**FRIDAY, 1730 HOURS - CONNOR'S QUARTERS, MOUNT JUSTICE**
Connor stood in front of his mirror, having what could only be described as an existential crisis over a shirt.
It was his third outfit in ten minutes. His quantum-level consciousness—the same consciousness that could calculate trajectories for incoming missiles while simultaneously hacking enemy networks—was currently dedicating 43% of its processing power to the apparently unsolvable question of whether green or blue made him look more "date-worthy."
His combat mastery, freshly integrated from Wonder Woman's three-thousand-year collection of ass-kicking, was trying to provide tactical analysis on optimal date positioning before Connor mentally slapped it down.
*Romance is NOT a combat scenario,* he told himself firmly.
*[COMBAT MASTERY: But flanking maneuvers could apply to—]*
*No.*
*[TACTICAL PRECOGNITION: Calculate probability of—]*
*Also no.*
"Okay, so you've officially lost it," Dick Grayson announced from the doorway, where he'd apparently been watching Connor's fashion meltdown with the kind of smug amusement that only a best friend could provide. "You're arguing with yourself. Out loud. About a shirt."
"I'm not arguing with myself," Connor protested, then paused. "Okay, I'm arguing with the AI currently living in my brain that think romance should involve strategic positioning and flanking maneuvers."
"That's so much worse than regular arguing with yourself," Dick observed, leaning against the doorframe. "Connor, it's M'gann. She's seen you covered in mud after missions. She's seen you accidentally melt your costume with heat vision—twice, I might add. She's seen you try to eat a cheeseburger at super-speed and spray ketchup across an entire Wendy's. Your shirt is not going to be the dealbreaker here."
"But what if it IS?" Connor gestured frantically at his current outfit—dark jeans, green button-down that Martha Kent had sworn was "perfect for dates," and boots that split the difference between "trying too hard" and "gave up entirely." "What if 'casual dinner' means something different to Martians? What if green is a funeral color on Mars and I've accidentally dressed for someone's death?"
"Pretty sure M'gann would've mentioned if green was the color of Martian death," Dick said. "Also, you're wearing jeans. Pretty universally casual across most planetary cultures."
"Are you sure though?"
"Connor, I'm going to say this with love: you're using tactical analysis on date clothing. That's a sign you need to calm the hell down and remember that M'gann already likes you. Your neurotic, over-analytical, occasionally-melts-things-with-eye-lasers self."
Connor felt his enhanced consciousness recognize the wisdom in Dick's observation even as his anxiety continued generating worst-case scenarios that would make a soap opera writer proud.
"What if I mess this up?" Connor asked, voicing the concern that his tactical precognition kept highlighting in increasingly dramatic fonts. "Dick, I've been conscious for four months. My entire dating experience consists of watching Superman be awkward around Lois Lane and one time Batman grunted approvingly at Catwoman. That's not exactly a robust educational foundation."
Dick's expression softened. "Okay, first of all, Batman grunting at Catwoman is the most romantic thing he's physically capable of, so that's not a fair comparison. Second, M'gann has been on Earth for approximately the same amount of time you've been conscious. She's navigating human social dynamics from a Martian perspective, which involves things like 'don't accidentally read everyone's thoughts' and 'shapeshifting during arguments is considered rude.' You're both figuring this out together."
"That's... actually really helpful," Connor admitted.
"I know, right? I'm like a teenage wisdom factory." Dick grinned. "Also—and I cannot stress this enough—M'gann can literally read your emotional signature through your telepathic link. She already knows you're freaking out. Trying to hide it is like wearing a disguise made of neon signs that say 'I'M TOTALLY FINE' while your hair is on fire."
Connor's parallel processing immediately recognized the tactical wisdom—trying to hide his emotional state from a telepath was both pointless and would probably just make everything weirder.
"Okay," Connor decided. "I'm going with this outfit. It's appropriately casual, the colors work according to Martha's fashion advice, and most importantly, if I spend one more second deliberating about clothing choices, my quantum consciousness might actually achieve sentience just so it can file a complaint about resource misallocation."
"There we go! Excellent reasoning." Dick straightened up. "Now, you have a plan, right? Where you're going, what you're doing, ideally some backup options in case things go sideways?"
Connor pulled up his mental checklist—a habit his tactical awareness had developed for mission planning that apparently also applied to romantic outings because his brain didn't know how to turn off the optimization protocols.
"Dinner at Vinny's Italian in Happy Harbor—Kara recommended it, casual atmosphere, good food, quiet enough for conversation. Then walking around the harbor boardwalk because M'gann mentioned she likes water. Transportation via normal civilian methods rather than super-speed because maintaining cover even during personal time is—"
"Okay, you're doing the thing again where you turn a date into a mission brief," Dick interrupted. "But that's actually a solid plan. One suggestion though—have a backup activity. Movie, arcade, something in case dinner ends early or conversation gets weird."
"Contingency plans for date complications," Connor said, his tactical precognition immediately generating seventeen probability branches. "I can calculate optimal—"
"Connor. Buddy. Friend. Clone-brother from another mother." Dick held up a hand. "I'm going to stop you before you spend twenty minutes running dating simulations through your quantum consciousness like it's a really romantic version of *Civilization*. The point of backup plans isn't to optimize every microsecond. It's just to avoid standing around going 'uh, so, now what?' if dinner finishes at 7:30 and you planned for 8:00."
