CONFIRMATIONS
Bring Him to Me
There's an explosion. It's massive, and if the rattling windows in your office hadn't been enough evidence of its size, the plume of black smoke rising into the sky above the buildings in the distance would surely do the trick.
Your heart jolts in your chest. There are thousands of buildings in that direction, dozens in that general area, but your mind leaps straight to your son on his first day at his new school.
You rip yourself away from your balcony and stare at the wall of monitors behind your desk. Slowly, more slowly than you need, and yet more quickly than you want, the monotonous news anchors of local 24-hour broadcasts are brought to life by the jolting immediacy of breaking news.
An explosion, yes, thank you, I know that.
"The majority of National City knows that," you mutter, eyes focussed with rapt attention, scanning the crawls at the bottoms of the screens.
"We're getting information now that what appears to be a gas line has exploded outside St. Francis Academy on Roseland Avenue in National City. No word yet on injuries or casualties, though it has been confirmed that the students of St. Francis were out for recess when the blast occurred."
Your knees buckle and you suddenly find yourself crouching low, too weak to stand, but too filled with adrenaline and the desire for more information to hit the floor. You're vaguely aware of someone saying your name behind you, Olsen, maybe, but your eyes remain fixed on the screens in front of you.
Multiple stations have gone live to their mobile teams, and your heart repeats a beat when you see a streak of red and blue hurtling across four screens, rocketing through the sky behind oblivious talking heads.
For a moment, you stop breathing.
None of the camera operators react quickly enough to follow the blur, but news anchors fill you in on where it–she–landed.
"Supergirl has arrived! She's bypassed the fire. She's left it to burn? She's on the playground. There's too much smoke to make out what's happening."
It's been seconds, but it feels like hours or days have been shaved off of your life before the phone you've been unconsciously trying to crush rings in your hand, loud and obnoxious.
Kara Danvers, the caller identification reads.
You answer. Out of habit or hope, you're not sure, but you accept the call from the assistant who, last you saw, was typing steadily away at her desk. A quick glance tells you that she's no longer there, though it's more of a confirmation than anything else.
"Miss Grant? Can you hear me?"
Her voice is muffled, and you can hear the crackles and pops of an inferno. You can't seem to get your vocal cords to work, to tell her you're listening.
"Miss Grant? I've got Carter."
You don't say anything, but the sudden release of the breath you didn't know you'd been holding seems to be confirmation enough that you've heard her.
"He's okay. Cat, he's fine. I've got him."
The unexpected use of your first name sharpens your focus enough for you to force your next words past your lips, breathy and a little bit broken. "Bring him to me."
"Of course, Miss Grant."
You're two steps into getting yourself to the elevator when you hear a soft whump behind you, and the familiar snapping of a cape spins you on your heel not a second later.
"Mom!"
And then Carter is hurtling himself across your office, arms out, his cheeks red and wind chapped under smudges of black soot, and the floor is rising up to meet your knees as gravity and fear are finally allowed to do their jobs.
As you clutch your son to your chest, you look up just in time to see Supergirl twist herself up into the air. She hovers for a second, out there on your balcony, and she meets your eyes. There is no doubt or fear in those blue eyes. Worry, yes, though whether it's about what she's revealed to you in the past three minutes or what she's about to fly back into, you don't know.
"Thank you."
She gives you a short nod and the tiniest of smiles. "Of course, Miss Grant."
And then she's gone.