The smell of burning toast woke J'onn up. He got up and immediately moved through his apartment into the kitchen. He found Cay'an, surrounded by small strands of smoke, staring at the toaster with a face of frustration mixed with confusion.
"It's supposed to make the bread brown, not incinerate it," Cay'an said, still looking at the toaster.
J'onn opened the window and then examined the toaster settings.
"You had it on the highest setting. That's for... I'm not sure, actually," J'onn said.
"Who wants to eat burnt toast? Earth appliances are needlessly complicated," Cay'an replied, poking the piece of toast in question with a fork.
"They're intuitive once you learn their conventions."
"Why even have the option?"
"Because humans enjoy having options to choose from. Even when most are objectively wrong. Go sit. I'll make breakfast," J'onn answered, pulling out a pan and eggs.
"I can..."
"I know you can, but I'm already up. Let me handle it today," J'onn told her.
Cay'an sat at their small table and watched him cook.
"Have you burnt toast before?"
"No. But when I first came to Earth, cooking confused me. I ate mainly raw vegetables. I once tried to 'cook' a banana before while it was still in the peel. The smell was... peculiar," J'onn answered with a slight smile.
"What happened to it?" Cay'an asked while giggling.
"It exploded. It took hours to clean the oven. The point is that everyone struggles with new environments, even when privileged with lifespans as long as ours. I'm going to tell you something important about survival on Earth," J'onn said, plating the eggs.
Cay'an leaned forward.
"Everyone is making it up as they go. The confidence is mostly performance. Underneath it all we're all just burning toast, hoping nobody notices," J'onn continued.
After they ate breakfast, J'onn spread forms across the table for Cay'an to read.
"You said you wanted to attend school so you could understand humans more and experience life as a human. This is what that requires," J'onn said, gesturing at the paperwork.
"Why is there so much?" Cay'an asked, looking at the pile.
"Earth runs on documentation. To exist, you need papers proving you exist. Your name is now Cyan Jones, my niece. Your parents passed away, so I'm now officially your legal guardian," J'onn answered.
"Is lying to governments normal?"
"Our case is unique. Here on Earth I've been John Jones for fifty years now," J'onn answered.
"What if they find out I'm Martian?"
"They won't. As long as you don't use your powers publicly, you'll be fine. I had Batman help with documentation so they won't discover you that way, I can ensure you," J'onn said.
They worked through the forms together, with J'onn helping her through each section.
"This asks about medical history. What should I write?" Cay'an asked.
"Just write none."
"And school subjects. What should I study?"
"What interests you?"
"On Mars I studied history, combat and combat theory," answered Cay'an, a slight bitterness in her voice.
"Then perhaps you can study art, literature, music, mathematics, and science. That way you no longer feel like you have to fight to survive," J'onn suggested.
"Did you study those things when you came to Earth?" Cay'an asked, looking at J'onn.
"Eventually. Initially I just focused on survival, like you. After a long time of existing without actually living, I decided to learn more about living on Earth. For my own sake. That way I started to understand so much, and it helped. It made me feel less alien," J'onn answered.
"I'd like that."
"We can enrol you in everything, and you can drop anything that doesn't interest you. Trying is the important part," J'onn said.
They finished the paperwork by noon. Cay'an would officially be enrolled in Denver's West High School by the end of the week. Another step to being normal and building a life on Earth.
It was late in the afternoon, and the two had walked to the library. The librarian that Cay'an befriended had recommended some more books when she entered. On the walk Cay'an had pointed at things, asking questions, which J'onn answered patiently.
"What does 'sick burn' mean?"
"Where did you hear that?" J'onn asked, blinking.
"At the library last week. Two teenagers were talking, and one said something. And the other responded by saying, 'Sick burn', but neither of them were on fire. I'm confused," Cay'an continued.
"Ah. That would be slang. It took me a long time to understand the intricacies of the human language. 'Sick', in this context, means 'good'. Impressive or cool," J'onn replied, thinking about how to reply.
"Meaning cold?"
"Cool, meaning socially desirable or admirable. Appealing even."
"So sick' means 'good', and 'cool' means 'desirable'. This language is very illogical," Cay'an replied.
"Welcome to English. You'll learn with time. Context helps, and asking is fine. Humans appreciate when people ask for clarification," J'onn replied, smiling at her frustration.
Dinner was pasta again. J'onn was getting better at it, the sauce being only slightly burnt this time.
"I've been thinking about names," Cay'an said between bites.
"What about them?"
"Cyan Jones doesn't sound right."
"What names sounds... normal?"
"What about Kira? It means 'leader' in some languages."
"Kira Jones. That works. It's strong and memorable, but most importantly it's yours," J'onn replied.
"Kira. I like it. That's what I'll be called at school. Kira Jones, John Jones' niece and totally not a Martian in hiding," Cay'an replied with a smile.
"The perfect cover," J'onn agreed.
Mike was sitting in his new office. It was small and shared with two other junior creators, but nonetheless it was his, with a name on a placard on his desk.
He'd been there for almost a week now, meeting with the team and learning the workflow. Today was his first actual writing session. Throughout his process of coming up with original side characters he could add to his story, he noticed something.
They all seemed similar to the heroes he tested. A museum curator who had lost her lover too young and was learning to overcome the trauma that came with it. A lawyer who was brilliant but insecure but learnt to accept herself. John, a private investigator who had survivor's guilt from a car crash and distanced himself from others before learning to find connections with others.
This was wrong, wasn't it? Taking people's pain that he somewhat caused and using it for entertainment. He didn't have anyone to talk to about the actions he did when Sophist. His phone buzzed.
"How's your first week going? You surviving?"
Mike stared at the message. It was from Willow. They had been texting occasionally with casual conversation. Nothing ever went past that which Mike appreciated.
"Barely. Just trying to write the most traumatic situations possible for Peter Parker." Mike typed and sent.
"I feel sorry for the guy, even if he isn't real. We can talk further about how to truly torment your fictional character (a red flag I'm willing to ignore) over some coffee?" she messaged back.
Mike's hand hovered over his phone.
"Yeah, sounds good. When?"
"Tomorrow? 3 PM. There's a place near where you work called The Grind. I'll text you the address."
"See you there."
Mike sat his phone down. For the first time since he came to this world, maybe he wasn't alone.