"Right. Less optimization, more... flexibility." Connor nodded. "I can do that."
"Can you though?" Dick asked with a knowing grin. "Because I watched you apply tactical analysis to team lunch orders last week. You created a spreadsheet. With probability matrices for Wally's chaotic food preferences."
"That was ONE TIME and it was because someone needed to organize thirteen different orders efficiently and Wally kept changing his mind every five seconds!"
Dick's laugh was warm rather than mocking. "Connor, you're going to be fine. M'gann likes you for who you are, including your tendency to treat every situation like it needs a strategic briefing and backup plans A through F. Just try to be present during the date rather than constantly running probability assessments of every possible outcome like you're Doctor Strange on a caffeine bender."
A soft knock on the doorframe announced M'gann's arrival—she was wearing a green sundress that complemented her human form's red hair perfectly, with a light jacket because Happy Harbor's evening temperature would be cool for someone pretending to be regular human instead of Martian with shapeshifting powers.
She looked amazing.
Connor's brain temporarily forgot how to process visual information.
"Hi," M'gann said, her emotional signature broadcasting nervous excitement that Connor's empathy immediately detected. "You look great. Is that a new shirt?"
"Martha picked it out during my last visit to Smallville," Connor managed, grateful his enhanced consciousness had rebooted enough for speech. "She said green complements blue eyes and also something about 'bringing out your undertones' which I nodded along to but honestly didn't understand beyond trusting her fashion wisdom."
"Martha Kent has excellent taste," M'gann confirmed with a warm smile. "Are you ready to go? Our reservation is at six, which gives us about fifteen minutes to get there at normal human walking pace."
"Ready," Connor confirmed, then looked at Dick. "Thanks. For the advice and for not mocking me too mercilessly about the fashion crisis."
"Oh, I'm absolutely going to mock you about it later," Dick said cheerfully. "But not right now. Have fun! And Connor? Try not to use your quantum interface to hack the restaurant's payment system or anything. Actually paying for dinner like a normal person is part of the authentic date experience."
"I would never— okay, I considered it as efficiency optimization but I'm not going to actually do it," Connor admitted.
M'gann laughed, taking Connor's hand with easy comfort. "Come on, let's go before you start analyzing optimal route planning or deciding the restaurant needs a security upgrade and accidentally spend the whole evening doing a threat assessment instead of eating dinner."
As they departed Mount Justice through the civilian access tunnel, Connor felt his parallel processing split between maintaining conversation with M'gann, monitoring their surroundings for potential threats (a habit his tactical awareness apparently couldn't turn off even if someone held a gun to its metaphorical head), and trying very hard not to let his combat mastery provide strategic dating advice.
*This is a date, not a mission,* Connor reminded himself firmly. *Normal teenage experience. No tactical optimization required.*
His consciousness didn't entirely believe him, but it was willing to try.
Probably.
Maybe.
*[TACTICAL PRECOGNITION: Probability of maintaining non-tactical mindset throughout date: 34%]*
This was going to be interesting.
---
**1805 HOURS - VINNY'S ITALIAN RESTAURANT, HAPPY HARBOR**
The restaurant was exactly what Kara had promised—casual family-owned establishment with checkered tablecloths, warm lighting, and the smell of actual Italian cooking that made Connor's enhanced senses very happy about his decision not to eat before the date.
"Table for two," Connor told the hostess, who led them to a corner booth with excellent sightlines of the entire restaurant.
Connor's tactical awareness immediately approved of the positioning before he consciously told it to please, for the love of God, stop assessing the restaurant like it was a potential combat zone.
"This is nice," M'gann said once they were seated, her emotional signature showing genuine pleasure. "Kara was right about the atmosphere. It's comfortable without being too formal or too casual or like we're trying too hard."
"She also warned me their portions are huge and we should probably share an appetizer unless we want to eat enough food to feed a small family," Connor added, consulting the menu. "Apparently the calamari is excellent but could feed four people. Or one Wally."
M'gann studied her own menu with focus that Connor's empathy detected was partially nervousness management. Which made sense—they'd been friends and teammates for months, had coordinated complex missions, had even shared emotionally vulnerable moments. But sitting across from each other in a restaurant as an official *couple* somehow felt different.
More significant. More real. More likely to end with Connor accidentally setting something on fire with stress-activated heat vision.
"Connor," M'gann said after a moment, "can I ask you something potentially awkward?"
"Of course. Awkward is kind of our baseline at this point."
"Are you analyzing this date through your tactical precognition right now? Because I can feel your parallel processing running at what I can only describe as 'maximum panic levels' and I'm trying to figure out if that's normal Connor processing or if you're, like, strategically optimizing our dinner conversation like it's a hostage negotiation."
Connor felt his enhanced emotional awareness recognize that M'gann's directness was actually helpful—better to address the analytical elephant in the room than pretend it wasn't there while it trumpeted anxiously in the background.
"I'm trying very hard not to analyze the date through tactical precognition," Connor admitted. "But my consciousness doesn't have an 'off' switch that doesn't also shut down critical life functions. So yes, part of my awareness is running probability assessments and monitoring approximately seventeen different environmental variables while another part is trying to be present and enjoy dinner with someone I care about without treating it like we're planning a heist."
