Current Day
They don't talk.
Not after the whispered "thank you" Lena offers when she slides into the passenger seat of Maggie's squad car, the leather cool against her back. Lodged between the side panel and the tower of gear encroaching from the center console, she feels small, her limbs folded in upon themselves in understated efficiency, her chin dropped quietly to her chest.
To be honest, even if she had just climbed into a limousine, awash in a sea of empty space and luxurious comfort, she suspects her posture would be no different than it is now. Perhaps it's hardwired into the human genome, this instinct to become compact, to condense when faced with the prospect of trauma. Any good boxer knows the routine - head lowered, arms tucked tightly to the center to protect the organs, shoulders rounded and guard up, always prepared to deflect incoming blows. Or soldiers, in the way they crouch in a gunfight, make themselves a smaller target, harder for their enemies to hit.
Cocooned in the overcrowded front seat of an NCPD cruiser, her body cradled in cheap leather, she can feel herself taking up a defensive stance, making herself small, a desperate attempt to protect her vital organs from the rain of blows falling from the sky tonight. Preparing for the worst.
She sits, looking...nowhere, her knuckles white where she holds her phone in a vice grip in her lap.
As the overhead light fades, the interior sinks into imperfect darkness, the only light the soft glow of the in-dash console. Their faces glow in the cool blue corona, but with each inch further the blue deepens to midnight, dark and unknowable.
She can feel Maggie's eyes on her, studying, analyzing.
Lena can only imagine what she must see - the dried tracks marring her cheeks, the spot of blood bruised and bright on her lip where she bit too hard. The way she recedes into the shadows to cover how much her body trembles.
The detective's gaze is intense, and in spite of the darkness she feels like she's been laid bare on an examining table beneath scores of lights, hot and blinding, her body stripped, ready to be studied and catalogued and scrutinized by untold numbers.
She hates it.
She wears vulnerability with the discomfort of a new pair of shoes. It pinches, bites into her skin, tears at her flesh and leaves her blistered and aching. Only a few people have ever seen beneath the veneer, beneath the carefully constructed and maintained persona. That she's allowed herself to be so transparent now grates under her skin like sandpaper, and she finds herself squirming and cursing under the continued examination.
After a long moment, however, when Lena finally looks up into Maggie's face, turned towards her and bathed in crystalline blue, the eyes that meet hers are warm and sympathetic in a way she hadn't expected, in a way her life hasn't prepared her to be. The detective's lips pull into a melancholy half grin, the corners of her eyes crinkling slightly with the movement, and with an understanding nod of the head, Maggie throws the car into reverse, executing a three point turn with practiced ease in the middle of Parker St., turning them away from the park, away from the sea of red taillights still idling angrily a block behind them.
The movement is comforting, and the vice around her heart eases its grip ever so slightly.
She's not sure why Maggie doesn't flip on her siren, if it's a policy decision or a personal one. Whatever the reason, she's grateful. Here so close to the crash site - she shudders when the phrase crosses her mind so offhandedly - the shrill siren song echoes endlessly off the buildings, growing in number and volume until the air practically vibrates at its frenzied pitch. It's inescapable.
Each cry is a needle burrowing under her skin, boring into her veins and scratching its way through her limbs until it punctures her heart with piercing finality.
Each scream leaves her weak and dizzy, the pain in her chest sharpening, her heart flayed a thousand times over.
But it's not as if Maggie needs sirens to get around traffic. The flow headed away from the scene is light in the early evening hours, and Maggie whips the squad car around the stragglers without hesitation, not even remotely bothered by the numbers flashing on her speedometer.
There are a few moments, early on, when Lena catches movement out of the corner of her eye, feels that studied glance on her face again, bright like a spotlight. She shifts uncomfortably, and in her periphery Maggie opens her mouth as if to speak, only to close it again after a second.
Instead of breaking their unspoken agreement, instead of asking one of the dozens of questions sitting precariously on the tip of her tongue, Maggie remains silent, her leg stiffening slightly in the driver's seat. The engine growls threateningly, and Lena falls further into the cool leather at her back as Maggie's feet fall heavy on the pedal.
They don't talk.
But the car is filled with voices all the same. As the sirens fade to nothing with each mile behind them, the constant babble of the police band radio mounted into the center console becomes more apparent, an unending stream of squawks and police codes, barked out in such rapid succession it may as well be an alien language. There's talk of clean-up, talk of crowd control. Reports of a drunk driver northbound on Taylor in a silver Impala; the accompanying response of a patrol unit en route.
