Chapter 28: PARTNER STATUS
[DEO Headquarters, Briefing Room — November 2016, 9:15 AM]
The mission footage played on the main screen, thermal imaging capturing every moment of the previous night's disaster. I watched myself on the display—a bright orange silhouette moving through collapsing corridors, engaging hostiles, reaching Kara's position.
Then the interesting part.
"Freeze there," J'onn ordered. The image stopped on the moment I'd extended my TK field around Kara. On thermal, it was visible as a secondary aura—a protective layer wrapping around her body, distinct from my own heat signature.
"That's not standard Daxamite ability," J'onn said, turning to face me.
The briefing room was full. Alex sat at the main table, tablet in hand, reviewing supplementary data. Winn monitored the technical feeds from his station. Kara stood near the door, arms crossed, expression neutral.
"I'm learning what I can do," I said carefully. "The adaptation seems to extend beyond just physical resistance."
"The field you generated protected Supergirl from Kryptonite-laced materials." J'onn's gaze was analytical, ancient eyes dissecting every detail of my response. "You extended your personal durability to cover another person. That's telekinetic projection, not standard cellular enhancement."
"I noticed." I kept my voice level. "It seemed relevant at the time."
"Relevant." J'onn almost smiled. "You discovered a significant new capability while trapped in a collapsing building and decided it was 'relevant.' Interesting choice of words."
Alex cleared her throat. "If we're done analyzing the metaphysics, can we discuss the actual mission outcomes?"
"By all means."
The debrief continued. Seven civilians rescued. Twelve hostiles neutralized. The underground complex destroyed, its intelligence value lost but its threat eliminated. From a tactical standpoint, the mission was a success despite the ambush.
"The trap was sophisticated," Alex reported. "Lead-lined walls, Kryptonite-laced structural elements, anti-Kryptonian countermeasures throughout. This wasn't improvised. Someone specifically designed that facility to neutralize our heavy hitters."
"Cadmus," Kara said quietly.
"Almost certainly. We're analyzing the recovered tech for confirmation."
J'onn nodded, processing the information. Then his attention returned to me.
"Based on your field performance—not just last night, but the consistent pattern of reliability you've demonstrated over the past several weeks—I'm recommending an update to your operational status."
I straightened slightly. Didn't let myself hope.
"Effective immediately, your support-only restriction is lifted. You're being upgraded to full partner status, with all associated clearances and responsibilities." He gestured to Alex. "Agent Danvers will handle the administrative details."
Alex stood, walked toward me with a small case in her hand. Inside was a new badge—the same general design as my previous one, but with different coding, different access levels.
"Don't make me regret this," she said.
I met her eyes. "I won't."
She held my gaze for a moment longer, then nodded once and returned to her seat. The badge felt strange in my hand—the same weight as the old one, technically, but somehow heavier. Weighted with responsibility. Lighter with acceptance.
The briefing concluded with standard post-mission protocols. Medical evaluations scheduled. Equipment maintenance required. Reports due by end of business.
As the room emptied, Kara lingered near the door. I approached her, still processing the promotion.
"For what it's worth," she said quietly, "I argued for this weeks ago. You earned it before today."
"You did?"
"After the fire rescue. After the first few support missions. I could see you were ready." She shrugged. "J'onn wanted more time. Wanted to be certain. But I knew."
"You advocated for me. Even when..." I trailed off, uncertain how to finish the sentence.
"Even when I was still angry about the lies?" Kara's expression softened. "Being angry doesn't mean being blind. You showed me who you are through your actions. The prince doesn't matter anymore. What matters is the person standing in front of me."
The words settled somewhere deep. I'd spent weeks—months, now—trying to prove myself through deeds rather than words. Hearing that it had worked, that she'd noticed, that she'd argued on my behalf when I didn't know...
"Thank you," I said. "For believing in me before I earned it."
"You earned it." She started walking toward the exit. "Now come on. We've got patrol tonight, and I want to test your flying speed. Can't have a partner who can't keep up."
I followed her, new badge clipped to my chest. Partner. Not trainee, not support, not probationary asset. Partner.
---
The day passed in a blur of administrative tasks and equipment checks. Dr. Hamilton ran me through the standard post-mission medical evaluation—my lead exposure from the collapsed building was still showing in my blood work, but at significantly reduced levels. The adaptation was working.
"Your cellular recovery rate continues to improve," she noted, studying her readouts. "The lead resistance you've been developing is quantifiable now. Approximately sixty percent faster recovery than your baseline when you first arrived."