"Okay," M'gann said with understanding that suggested she'd expected that answer. "So here's what I'm thinking—instead of you trying to suppress your natural processing patterns and getting increasingly anxious about whether you're being 'too analytical,' what if we just acknowledge that's part of who you are? Connor, I like that you analyze things. It's one of your defining characteristics. Pretending to be someone who doesn't calculate seventeen different probability branches for every conversation would just be exhausting for both of us and also kind of dishonest."
Connor felt something tight in his chest loosen. "You're saying you're okay with me being analytically excessive during our date?"
"I'm saying I prefer you being authentically yourself rather than performing some version of 'normal dating behavior' that doesn't match your actual personality and would probably end with you giving yourself an aneurysm from the stress," M'gann clarified. "Though Connor, can I make one request? If your tactical precognition starts predicting dinner conversation outcomes, maybe don't tell me about the probability percentages until after the conversation actually happens? Let's preserve some mystery."
"That's very reasonable," Connor agreed. "I can maintain my analytical processing without constantly narrating the probability assessments like I'm a really anxious sports commentator. That's actually good practice for compartmentalizing my consciousness anyway."
Their server arrived—college-aged woman whose friendly professionalism suggested she'd worked at Vinny's long enough to have opinions about the menu. Connor's quantum interface immediately wanted to scan the restaurant's network to verify their reservation had been processed correctly before he firmly reminded it that hacking restaurants during dates was definitely inappropriate and also probably illegal.
"What can I get you two to drink?" the server asked.
"Water for both of us," M'gann said, then looked at Connor. "Unless you want something else?"
"Water's perfect," Connor confirmed. "Also we'd like to share the calamari appetizer if that's still available and won't require us to sign a waiver about the portion size."
The server laughed. "It's big, but you two look like you can handle it. I'll get that started and give you a few more minutes with the menu."
As she departed, M'gann leaned forward slightly. "Connor, can I share something that might sound weird?"
"Please do. Weird is literally our entire existence."
"I'm having more fun on this date than I expected," M'gann admitted. "Not because I thought it would be bad, but because I was worried we'd both be so nervous about doing it 'right' that we'd forget to actually enjoy it. But talking about your analytical processing and acknowledging the awkwardness is actually making this feel more comfortable than if we were both pretending to be super smooth and confident."
Connor felt his enhanced empathy detecting the sincerity in M'gann's emotional signature. "I was worried about exactly the same thing. That we'd get so focused on performing appropriate date behavior that we'd lose the comfortable friendship dynamic we've already established and just end up being weird at each other for two hours."
"Exactly!" M'gann said with obvious relief. "So maybe we just... continue being ourselves? Acknowledge when things feel awkward, be honest about our anxieties, and trust that we already like each other enough that a few weird moments aren't going to ruin everything?"
"That's possibly the most sensible approach to dating I've ever heard," Connor said. "Though my sample size is limited to exactly zero previous dating experiences and watching Superman be awkward, so my assessment might not be statistically significant."
M'gann laughed—genuine, warm sound that made Connor's Kryptonian physiology do increasingly familiar things that definitely weren't related to solar energy absorption.
"You just used statistical analysis terminology in a sentence about dating experience," M'gann observed. "Connor, that's so perfectly you it's almost painful."
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
"It's a *you* thing," M'gann said warmly. "And I like you things. Even when they involve applying quantum-level consciousness to restaurant conversations like you're trying to solve a equation instead of having dinner."
The calamari arrived—and Kara had not been exaggerating about the portion size. The appetizer could have easily served as an entrée for two people with normal metabolisms, or possibly as a meal for an entire Italian family having a reunion.
"Okay, this is actually really good," M'gann said after her first taste. "Kara's restaurant recommendations are proving extremely reliable."
"She's been on Earth longer than both of us," Connor observed, trying some himself. "Had more time to explore civilian experiences and identify quality establishments. Though I'm curious how she explains eating approximately four times more food than normal humans when maintaining her cover at school."
"Athletic metabolism," M'gann replied. "She tells people she's a competitive swimmer and swimmer metabolisms require significant caloric intake. It's vague enough to be believable while explaining her enhanced appetite without raising questions."
"That's actually clever cover story design," Connor said, his tactical awareness perking up. "Uses a known human variance to explain superhuman characteristic. I should develop something similar for explaining my technology skills beyond normal teenager capabilities."
"You could claim you're a programming prodigy," M'gann suggested. "Child genius who started coding at age five and has been obsessed with technology ever since. That would explain your quantum-level interface capabilities as just extreme dedication rather than, you know, literal supernatural enhancement."
Connor's tactical precognition immediately began generating refined cover story elements complete with probability assessments and optimal deployment strategies before he consciously reminded himself that this was a date, not a mission planning session, and maybe he could take five minutes off from strategic optimization.
"Sorry," Connor said. "My consciousness just tried to turn our dinner conversation into tactical cover story optimization complete with spreadsheets. I'm working on compartmentalizing better. It's a process."
