A/N: This was partially inspired by Your Lie in April, but mostly because I've always wanted a music AU that was totally unrelated to my previous story Nocturne. Also, in this story, Kara is human and Krypton is a country in somewhere in Eastern Europe/Black Sea area/Balkans.
Fourteen Years Ago
The young pianist sat at her instrument, her fingers running over the black and white keys with a type of familiarity that could only come with hours and hours of continued practice.
Chopin's Etude Op.10 No. 4 was an incredibly fast piece, which required immense dexterity and coordination of both hands to be able to play correctly, not just properly. One slip and the entire piece would have gone differently. And she would have lost, her prize and her temper. This was next level when compared even with the third movement of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.
Her wrist flicked at the correct moments, and after two and a half minutes, she stopped, the piece had finished. She lifted her arms of the keyboard, and placed them on her lap. Just within those two and a half minutes, her forehead was soaked with sweat, her palms clammy and her collar clung to her damp neck uncomfortably. It was an intense piece even for the most experienced of pianists.
She took a deep breath, and stood up from her seat. Her hands clasped in front of her, she bowed, back straight. Then, with a confident gait, she walked to the back of the stage.
It was at that moment that she let the facade fall and breathed a sigh of relief. Little did she know, a select few members of the audience had already predicted that.
Present Day
"Ponytail!" she heard the name her boss used for her echoing throughout the reporters' bullpen.
The journalists stared from their desks as a young blonde woman, ran across the bullpen to a private office, where the middle aged man in charge was sitting.
He was silent for the first few moments, eyeing her carefully, as if giving her a thorough examination, "I see your stint in the Middle East went well."
She adjusted her glasses awkwardly, "If you consider that I came back alive and unscathed, then yes," she smiled.
Snapper Carr huffed, "Your reporting was decent. Now that you are back, I'm assigning you elsewhere."
"So, what's next, US-China relations in DC?"
Snapper ignored her comment, and went through through the piles on his desk, and plucking a file from it, "I saw from your résumé that you studied music."
"Yes, it was my minor, alongside my actual major."
"Which school?"
"Metropolis University," she replied, shoving her hands into her pockets.
She never really talked about her musical past, especially her past as a child prodigy pianist. It wasn't something that really came up, especially since the incident. At most, people would mention that she had a good voice at karaoke nights, but that was it.
She had took up business and political economy as her major instead, hoping for a career as a lawyer or politician, like her mother, or to take over the family business. But after all the changes in circumstances, she ended up studying for a masters in Journalism at Columbia, which landed her as a reporter at Catco, and her stint in the Middle East as a war correspondent.
Snapper continued examining her body language, so she asked, "What's my assignment?"
That took him out of his trance, and he slid a plastic envelope over to her. "There's this big music competition down in the Arts and Culture complex on Thursday."
"It's the National City International Piano Competition, sir," she rambled, then suddenly remembering her manners, blushed appropriately.
"Anyway, looks like nobody wants to do anything related to classical music. Then I remembered your credentials."
"Huh," she breathed.
"If you studied music in college, you might as well be one of the only people that understand what those people mean."
"Okay," she smiled back at him, but under that mask, her stomach churned with nervousness.
"Take someone along with you, do video clips if you can."
"Yes, Mr Carr," she replied as she left his office.
As she arrived at her desk, she opened the packet she was given. Inside, were two press passes for her and her assistant. Enclosed, was also the programme for the event, including a list of candidates and the set pieces for the event. She'd better get those rusty gears working and study up.
That evening, Alex found her sitting at the piano in her apartment, knowing how that would end, she prepared for her outburst, and took out the bottle of whiskey, pouring out two glasses.
The blonde played the first few bars of Für Elise, and somehow a glimpse of the previous genius seemed to be back, until suddenly at the moment when her left hand had to start playing two notes at a time, she started to falter. The notes clashed with each other, as if she couldn't move her fingers beyond a certain chord. Which was an apt description.
The pianist smashed her hands against the ivory keys, her right hand bundled up into a fist. Her eyes started to water, as she murmured, "Why, why, why me. Used to be able to do the etudes, now can't even do the most basic."
