Antumbra

Antumbra: noun. The area outside the darkest shadow of a solar eclipse.

It was sheer luck that the wide space, part desert, part prairie, sand and sagebrush and yellowed grass, was currently being used for tactical practice when, on a clear summer morning, someone sounded the alert. A bright streak arced across the sky, flaming as it crashed. The D.E.O. agents reached the small pod in minutes.

"What is it?" One asked, peering at the singed metal.
"An opportunity," the squad leader replied. "Call base. We need to get this thing underground. Move it, people." He watched the pod, the way it lay still, a snake waiting to strike. Not if he could help it. He recognized a few of the symbols, soot streaked from entry into Earth's atmosphere. They would take no chances with the creature inside.

It wasn't until after the pod was secured in the nearest D.E.O. base, the occupant sedated and locked away without ever seeing sunlight, that news came that a second ship had crashed, this one larger.

Hank Henshaw glared at the man who'd brought the news. His work was never done, but it would be, eventually. It might take years, but Earth would be safe from alien influence under his watch, someday. Until then, he had calls to make, recruits to replace, and assets to acquire.
This new Kryptonian had brought disaster, but perhaps it would be useful as well.

(Roughly three years later)

J'onn J'onzz had worn this form–this face– for months now, but it still felt strange, foreign. Like he was stretched too thin and squeezed too tight, like one of the large earth snakes from the forest he'd hidden in, growing against dying scales. He wanted to shed it, but he didn't dare. He'd run out of escape routes. Even in solitude, he could not risk being J'onn, not anymore. Hank Henshaw. That was his name, who he had to be. The problem was, Hank was only skin deep. Even with all the time he'd had trying to train his thoughts, his gate, to turn skittish fear into anger, he had to remain conscious of the role he played. No part of who he had been could leak out, green tint under dark skin.

But he wanted to, especially here, in this work space underground that seemed to sing to his deepest instincts to run, to fly. He knew without doubt that there were no allies here, not any with power. If his deception, his disguise was ever revealed, even the few analysts that seemed like they had a grasp of ethics wouldn't dare side with him, and the soldiers never would. The captives, the alien criminals kept under lock and key, would be no better, and J'onn knew that even to save his own life he would never release the murderers from their cells. One of the Faceless Hunters, other creatures from planets far beyond the furthest reaches of Martian travel and creatures closer in, nightmare monsters. He was no fool. He knew he was not the only refugee who had come to this place, but those in the cellblocks were not mere travelers who had lost their homes. These were aliens who had taken the fresh start they might have had and thrown it aside for greed, for violence. He would never allow himself to make that same choice, and he could not risk the lives of innocents by using them as cover. He would just have to be careful. He could not afford the cost of being discovered.

It was exhausting. Being Hank Henshaw was so much more than hiding under human skin, behind human eyes and trying not to flinch at open flames. But he learned. He read the files on the computers, feigning memory lapses courtesy of that last failed mission to bring in the Manhunter. He learned what he could, walking the same path into the facility that Hank had, heavy boots and chin up, as if he feared nothing. This was his fortress, his. That meant, to stay safe, he had to act like it.

He had to honor the sacrifice of the man who had died to save him. Jeremiah. He had been an help to another Alien, another peaceful one. Superman, the press called him, but J'onn had not yet met him–the same alien that had been the cause, he learned, for the D.E.O's founding. Peaceful or not, hero or not, J'onn was unsure he wanted to get involved–it was far too risky. And his life was no longer his own. He had promised Jeremiah that he would protect his daughter, and an oath sworn as a life-debt to a dying man was not something that could be taken lightly. In a few years, the girl would be grown, and if she were as smart as her father had claimed, that one night in the jungle, there might be a place for her here.

This would have to be the goal. To slowly fill the ranks of the DEO with those like Alex Danvers, like her late father, perhaps even like he himself–people who wanted to help, not to seek out and destroy. It would take years, but then, J'onn had time, assuming he mastered the part. He was certain he could.

A few weeks after being fully cleared, fully recognized in this second identity, this false name, J'onn's careful planning almost fell apart.

He had taken to exploring, having little else to occupy non-work hours. He needed to make muscle memory know each corner of the DEO's underground base, erase any doubt that he was not fit to lead the organization. He read files, histories that only went back a decade or so, and walked the hallways in his heavy boots that reminded him he had to be human. That flying was never again an option.