"It's okay," M'gann assured him. "Though Connor, can I point out that we've been on this date for about twenty minutes and we've mostly discussed tactical considerations, cover story development, and analytical processing patterns? Maybe we should try talking about something that's not hero-adjacent? Like, I don't know, literally anything else?"
Connor felt his enhanced social awareness recognize that M'gann was absolutely right—they were defaulting to comfortable tactical discussion rather than exploring the personal connection that dating was supposedly about.
"You're completely right," Connor agreed. "Okay, non-hero topic: what's something you've wanted to do on Earth that you haven't had opportunity for yet? Like a purely civilian experience that has nothing to do with heroic operations, tactical considerations, or anything that could be justified as 'maintaining cover'?"
M'gann's expression showed she was giving the question serious consideration, like he'd asked her to solve a complex equation. "I want to go to a concert. Live music performance with crowds of people all experiencing the same emotional journey together. On Mars, we have cultural experiences but they're much more... individual. The concept of thousands of humans gathering to collectively experience art through sound alone seems fundamentally different from Martian traditions."
"That's actually a really interesting observation," Connor said, his analytical mind engaging with the cultural comparison. "Martian telepathy means you experience art through direct mental connection, right? So human performance art must feel weirdly indirect by comparison."
"Exactly. But also more mysterious?" M'gann leaned forward, clearly working to articulate something complex. "Like, on Mars, if I'm experiencing someone's artistic expression, I'm directly accessing their emotional and creative intent. There's no ambiguity, no interpretation needed. But human music—" She paused. "—human music has to communicate meaning through sound alone, which means interpretation is much more personal. Every listener potentially experiences something completely different from the same performance."
Connor felt his parallel processing generating connections between M'gann's observation and his own experiences. "That's similar to how I process human communication. My enhanced perception lets me detect emotional undercurrents and probability assessments, but I'm still interpreting rather than directly accessing intent like a telepath would. It creates this space for misunderstanding but also for personal meaning-making that wouldn't exist with direct mental connection."
"Yes!" M'gann said with obvious excitement that made her emotional signature practically glow. "Connor, that's exactly it! The ambiguity creates possibilities that direct telepathic connection doesn't allow for. It's simultaneously frustrating and beautiful."
Their server returned to take their entrée orders—M'gann chose pasta with red sauce, Connor selected chicken parmesan, both of them ordering portions that would probably raise eyebrows if the server knew they were both enhanced individuals with metabolisms that required enough calories to power a small vehicle.
"So, concert," Connor said once the server departed. "That's something we could actually do. Happy Harbor has a community music venue that hosts local bands. We could check their schedule, find a performance that sounds interesting, and just... go. As a normal civilian experience that doesn't involve tactical considerations or maintaining cover beyond basic secret identity protocols."
"That sounds amazing," M'gann said, her emotional signature broadcasting genuine enthusiasm. "Connor, we should actually do that. Not as training or cover maintenance, just as something we want to experience for its own sake."
"Agreed," Connor confirmed. "I'll check the venue schedule when we get back to Mount Justice. Add it to our official list of civilian experiences to try."
"We have a list?"
"We have a list now," Connor said. "First item: attend live music performance that may or may not result in Connor having a sensory overload from his enhanced hearing. What else should we add?"
M'gann considered while finishing her portion of the calamari, which they'd somehow demolished despite the absurd portion size. "I want to go to a beach. Not for mission purposes or training exercises, just to experience ocean recreation the way humans do. Building sand structures, swimming for enjoyment rather than tactical practice, maybe trying those frozen dessert things people eat near beaches."
"Ice cream," Connor supplied. "And yes, beach recreational activities sound good. Adding to the list. What else? We're building comprehensive catalog of normal teenage experiences that don't involve punching supervillains."
"Your turn," M'gann said. "What civilian experiences do you want to try?"
Connor felt his analytical mind immediately beginning to process the question through tactical frameworks before he consciously redirected toward actual personal interests rather than strategic considerations.
"I want to learn cooking," Connor said, surprising himself slightly with the realization. "Not for nutritional efficiency or tactical self-sufficiency, but because it seems like a creative process that combines chemistry, technique, and personal expression. Martha Kent makes cooking look like both science and art, and I want to understand that combination."
"That's actually really sweet," M'gann observed. "You want to learn cooking as creative expression rather than functional skill. Connor, we could take a cooking class together. There's a community center in Happy Harbor that offers beginner cooking courses for people who can't even boil water without supervision."
"Adding to the list," Connor confirmed, feeling his consciousness actually enjoying this process of identifying shared civilian experiences rather than treating it as tactical planning. "Concert, beach day, cooking class. We're building an actual catalog of normal teenage activities that don't involve secret identities or supervillain punching."
"We're doing this," M'gann said with obvious satisfaction. "Actually integrating civilian life rather than just pretending to be normal while remaining entirely focused on hero operations and tactical optimization."
Their entrées arrived—portions that confirmed Kara's warning about restaurant serving sizes. Connor's chicken parmesan was approximately twice the volume he'd expected, and M'gann's pasta looked like it could feed an entire family having a reunion to celebrate successful calamari consumption.
"Okay, I understand why Kara said to share appetizers," M'gann said, staring at her plate with mixture of amusement and determination. "This is going to require significant consumption effort. Like, competition-level eating."