It washes over her like white noise. The sounds reach her ears, vibrate relentlessly against her eardrums, but the signal is interrupted on the other side, the call dropped. She hears, but she doesn't listen.
Watching the dizzying scenery outside, the darkened businesses, the blaring neon of fast food joints, the sophisticated ambience of upscale restaurants, all of it combines into a sickening mix of dark and light, dead and alive, and Lena finds her eyes closing in response, her head leaned against the window, the hum of the road and the occasional soft static of the radio soothing her frayed nerves.
When their speed begins to drop and the car turns, then turns again, Lena stirs to find Maggie directing them through a warren of one-way streets. We must be close. Eyeing a street sign as they pass through another intersection, she feels a laugh, acidic and humorless bubbling up in her throat, and she bites her lip once more to keep it in check.
As it turns out, their destination is only five miles from L-Corp.
An hour wasted frantically running from one end of town to another only to find that Kara was here all along.
Five fucking miles.
"Here we are," Maggie says quietly, nodding her head toward the towering building outside Lena's window, a hint of tension in her voice that was absent before.
The place is nothing to look at, all glass and steel and utterly invisible, another in National City's long line of unimaginative skyscrapers. Lena's sure she's driven by here dozens of times, never sparing the building a second glance.
Continuing past the front, they drive another couple hundred yards further until the sidewalk opens up, and Maggie turns the squad car down a narrow drive angling steeply downward, the route turning once more until dead-ending at a security checkpoint beneath the building. Unlike most underground parking lots, in addition to the standard electronic arm to block the way, the entrance to this one is guarded by two men, automatic weapons hung loosely by their sides.
A line of spikes, teeth gleaming and hungry and waiting, dots the pavement ahead, a promise of danger.
Rolling down her window, Maggie hands her NCPD badge to the closest guard along with another Lena doesn't recognize, the movements easy and familiar, as if she's done this hundreds of times. Lena's eyes track the second guard as he crosses in front of the car, his movements casual, his rifle held loosely against his chest. But the ease is too practiced, too studied.
It's a feint.
When he comes to a halt a few feet from the passenger door, his torso is in her line of sight, and glancing over, she sees his finger placed deliberately to the side of the trigger, tapping out an unhurried rhythm against the trigger guard.
Waiting. Watching. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. It's almost hypnotic.
She doesn't hear her name being called, doesn't hear the squeak of boots or rustle of fabric as the first guard bends to the driver's window, addresses her again.
She doesn't hear anything.
Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.
When a hand touches her arm tentatively, fingers cool against her skin, she startles, and looking back, she finds two sets of eyes fastened on hers, expectant.
"He needs your ID."
"Oh, I…" Her eyes drop automatically, searching for her purse. Only it's not there. Dread fills her belly like lead. Her purse is in her office, forgotten in her haste.
With a thick swallow, she says, "I...I don't have my ID on me." A vein of panic pounds in her head, and she continues, "I'm...I'm Lena Luthor."
"I know who you are, ma'am." His voice is toneless, robotic. He looks at Detective Sawyer, jaws clenching and releasing in quick succession as if chewing on something tough, as if weighing a choice he'd rather not have to make. Looking between the two of them once more, the lauded NCPD Detective and the woman with 'The Name," he nods curtly, a decision made. Both men step back from the vehicle, and the first reaches around to his desk, pushes a button.
She expects sirens. Expects a swarm of officers, guns at the ready. Her mind spirals uncontrollably at the possibilities, and her heart beats wildly.
Instead, a mechanical hum sounds, and the arm blocking their path retracts, the spikes disappearing into the floor to wait for their next meal. Their way is open.
She stares, lips parted, her breath burning sharply in her lungs.
Maggie wastes no time. Her foot hits the gas heavily, and the resulting growl echoes menacingly in the concrete confines of the parking garage. The car prowls forward, sleek and formidable, and after circling the lot, they pull into a spot on the far end, nestled amidst a veritable pack of identical vehicles, all black and tinted and easily identifiable at a mile away as being government issued.
Overhead the sodium arc lights hum softly, dotting the darkened floor with rings of amber. Lena's heels crack like lightning as they cross to the elevator, bathed in yellow one moment, doused in shadow the next, a storm playing out across her features. At the elevator, Maggie waves her pass once more, and the doors slide open without argument.
Still, they don't talk.
The elevator rises silently into the building, their progress marked only by the numbers flashing in green above the doors. Lena stands stock-still next to Maggie, uncomfortable in the overly bright lights of the cramped car, unable to tear her gaze away from the flat metallic door in front of her, from the dull reflection staring back at her.