He wasn't certain why he had not been aware of one of the cell blocks on the lowest level, deep in the earth until then, but he found it almost by happenstance, drawn to the thin red light. As he approached, wondering what creature was so dangerous that it would be kept here, what crime it might have committed, he saw a small figure trembling in the corner.

He may have worn a human skin, too close and itching to be shrugged off. He may have pressed down the use of his powers, for fear of become dependent upon them. But he did not need anything beyond human eyes to see the small form flinch, to hear whimpering (Ieiu, Ieiu) in a language he was certain he had heard before, but could not place.

He left just as quickly, his stomach acids protesting what his mind translated. It was a child. The prisoner in the cell was a tiny child, pale and thin. He had not needed to read her mind or understand her words to know she had been terrified. K'hym. T'ania. The memory of the last time he had seen his daughters seared like flame in his mind. Was some parent out there wondering for the fate of their own child? Had his children huddled, alone and terrified in a dark prison cell?

He wanted to vomit, and so he ran, slowing only to a halt when he reached the upper levels and the risk of being seen.

What crime could that pathetic creature have committed to be left in almost total darkness? What if she was like himself? Not one who had chosen this planet in malice but in desperation, alone and frightened, with no Jeremiah Danvers to chose her life over his?

"Sir? Director Henshaw?" a young woman asked, voice clipped. An intern, of sorts, the lowest ranking of the already highly ranked officials and agents permitted to work here. "Are you well?"

"I am fine," he told her firmly. "I need to check our records for any discrepancies. There's another audit coming up."

She winced. That meant budget reviews, an endless stream of meetings if not everything was perfectly documented. "Of course, Sir. Understood."

He waited until she had scurried off, no doubt to let everyone know to be careful with their paperwork, before sinking into his chair and digging deeper into the files.
And there it was, plain text. Project KR Eclipse.

A Kryptonian pod had been found, only miles from the crash site of Fort Rozz, with a lone occupant. Unlike the being that had been labeled the 'Man of Steel' by Metropolis's reporters, this one did not seem to possess that same invulnerability, or strength. Notes from Director Henshaw, the real Director, whose face J'onn now twisted in revulsion, filled the screen, conclusions drawn from what files had be salvaged from Fort Rozz and from tests they had run on the child. Blood tests, brain scans, pages of lists that dated even during the time Henshaw had been dead.
Nowhere did it list a crime committed, and the mugshot showed only a pale face, dirt marks on her cheeks, dishwater hair mussed and tangled.
J'onn closed the files, closed his eyes, and cursed inwardly. He could not compromise his cover. He could not show kindness or weakness (or the weakness that was kindness in the eyes of humans) without risking being discovered. Then what would be his fate, to die on a steel lab table or languish for centuries in a dark cell until he forgot even his own name? His oath–.

He had abandoned platitudes like "everything happens for a reason" when the White Martians had torn his beloved from his arms. Now he wondered, if this was the reason he had been spared the fate of his people, if this was why the old Director himself had been the one to confront him, if this was why he still breathed when Jeremiah did not. Was this how he was meant to pay forward his debt, a life for a life, one refugee to another?

He had lived more than 300 years, his family was dead.

He took his coat from the hook, and started for the exit.

J'onn knocked on the door of the large house, feeling awkward standing on the white-painted porch without his uniform on. As much as he loathed wearing it, being Hank Henshaw with all his weapons, it was a measure of safety. Security. But he stood on the porch in civilian khakis and waited for the door to open.

The blonde woman, whiter than she had seemed in the photograph on file, looked at him, the exasperated smile folding into a tight frown, fear and anger lining the creases around her eyes. She paused, as if trying to find words. He spoke first.

"Mrs. Danvers. May I come in?"

"Doctor," she corrected as if out of habit, and then realized. "You–No. Get out, get away, leave us alone."

"Dr. Danvers," he said, formally, no emotion slipping through to the mask he wore. "It's urgent. I need to speak with you."

She shook her head, moving to close the door. He stopped her, but only because desperation demanded it.

"It's about your husband." It was, in a roundabout kind of way.
" You got my husband killed." She did not stumble or stutter over the word. J'onn nodded, solemn.
"This is not a conversation for your porch and neighbors to hear, Dr. Danvers," he said, though there were no neighbors near enough to hear or watch the confrontation.

She opened the door wider. "Come in, then."