"Challenge accepted," Connor replied, his Kryptonian metabolism already anticipating the caloric intake with what could only be described as enthusiasm.
They ate in comfortable silence for several minutes, the restaurant's ambient noise providing background that didn't require constant conversation. Connor felt his analytical mind wanting to process the social dynamics of the other diners, but he consciously redirected his attention to just being present with M'gann instead of treating the restaurant like an anthropological study.
"Connor," M'gann said after a while, her emotional signature shifting to something more serious, "can I ask about the system? How you're feeling about Level 10, about the combat mastery integration, about your development trajectory and the increasingly absurd powers you're accumulating?"
Connor appreciated that M'gann was creating space for him to discuss his system openly—something he could only do with her and couldn't even mention to his other teammates without raising questions he had no way of answering.
"Honestly? It's overwhelming and exciting simultaneously," Connor admitted. "The combat mastery integration was successful—Diana's three thousand years of experience is now accessible in ways that feel natural rather than foreign. But M'gann, having that much accumulated wisdom suddenly available is psychologically intense in ways I'm still processing."
"How so?"
"Diana's memories include not just combat technique but ethical frameworks, philosophical perspectives, experiences that shaped her approach to heroism over millennia," Connor explained. "I'm seventeen by appearance, four months by actual consciousness, and I now have access to wisdom that most beings never develop even across entire lifetimes. That's a lot to process, especially when my combat mastery keeps trying to apply ancient Greek warfare tactics to modern dating."
M'gann laughed, nearly choking on her pasta. "Your combat mastery is giving you dating advice?"
"It tried to suggest flanking maneuvers for optimal romantic positioning," Connor said with exaggerated seriousness. "I had to explain that romance is not a combat scenario and we're not trying to achieve tactical superiority over the marinara sauce."
"Oh my God, Connor."
"I know, right? This is my life now. Ancient Amazonian battle protocols trying to optimize my dinner conversation like we're planning a military campaign."
M'gann's laughter was warm and genuine. "Okay, but seriously—how are you handling having all that knowledge? That's got to be psychologically intense."
"It is," Connor agreed. "But M'gann, having you to share this with makes it significantly more manageable. Being able to be completely honest about my development, my challenges, my concerns about accidentally becoming too powerful for my own good—that's incredibly valuable. I don't have to pretend with you."
"I'm glad I can provide that," M'gann said warmly. "Connor, you've been carrying significant secrets about your true capabilities for months. That's a heavy burden, especially for someone who's only been conscious for four months and is still figuring out basic human social dynamics."
"It is heavy," Connor agreed. "But it's also necessary. The system is powerful enough that if the wrong people knew about it, I'd become a target for exploitation or elimination. Maintaining cover isn't just about secret identity—it's literally about survival."
They continued eating while discussing Connor's system development—his trajectory toward Level 20, his decision to prioritize PSYCHE Package for enhanced precognition and mental capabilities, his concerns about the Level 30 Ultimate Ability option that his system kept hinting about but wouldn't fully describe like it was being deliberately mysterious just to mess with him.
"What do you think the Ultimate Ability is?" M'gann asked with obvious curiosity. "Your system says it unlocks at Level 30, but it won't tell you what it actually does? That seems unnecessarily cryptic."
"Just vague descriptions about 'reality alteration' and 'fundamental power expansion,'" Connor replied. "Which could mean anything from minor probability manipulation to actual universe-level capabilities to just really good sandwich-making skills. My tactical precognition suggests I shouldn't obsess about Level 30 abilities when I'm only Level 10 and still figuring out heat vision that doesn't accidentally set things on fire."
"Probably wise," M'gann agreed. "Though I am genuinely curious about whether your system has actual limits or if you could theoretically advance indefinitely until you become, like, a god or something equally ridiculous."
"Unknown," Connor admitted. "The system shows advancement tracks through Level 100, but I have no idea if that's the actual cap or just the limit of what it's willing to display. There could be progression beyond that, or Level 100 might represent some kind of transcendent state I can't currently comprehend where I achieve enlightenment and become one with the universe or whatever."
"Connor Kent: potentially capable of becoming a cosmic-level entity through quantum gaming mechanics," M'gann summarized. "That's both absolutely terrifying and kind of amazing. Also possibly the weirdest origin story in superhero history."
"It's definitely terrifying," Connor confirmed. "Which is why I try to focus on immediate development rather than long-term possibilities that might result in me accidentally transcending reality. Right now I'm just trying to reach Level 11, continue progressing toward Level 20's next absorption slot, and not accidentally destroy anything important with poorly controlled superpowers."
Their server returned to clear plates and offer dessert menus. Connor's tactical precognition immediately began analyzing optimal dessert selections based on flavor profiles, nutritional content, and probability of romantic success before M'gann kicked him lightly under the table.
"No tactical optimization of dessert choices," M'gann said with amusement. "We're just picking something that sounds good and hoping for the best like normal people who don't have quantum-level consciousness."
"But what if we choose incorrectly and end up with suboptimal dessert experience?" Connor protested with exaggerated concern. "What if the tiramisu is mediocre and we regret our decision for the rest of our lives?"
"Then we'll survive the terrible tragedy of mediocre dessert," M'gann replied. "Connor, part of civilian experiences is accepting that not everything needs to be optimized for maximum efficiency and sometimes you just eat dessert that's merely okay instead of transcendent."