This...not Lena is blurred, her edges indistinct, distorted in a way she's never been allowed, and for a moment she forgets they're separate, loses the line between them. She imagines the not Lena is her, all splintered chaos and porcelain fog, and the one standing in the too-bright lights of the elevator in immaculate Saint Laurent heels and with her carefully composed face is actually her dull reflection, a shade.
The Lenas blink in unison.
When the doors slide open, she stares into the cool brown eyes of another guard, as uniform of build and dress as the vehicles in the garage below. Another carbon copy, a gun slung comfortably around his neck, his finger resting against the trigger guard in a disturbing deja vu that leaves Lena off-kilter.
"Detective. Ma'am. You'll need to wait here." His eyes slide to Lena before moving away. "This one doesn't have clearance. An agent will be down to escort you shortly."
"Are you serious right now?" Maggie huffs incredulously, her hands moving to her hips, her face screwed up in a grimace.
"An agent will be down to escort you shortly," the guard repeats, turning away just in time to miss the detective's exaggerated eye roll.
And so they both stand, sullen, arms crossed, mirroring each other.
It's unclear how much time passes. Could be two minutes, could be two hours. Since crossing onto the property everything has felt surreal, like the rules have been suspended, the laws of time and space deemed immaterial. A liminal space camouflaged with fluorescent lighting and tile floors.
The guard looks at her askance, standing at rest nearby. The air fills with the clicks and clatters of a keyboard, the noise filtering out from a nearby office.
Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.
Rinse. Repeat.
"Agent Schott." Lena's head whips up at the name. Winn staggers toward them, his eyes wild, his steps uneven.
He doesn't hold their gazes. He dodges the questions in their eyes, ignores the words on their tongues.
"I'll vouch for her. What do I need to sign?"
The great governmental machine lurches slowly forward at the words, bureaucracy resurrected at the promise of paperwork. A form slides beneath her eyes, and she puts pen to paper in a flurry of movement faster than she thought herself capable. And then another. And another. God help her she has no idea what she's signing. They could slide anything in front of her right now, and she'd sign it as long as Kara was on the other end.
A flash, white and blinding - they take her photograph, and in a matter of seconds, she has a warm plastic badge slung around her neck. She doesn't look. It doesn't matter, the woman in the picture isn't her.
When the formalities are complete, the three of them clear the security checkpoint and enter another elevator at the far end of the main lobby, one that Winn activates with his own keycard.
"Thank you," she squeaks, turning to him. Clearing her throat, she tries again, willing the nerves to settle, willing her voice to cooperate. "For vouching for me. Thank you."
He nods, and when he looks up, she notes the redness in his eyes, the scratchiness in his voice as he responds, "She trusts you. Which means I do, too." He looks away again, blinks rapidly. His shoulders sink, and she finds she can't stand to watch him fold in upon himself.
The elevator doors open to a wall of glass, an emblem as large as a man etched onto its face with the words "The Department of Extra-normal Operations" circling around it in military precision.
"Welcome to the DEO," Winn mutters, the words souring in the heavy air between them, the greeting turned eulogy in the space of a few feet.
The corridors he leads them down are labyrinthine, lefts and rights and lefts again, a disorienting combination that leaves Lena feeling once more that she's stepped into a world where the laws of nature are held in suspense.
The further they go, the dizzier she becomes, her breath held burning in her lungs. The mask she wears so firmly in place is cracked, its fissures spreading to the rest of her body. She can feel the fractures like cuts along her limbs, the spiderwebs radiating over her ribs. With each step, her heart hammers harder in her chest, and she rattles at the seams, a million pieces threatening to shatter. She keeps her breaths shallow, keeps her energy focused on staying whole.
It's the only way she'll survive.
Every once in awhile Maggie turns to her, as if to check in and make sure she's still standing. Her eyes are sympathetic and warm, Lena's false bravado transparent. Even Winn, with his haunted red eyes and stuttering step, looks at her as if she's made of porcelain, as if he sees the cracks.
She wants to scream, wants to ball her hands into fists and let loose the wild things with claws lurking in her lungs.
But she doesn't, afraid her voice will shatter her tenuous hold.
Instead, she carries herself tall as if her spine is solid steel. She pulls her shoulders back and pushes her chin into the air.
Her eyes are dry.
The group rounds another corner, identical to the last in every way except one - this one holds Alex Danvers, who stands outside a doorway talking animatedly with a man. He turns, and Lena feels the flash of recognition, bright and blinding. He was there alongside Supergirl the night her mother was arrested. And although Supergirl explained it once upon a time, a bolt of fear snakes through her remembering the man who wears this face alongside a metal one, the man who attacked her that same night at L-Corp.