As soon as the door was closed, J'onn closed his eyes. He could not back out now. He needed this woman.

"Your husband was not the only expert on Kryptonians, was he, Dr. Danvers?"
She stepped back, shaking her head. "No. No, I will not work for you and your sick organization. I won't. You took my husband, isn't that enough for you? That you took him from me, from us, that I had to lie to our daughter, about why he never came home? Now you want me, too? Jeremiah gave you his research, and I don't know any more than that. Now, get out, Henshaw."

"My name is not Hank Henshaw," J'onn said softly. Even if he managed to free the little Kryptonian, he could not give her a home, not when it was so certain he would be trading his own life for hers. She would need someone trustworthy, someone safe. Someone who would protect her. "Your husband died to save my life. I have to pay that forward, and I need your help. Please."

He held out a photograph, the one he'd risked printing out.
Eliza Danvers took the picture, looking at the girl's tear and dirt smudged face, then up at J'onn. Slowly, she nodded.
"What do you want me to do?"

J'onn had done his best to get most of the agents out of the underground facility, dispatching teams as far as Ojai on carefully laid trails after more Fort Rozz escapees–perhaps finding some of them would delay the discovery of a betrayal and an empty cell. More agents he had temporarily assigned to the other bases, or loaned to the military to assist on various projects (and spy on the new General, Sam something or other.) Only a skeleton crew remained, and now, in the hour or so before sunrise, was the best chance there would be. He had done what he could. The rest would be up to H'ronmeer, or Rao, or fate.

The cell door opened under his hand, and the disheveled figure flinched, scrambling backward until she hit the wall, arms raised in defense. In the dim light and shadow, J'onn's vision faltered for a heartbeat, the Kryptonian girl's face replaced by T'ania's before reverting back to her own, bone white, with wide, dark eyes.

"Zha," she whispered, "Khapodh zha sem, eiahmodh sem rraop."
He didn't understand, exactly, but he didn't need to to see how terrified she was.

He crouched and held out a hand. "Voi," he said, the word Eliza had told him meant "safe."
She startled, looking at him, trembling. The fleeting glimpse he had had of her, the picture, had not been much, J'onn realized. She had not just been locked in, but chained, like an animal. Like a monster. Her bare feet looked cracked and bruised, but it may have only been the poor lighting. She looked to be perhaps fourteen, if that, thin and pale. Her eyes were haunted, but she kept her head up. She was brave. A fighter. She would have had to be, to survive here, for so long, but she was tired, leaning against that far wall for support as much as for protection.

She chewed her chapped lip, then whispered, "Voikirium?"

"Voikir–voikirium," J'onn hoped it meant the same as 'Voi,' that she would trust him. They did not have much time. He stepped into the cell, and she did not flinch as he used his master key to undo the manacle at her ankle, watching him silently. He gestured to the door, holding out his hand again.
She took a breath, and then his hand, her skin icy against his. He led the way up the least used stairs, the narrowest hallways, grateful for his determination to know every inch of the base. It may not do him much good after today, but that would be alright.
The girl stopped short as they reached the last doorway before the final stretch of hall that lead out. She looked up at him, and again he could have sworn that the fluorescent lighting gave her his daughter's features. He opened the door, and walked quickly, tugging her along. Eliza Danvers would be waiting just beyond the perimeter. He only had to make sure that the child reached her.

No one spotted them as he opened the doors, predawn light spilling in. The girl gave a tiny squeak of fear, but he squeezed her hand. The air was dry, smelling of rabbitbrush and sage, as familiar to J'onn as the scents of the rainforest in Peru had been. But she stopped, breathing in as though her lungs would never be filled, staring up at the pearly sky, her mouth open, her ragged clothing shifting in the faint breeze. Tears glimmered on her cheeks, but she did not move to rub them away, only let them fall.

Over the lip of the mountain in the west, the sun started to rise, golden and warm.

~FIN~

The following are loose Kryptionese translations, I did my best with a limited dictionary and grammar rules I tried to learn in like 30 minutes so accuracy may not be perfect but I tried.

Ieiu - Mother

Zha - No

Khapodh zha sem- I do not want (literally 'want no I')

eiahmodh sem rraop - I beg you (literally 'beg you I')

Voi- safe, secure, all right

Voikirium - deliverer, rescuer, savior

Hope you enjoyed, please comment!