"That's philosophically challenging for someone with quantum-level consciousness dedicated to pattern recognition and probability assessment," Connor observed.
"I know," M'gann said warmly. "But you're doing great. We've made it through dinner without you hacking the restaurant's systems, analyzing other diners' social dynamics like they're exhibits in a museum, or treating our date as tactical operation requiring strategic briefing. That's significant progress."
Connor felt his parallel processing recognize that M'gann was absolutely right—he'd been relatively present during dinner, engaged in genuine conversation rather than constant analytical assessment of every possible variable.
"You're right," Connor acknowledged. "I actually enjoyed this. The food, the conversation, the not having to hide my system development from someone who understands it and won't think I'm completely insane. M'gann, thank you for making this feel comfortable rather than like I need to perform some version of normal dating behavior that doesn't match my actual personality."
"You're welcome," M'gann said with obvious warmth. "Though Connor, can I point out that you're thanking me for making you comfortable on a date you planned and paid for? That suggests you're better at this whole dating thing than you think you are."
They ordered dessert—tiramisu to share because they'd learned their lesson about portion sizes—and continued comfortable conversation about nothing particularly important. School social dynamics, team training schedules, speculation about what Batman's mysterious meeting with Superman had been about earlier that week that everyone was pretending wasn't happening.
Connor felt his consciousness settle into something approaching actual relaxation. His parallel processing was still running background threat assessment and his combat mastery was still occasionally trying to provide strategic advice about optimal dessert consumption techniques, but the primary focus of his awareness was just... being present with someone he cared about.
It was nice. Like, genuinely, surprisingly nice in ways that didn't require tactical analysis to appreciate.
By the time they finished dessert and paid the check (Connor used actual money rather than hacking the payment system, which M'gann praised as "showing remarkable restraint for someone who could probably rob a bank through sheer computational power"), the evening had progressed to that pleasant stage where dinner was complete but the date wasn't quite over and they both knew it.
"Boardwalk walk?" Connor suggested as they exited the restaurant into the cool evening air. "Like we planned?"
"Perfect," M'gann agreed, taking his hand with easy comfort that made Connor's Kryptonian physiology do those increasingly familiar non-solar-energy-related things again.
The Happy Harbor boardwalk was quiet on a Friday evening—enough people around that they weren't isolated, but not so crowded that Connor's enhanced senses became overwhelmed by proximity to large groups of humans having various emotional experiences loudly.
"This is nice," M'gann said, her emotional signature broadcasting contentment. "Just walking, no mission objectives, no tactical considerations, no need to maintain cover beyond basic secret identity protocols."
"Agreed," Connor said. "Though my tactical awareness is still monitoring our surroundings for potential threats within a hundred-meter radius. Apparently I can't fully turn off threat assessment even during civilian activities because my consciousness thinks everything might be a combat scenario waiting to happen."
"That's probably healthy paranoia given that we're actually superheroes with people who'd want to harm us," M'gann observed. "But Connor, try not to let threat monitoring prevent you from being present in the moment. I promise I'll alert you if any supervillains attack the boardwalk."
They walked in comfortable silence for several minutes, the sound of water lapping against the harbor docks providing pleasant ambient noise that Connor's enhanced hearing processed without overwhelming him. He felt his consciousness achieve something approaching actual peace—not the tactical calm of mission focus, but genuine relaxation that came from being safe with someone who understood him.
"Connor," M'gann said eventually, "can I ask something that might be awkward timing?"
"Of course. Awkward timing is kind of our specialty."
"What are you thinking about right now? Like, literally what is your quantum-level consciousness processing at this exact moment while we walk along a romantic boardwalk like normal teenagers?"
Connor felt his parallel processing immediately catalog his current mental state, which was simultaneously running multiple analytical threads like the world's most neurotic computer:
"Approximately thirty-seven percent of my awareness is monitoring environmental threats within a hundred-meter radius, including that couple having an argument near the ice cream shop and the seagull that's eyeing us with suspicious intent. Twenty-three percent is analyzing our conversation for optimal responses and emotional cues so I don't accidentally say something inappropriate. Fifteen percent is running probability assessments for how the rest of the evening will develop. Twelve percent is processing how much I'm enjoying this experience despite my constant anxiety. Eight percent is suppressing my combat mastery's attempts to provide tactical dating advice that involves flanking maneuvers. And the remaining five percent is wondering if answering this question honestly will make me seem romantically inadequate or endearingly neurotic."
M'gann laughed—genuine, delighted sound that made several nearby humans turn to look at them with curiosity. "Connor, that was possibly the most Connor answer you could have provided. Your consciousness is literally running a pie chart of mental resource allocation during our romantic date. That's simultaneously adorable and concerning."
"Is it bad?" Connor asked with slight concern. "That I can't just be present without allocating consciousness like I'm managing a computer network?"
"No," M'gann assured him, squeezing his hand. "It's just very you. Connor, the fact that twelve percent of your infinite parallel processing is dedicated to how much you're enjoying this experience is actually really sweet. Most people's entire consciousness is dedicated to worrying about whether they're being awkward instead of actually enjoying things."
