Kara transmitted.
*Even then,* Connor confirmed. *We'll handle it. Together.*
*That's very optimistic for you,* M'gann observed.
*I'm trying out optimism,* Connor replied. *It's weird and uncomfortable but apparently healthy.*
*That's the spirit,* M'gann said encouragingly. *Fake it till you make it.*
*That's literally our entire civilian cover strategy,* Kara pointed out.
*Exactly,* M'gann agreed cheerfully. *We're very experienced at faking things. This is just one more thing to fake.*
Connor smiled despite himself. "Come on," he said. "We've got calculus next, and if I'm going to emotionally process my traumatic origin through academic metaphor, I'd prefer to do it with numbers instead of literature."
"Numbers don't have feelings," Kara agreed.
"Exactly," Connor said. "It's perfect."
They headed down the hallway, three definitely-not-aliens pretending to be normal high school students, and if Connor's enhanced hearing caught Ms. Rodriguez watching them leave with thoughtful concern, well.
That was a problem for future Connor to worry about.
Present Connor had calculus.
And also possibly an existential crisis to schedule for later.
---
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