"Is that enough?"
"Enough for what?"
I didn't have a good answer. The question had emerged from somewhere instinctive—a recognition that the lead testing, the adaptation training, all of it was building toward something. The Medusa virus loomed in my meta-knowledge, a threat I couldn't explain and couldn't ignore.
"Just wondering how far it can go," I said instead.
Hamilton made notes in her file. "Theoretically, there's no upper limit we've identified. Your body continues to adapt to repeated stress. Whether that means eventual immunity or just highly efficient recovery, we won't know until you reach the ceiling—if one exists."
I thanked her and left. The knowledge was useful but incomplete. Sixty percent improvement was significant, but would it be enough when Cadmus deployed their ultimate weapon?
No way to know. Just keep training. Keep adapting. Keep preparing for threats I couldn't name.
---
That evening, Kara and I stood on the DEO rooftop, city lights spread below us like scattered stars.
"Ready?" she asked.
"For what?"
"First patrol as equals." She grinned—genuine, unguarded. "Race you to the coast?"
I launched before she finished speaking, using the split-second advantage to gain distance. It was a futile gesture—Kara was faster, would always be faster, her Kryptonian physiology outclassing Daxamite capabilities in raw speed.
But for three glorious seconds, I was ahead.
Then she passed me like I was standing still, red cape streaming behind her, laughter carrying back through the wind. I pushed harder, found reserves I hadn't known existed, closed the gap slightly before she pulled ahead again.
We raced across National City, over industrial districts and residential neighborhoods, past the downtown towers and out toward the ocean. She beat me to the coast by a comfortable margin, but I arrived close behind—closer than I would have managed a month ago.
"You've gotten fast," she admitted as I landed beside her on the cliff edge.
"Good teacher."
"Better student." She sat on the rocky outcropping, legs dangling over the drop. "Come on. We've got time before anything needs saving."
I sat beside her. The ocean stretched to the horizon, waves catching moonlight, endless and ancient. The stars were brilliant here, away from the city's glow—more stars than I remembered seeing on Daxam, where light pollution had been worse.
"I used to come here alone," Kara said quietly. "When I first started being Supergirl. Before Alex knew, before anyone knew. I'd sit right here and try to figure out what I was supposed to do with all this power."
"Did you figure it out?"
"Eventually." She pulled her legs up, wrapped her arms around them. "The power isn't the point. The point is the people. The power is just the tool you use to help them."
"That sounds like something Clark would say."
"He did say it. Right after I almost leveled a building because I was showing off." She laughed, self-deprecating. "I was so eager to prove myself. To show everyone that Supergirl was just as capable as Superman. Took me a while to realize it wasn't a competition."
"And now?"
"Now I know who I am. What I stand for. The doubts don't disappear entirely, but they're manageable." She turned to look at me. "What about you? Do you know who you are yet?"
The question hit deeper than she probably intended. I thought about the transmigration—the death in another world, the awakening in this one. Thought about the lies I'd told and the truths I'd earned. Thought about the prince I'd been born as and the person I was trying to become.
"I'm figuring it out," I said finally. "Some days I feel like I've finally found my footing. Other days I feel like a stranger wearing someone else's life."
"That feeling never fully goes away." Kara's voice was soft, understanding. "I've been on Earth for over a decade, and sometimes I still feel like an alien pretending to be human. The key is accepting that both things can be true. You can belong somewhere and still feel like an outsider. You can be yourself and still be figuring out what that means."
The stars reflected in the ocean below, scattered light dancing on the waves. I mentioned that I'd never seen so many—Daxam's skies had been perpetually hazy, atmospheric pollution from centuries of industrial excess.
"That one's Orion," Kara said, pointing. "The hunter. And there's Cassiopeia. And over there—"
I wasn't really listening to the constellation names. I was watching her face, the way the starlight caught her features, the animation in her expression as she shared something she loved.
My hand brushed hers on the rock between us. Accident or intention—I couldn't tell anymore. She didn't pull away.
Neither of us moved closer. The moment hung suspended, fragile and electric, charged with possibility.
Then her comm beeped.
"Supergirl, we're picking up a disturbance in the warehouse district. Possible metahuman activity."
Kara's expression flickered—annoyance, resignation, duty. She rose smoothly, cape settling around her shoulders.
"Copy that. En route."
She looked back at me. The moment was broken, but something lingered in her eyes. Something unfinished.
"Coming, partner?"
I stood. "Right behind you."
We flew back in silence—charged, complicated silence that said everything and nothing at the same time.
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