"Only twelve percent seems low though," Connor observed. "Like maybe I should be allocating more consciousness to enjoying the moment rather than monitoring threats and analyzing optimal responses like I'm preparing for a debate competition."
"Or maybe you enjoy things through analytical processing," M'gann suggested. "Connor, you understand the world through pattern recognition and probability assessment. Trying to enjoy experiences without that framework would be like asking me to stop being telepathic or asking Wally to just slow down and walk normally. It's fundamental to who you are."
Connor felt something settle into understanding—M'gann was right. His analytical nature wasn't something to overcome or suppress or apologize for constantly. It was just how his consciousness worked, and that was okay.
"Thank you," Connor said quietly. "For understanding that my way of experiencing things is valid even when it looks different from normal human processing. Most people would probably think I'm broken or weird."
"You're welcome," M'gann replied warmly. "Though Connor, 'normal human processing' is kind of a meaningless standard for someone who's a quantum-level Kryptonian clone with cosmic gaming mechanics and ancient Amazonian battle protocols living in his brain. Maybe we just accept that your processing is your processing and stop comparing it to some idealized standard of normalcy that doesn't actually exist?"
"That's remarkably wise advice."
"I have my moments," M'gann said with warmth. "Usually between catastrophically overthinking things myself."
They continued walking until they reached the end of the boardwalk, where a small bench overlooked the harbor with good sightlines and comfortable positioning. M'gann settled onto the bench and Connor joined her, his tactical awareness approving of the location (good defensive position, clear escape routes, minimal civilian exposure in case of emergency) while his primary consciousness just focused on being present.
"So," M'gann said after a comfortable silence, "first date assessment: how do you think we did?"
Connor's tactical precognition immediately began generating evaluation metrics complete with success probability percentages and detailed analysis of every interaction before he consciously chose to answer based on actual feelings rather than analytical assessment for once in his neurotic life.
"I think we did really well," Connor said honestly. "We were anxious initially but we talked about it rather than pretending everything was perfect. We had comfortable conversation that included both tactical discussion and actual personal sharing. We acknowledged awkward moments rather than trying to pretend they weren't happening and making everything worse. And M'gann, I genuinely enjoyed spending time with you in a context that wasn't mission-focused or tactical optimization."
"I enjoyed it too," M'gann confirmed. "Connor, I was worried that dating would change our comfortable friendship dynamic into something weird and performative, but it actually feels like we're just... being more honest about feelings that were already there. Like adding a label to something that already existed rather than transforming into something completely different."
"That's exactly how it feels to me too," Connor agreed. "We're still us, just with acknowledged romantic dimension to our relationship. Plus occasional combat mastery trying to provide strategic dating advice that I have to suppress."
M'gann laughed. "I still can't believe your ancient warrior protocols think dating requires flanking maneuvers."
"In fairness to Diana's three-thousand-year-old combat experience, it's not really designed for romance," Connor said. "It's designed for fighting gods and monsters and protecting humanity from supernatural threats. Dating is just confusing it."
"Your brain is being confused by romance," M'gann summarized. "Connor, that's the most relatable thing I've heard all evening."
M'gann leaned against him slightly, and Connor felt his Kryptonian physiology respond in ways that definitely weren't related to solar energy absorption but were definitely related to having feelings for someone who understood his neurotic analytical tendencies and liked him anyway.
"Can I tell you something potentially embarrassing?" M'gann asked.
"Please do. I've been embarrassing myself all evening, it's only fair."
"I've been thinking about this date for three days. Planning what I'd wear, practicing conversation topics in my head, worrying about whether I'd accidentally reveal my telepathic abilities through inappropriate emotional responses. I was so nervous that Kara asked if I was sick because my emotional signature was apparently 'radiating anxiety across the entire mountain like a distress beacon.'"
Connor felt warmth at the confession. "I spent approximately forty-seven hours running tactical simulations of potential date scenarios through my quantum consciousness. Dick had to literally tell me to stop because I was using so much processing power that I was becoming distracted during training exercises. I almost got hit in the face with a practice bo staff because I was too busy calculating optimal date conversation topics."
"So we were both catastrophically overthinking this," M'gann summarized.
"Catastrophically," Connor confirmed. "Like, championship-level overthinking. We could compete professionally. But M'gann, I think that's okay? We care about getting this right, which means some anxiety is probably inevitable. The important thing is we actually did it rather than letting anxiety prevent us from trying."
"Agreed," M'gann said. "And Connor? I want to do this again. More dates, more civilian experiences, more just being together without mission context or tactical considerations or any of the usual heroic nonsense."
"Me too," Connor said simply. "Though maybe next time I'll allocate more than twelve percent of my consciousness to enjoying the experience."
"Baby steps," M'gann said with amusement.
They sat in comfortable silence watching the harbor lights reflect on the water, Connor's consciousness achieving something approaching actual peace despite his ongoing threat monitoring and analytical processing and combat mastery occasionally piping up with tactical suggestions.
His phone buzzed with incoming message from Dick:
*How's the date going? Do I need to arrange emergency extraction or are you managing human social interaction successfully without causing diplomatic incidents? -NW*
Connor showed the message to M'gann, who laughed. "Dick's protective streak is showing. Also his assumption that you might cause a diplomatic incident during dinner is very on-brand."