Her steps falter, once, twice, but she swallows tightly and pulls her chin higher, regaining her rhythm and continuing forward.
She can pinpoint the moment Alex sees Maggie, though. The woman's eyes are frenzied, wild as she speaks with the director, but when they find Maggie, they blink lazily, relax noticeably. The agent's entire posture sinks and calms as she moves to close the distance between them wordlessly.
Lena can pinpoint, too, the moment Alex sees her as well, when her presence, her identity pierces the fog clouding the agent's vision, and alarm registers shrill and insistent across her face. "Maggie, she can't be here!"
"She already knew, Danvers," Maggie responds, her hands held out to placate as Alex reaches their group.
"What-"
"I don't know how many times I have to tell you, they're just glasses," she sighs, but Alex ignores the response.
"There's protocol, Maggie! And Kar-"
"Alex," Maggie says, cutting her off with a voice that brooks no argument. Alex stops, her eyes settling, and Maggie strokes a hand down her girlfriend's cheek, soft and soothing. "You're not the only one who loves her."
Lena doesn't breathe. Doesn't dare.
Leaning into Maggie's palm against her cheek, Alex turns her eyes on Lena, stares with a silent intensity, and she feels the fissures along her limbs jostle against one another, their jagged edges ripping and tearing. And yet she stands tall, stands still, returns the stare with a confidence she doesn't feel.
The director lingers in the doorway ahead, and to her side, Winn tries to subtly wipe the moisture from his eyes.
And still, she doesn't breathe.
Without turning her head, without breaking eye contact, Alex raises her voice, "Hey, Jackson!"
"Yes, ma'am?" A young agent emerges from a nearby room, alert and awaiting orders.
"Could you get me a non-disclosure agreement and the paperwork for a permanent pass, please?"
"Of course, ma'am."
Maggie pulls Alex's attention back to her, pulls her down and wraps her in an embrace, and Alex sinks into it, her eyes closing heavily, her shoulders shaking with long shuddering breaths, momentarily relieved of the weight of the world. It's a private moment, and Lena looks away, unwilling to intrude.
A breath, deep and audible, and Alex untangles herself, steps closer to Lena.
She notices Maggie and Alex's fingers are still intertwined, and Alex's knuckles are white, her grip firm where she holds onto her girlfriend like an anchor, desperate for calm in a stormy sea.
"So, Ms. Luthor-"
"Lena. Please. Just...just Lena."
A quick nod. "Lena. Are you sure you want to...to see? It's…"
Alex's words trail off with a shudder, and she's unable to complete the thought. Her eyes well with unshed tears.
That terrifies Lena most of all.
She nods her head and closes her eyes, takes a shuddering breath. Her lungs rattle as if a piece of her has broken off somewhere, and each breath labors and burns as it traces angry red lines inside.
Imagining herself walking into a hostile boardroom, she tries once more to take control, to hold her fragile shards together with nothing more than sheer will. What she wouldn't give to take up her armor once more, to feel the weight heavy against her shoulders, to feel the chain mail digging uncomfortably into her skin. Because this...vulnerability is a thousand fresh cuts open to the air, excruciating and unending, a torture she doesn't think she has the strength to endure.
With feigned bravado, she follows. Her chin trembles where she holds it high.
The director, J'onn, she hears someone say, leads them into the room as a group. Alex is first, followed immediately by Maggie, their hands joined tightly.
"Oh, Danvers…"
Winn follows next, and she enters the room at his back.
There's a whirr of motors, electronic beeps sounding with regularity, their steady noise eerily soothing in the close confines of the room. But they recede to nothing. Mere white noise. The room somehow manages to capture the antiseptic smell of a hospital, the cloying scent burning in her nostrils, making the bile rise unbidden in her throat.
Winn and Alex and Maggie shuffle to either side of the entrance, and her field of vision clears.
Kara.
Against the far wall on a table beneath an array of lamps, their lights bright yellow and blisteringly warm, Kara lies unmoving. Her suit is singed, charred, and there's blood...so much blood.
They've spread her hair out behind her head, but it's no longer golden, darkened as it is with soot, matted with blood.
Supergirl lies broken, as small as a bird perched alone there on the table.
The steel in Lena's spine snaps. Her scream catches like knives in her throat. The seams along her arms fracture and give way, while the mask perched precariously on her face splinters and crumbles.
She shatters, the pieces of her falling to the floor like dust.
She doesn't talk. She can't.
Kara lies lifeless before her, sparkling like an emerald in the light, terrible and beautiful.