She slammed her hands against the keyboard again, suddenly, she felt a cool something pressed against her cheeks, contrasting with the heat of her tears. Gratefully she took the glass of scotch and took a large gulp. She needed it.
Alex wrapped up her sister in everything but blood up in a hug, "Kara, it's not your fault. It was Zod's men, not you."
Tears continued to flow out of their sockets, in anger, in guilt, in regret. She downed her glass of scotch, and then refilled it.
Choking on her tears, she said, "Thanks, Alex, needed that."
Her best friend led her back to the comfy couch and shoved a slice of pizza into her mouth, getting her to release the scotch at the same time "You need this more than the alcohol."
Tuesday and Wednesday went by quickly, and by the time Thursday rolled around, she had already done her research on the contestants, listened to the set pieces, and dragging along one of the interns, a young woman named Nia along with her.
The two of them arrived at the The Arts and Culture Complex around half an hour earlier than what was stated. The Complex was a collection of three of steel and glass buildings by the waterfront that enveloped a large square with a fountain in the centre. One was the city's art museum, another the planetarium/science centre, and lastly the concert hall.
It was a beautiful place, families brought their children there to play, as many young children frolicked around the fountain. There were tourists going to visit the attractions, and students on educational tours. There were also food trucks on one end. It was a view of serenity unlike the turmoil inside her mind.
The two of them took a look at the clock outside, and made a silent agreement that it was time to go inside. Kara pulled at the glove on her left hand, making sure that the hem was inside her sleeve and nothing underneath showed. She said, "Nia, come on."
She was dressed in a business suit that suited the occasion properly. Instead, Nia seemed utterly undressed with dark jeans and a floral blouse.
Going past the automatic doors, she saw concertgoers huddled in their groups chatting, with copies of the programme in their hands. That suddenly brought back a wave of nostalgia, and she remembered those days when she would be huddled up all decked out in formal attire, vigilantly reading her sheet music.
She explained her game plan to Nia, that they would sit through the entire thing, with her taking photos of every single contestant, and clips from each person. Then, she would interview those she that were the most promising and would advance from the prelims to the next round a few weeks later.
The two of them walked past the crowds of people and arrived in a heavy pair of double doors.
The air inside was dry and cold, it seemed that concert halls all over the world were the same, air conditioner on make sure that the air inside suited the instrument perfectly. There were the stereotypical dark red drapes, and the concert grand in the centre of the stage. There was a stand on the side with a number, signalling which contestant it was on.
It was just like she had remembered.
And the people around her seemed to think the same way.
"That woman there, she looks familiar," heard a voice say.
"I'd recognise that pair of glasses anywhere," another murmured, pointing to her.
"That's Kara Zor-El isn't it? The youngest winner of the International Tchaikovsky Competition."
"She was eleven then, right?"
"Last I've heard of her was over a decade ago, she was in the Netherlands for the Liszt Competition."
"What is she doing in America?"
"Wow, she's all grown up."
"More like glown up, that girl inherited good genes."
"Is that a press pass round her neck?"
Ignoring the whispers, the two of them walked over to the press seats near the front, and sat down where they could get a good view.
After setting up the camera and microphone, Nia turned her head to Kara, who was spinning a pen with her reporter's pad laid out.
"Are what people saying about you here true?" she asked.
"What are they saying?" Kara answered, her eyes staring straight ahead, knowing that the question was now inevitable.
"That you used to be good, really good, internationally renowned good," Nia answered.
"Haven't played in ages. Doubt that," Kara tried to evade a direct answer.
"Was it because of…" Nia elbowed her left arm, like she was joking.
"Shhh," she suddenly snapped, "it's starting."
And indeed, the lights turned off. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 2018 National City International Piano Competition. Please make sure that your phones are all switched off or turned to silent. No photography or recording is allowed, except for permitted members of the press. Thank you. Our first contestant is…"
And the spotlight shone on a young man in a dark suit walking up the steps to the piano.
A/N: Anyway brief history of my version of Krypton used in this story: It used to be a peaceful country with a rich culture and scientific community, until General Zod led a coup which evolved into the Kryptonian Civil War. That happened around a decade ago. Many Kryptonian refugees fled to other parts of the world during the war.