"To be fair, I did once accidentally hack an embassy's security system during a team lunch," Connor admitted. "In my defense, their network security was embarrassingly weak and my quantum interface was bored."
"Connor, that's not the defense you think it is."
"I know," Connor sighed, typing a response:
*Date going well. No tactical complications, no ability exposure, no emergency extraction needed, no diplomatic incidents. We're just being normal teenagers on a normal date. It's going surprisingly well. -CK*
Dick's response was immediate:
*Proud of you for managing to be relatively normal for three hours. That's genuine character growth. Don't stay out too late - Artemis arrives at 1800 tomorrow and I need you functional for team introductions. Also Wally wants to know if you're bringing back leftovers because apparently he can smell Italian food through text messages. -NW*
"Right, new team member tomorrow," M'gann said, having seen the message through their telepathic link. "Artemis Crock. Batman said she's an archer with complicated family background which definitely doesn't sound ominous at all."
"And excellent tactical skills according to preliminary assessments," Connor added, his analytical mind immediately engaging with team composition considerations. "Though we should probably discuss her integration tomorrow rather than during our date. Otherwise I'll spend the next hour running tactical simulations about team dynamics."
"Agreed," M'gann said. "Though Connor, I appreciate that you're making effort to compartmentalize hero operations and personal time. That's important for maintaining healthy balance and not becoming one of those heroes who literally has no life outside the costume."
"I'm trying," Connor said. "It's challenging for someone whose consciousness doesn't naturally distinguish between tactical operations and civilian experiences and thinks everything might require strategic briefing. But I'm working on it."
"You're doing great," M'gann assured him. "Connor, this was a really good first date. Thank you for planning it, for being honest about your anxiety, for letting me see the parts of your consciousness that you usually hide from everyone else because they're too weird or analytical."
"Thank you for understanding my analytical nature and helping me learn how to be present despite constant parallel processing and ancient warrior protocols trying to optimize my romantic decisions," Connor replied.
They sat together on the bench overlooking the harbor, comfortable in each other's presence, until Connor's tactical awareness noted that the time was approaching when they should return to Mount Justice for reasonable sleep before tomorrow's team expansion and introduction of their new potentially-ominous-sounding teammate.
"Should we head back?" Connor suggested reluctantly.
"Probably wise," M'gann agreed, though her emotional signature showed she was equally reluctant to end the evening. "Though Connor, one more thing before we go?"
"Yes?"
M'gann kissed him—longer than their first kiss in his quarters several days ago, more confident now that they'd established their relationship dynamic and confirmed that they were both equally neurotic about everything but in compatible ways.
Connor's combat mastery tried to provide tactical assessment of optimal kissing techniques before he firmly relegated it to background processing because seriously, analyzing romance through ancient Greek warfare protocols was definitely inappropriate and also deeply weird.
When they separated, Connor felt his enhanced consciousness inform him that he'd just experienced something significantly more valuable than any Level advancement could provide, which was saying something considering his system was literally cosmic-level gaming mechanics.
"That was nice," Connor said, his usually precise vocabulary apparently compromised by romantic feelings and Kryptonian physiology doing interesting things.
"Very nice," M'gann agreed with warm smile. "Okay, now we should actually head back before Dick sends a search party to verify we're being appropriately normal teenagers and haven't accidentally exposed our abilities or caused international incidents."
They walked back to Mount Justice holding hands, Connor's consciousness split between enjoying M'gann's presence and monitoring their surroundings for threats (a habit his tactical awareness apparently couldn't turn off even during romantic moments). His parallel processing informed him that the date had been successful by any reasonable metric, his relationship with M'gann had strengthened, and his ability to function as relatively normal teenager was improving.
Not bad for someone who'd been conscious for four months and possessed quantum-level consciousness that wanted to optimize everything including dessert choices and romantic positioning.
"Connor?" M'gann said as they approached the mountain entrance.
"Yeah?"
"For what it's worth, I think your analytical nature is one of your best qualities," M'gann said. "It makes you uniquely you. Don't ever feel like you need to suppress that to be normal or acceptable."
Connor felt something warm settle in his chest that had nothing to do with Kryptonian physiology and everything to do with being understood by someone who mattered.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "That means a lot."
"You're welcome," M'gann replied. "Now come on, let's get back before your quantum consciousness starts analyzing optimal sleep schedules for tomorrow's team introduction."
"Too late," Connor admitted. "It started that analysis approximately three minutes ago."
"Of course it did," M'gann laughed. "Connor, you're hopeless."
"But adorably hopeless?"
"Adorably hopeless," M'gann confirmed.
As they entered Mount Justice through the civilian access tunnel, Connor felt his parallel processing note that despite his constant anxiety, analytical overthinking, and combat mastery trying to provide tactical dating advice, the evening had been genuinely successful.
Maybe being himself—neurotic, analytical, occasionally overwhelming self—was actually enough.
His system pinged softly in the background:
*[RELATIONSHIP MILESTONE ACHIEVED]*
*[EMOTIONAL DEVELOPMENT: SIGNIFICANT PROGRESS]*
*[ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: Successful First Date Without Catastrophic Complications]*
Connor smiled.
Yeah. This was good.
---
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