shattered souls won't mend themselves (supercorp au)

convergence

//Kara POV//

I spent the first week in a routine. The first night I arrived, is the first night I established the rules for myself. Rule number one: don't sleep, it makes things harder. I spent the nights with a pad of paper and a pencil, the only luxury I allowed myself in this place. I spent the nights trying to get lost in my thoughts, but my brain always circled back to the same thing. Their voices. Their laughs. And I couldn't even hold on to those for very long. When it happened, I couldn't hear them. But when I reimagine it, the screams are as clear as if I were in the house with them.

Rule number two: don't ever forget. It's only been a week, I know. But I feel like one day, as the minutes tick on, my memories will fly away. I won't ever forget. I have one thing, one thing to hold on to. When it happened, nothing was salvageable. But I did have my backpack. I was always sentimental, carrying things that nobody else would give second thought to. I had a wallet. But not once did I ever carry money in this particular wallet (I had always carried money in my back pocket, poor decision making on my behalf at the time.) Now, I'm forever thankful to myself, because in this wallet, I possessed pictures. Pictures among pictures. A photo album, pocket sized, and for my eyes only. Nobody else really needed to know.

Rule number three: blend in with the system.

I ate the cardboard like meals that the home provided for us three times a day. I did my fair share of chores that the home required us to do. I played nice with the social workers and the caretakers, I acted like I was fine. Truthfully, I tried hard to pretend like I wasn't tired, like I wasn't scared to death of what was going to come after this (or what had happened prior to this). I felt selfish for feeling as sad as I did, because I knew that every single kid in this home had their own story. I felt selfish for thinking my story was the worst.

Blending in with the system meant that I stayed away from the social aspect of the home. None of the others really seemed to interest me anyways. I spent my days in my room, the walls devoid of any decoration, the atmosphere lacking anything that would have made it homely, fruitlessly sketching on my paper. My sketches were of the other kids. Ok, I lied slightly when I had said they held no interest to me. They didn't, but their past selves did. I liked to pick faces out of the crowd, usually ones that held no expression, and I created expression for them. I imagined their lives before here. I drew them an imaginary family. I made them become themselves again.

It was 2:37 p.m., and the girl I had my eyes on was expressionless (that is what I searched for, after all. Maybe that's why my eyes were involuntarily drawn to her.) Maybe I've overused the word, or maybe I've used it in the wrong context before, because I have never seen someone look so without emotion in my life. I continue to stare, but only because her eyes haven't met my eyes yet (I don't think anyways.) I give her a once over. Then a twice over, because I didn't understand. It's like she didn't acknowledge existence itself. I swear I felt some kind of aura radiating from her...pure, cold, strength. And then I know. She's my next story. The next person to make my own, to give meaning to in my book. Something about her...was simply gravitating.

And maybe it was her bright green eyes. Which I only realized were a thing because I had started taking steps towards her. Small, tentative steps (I hope I didn't look as broken, as pitiful, as I felt) and before I realized what my own feet were doing, her head snapped up and piercing, emerald eyes met my own sad blue eyes. I felt my eyes betray me (again), searching her face against my will.

And, shit, did she look pissed.

//Lena POV//

Another girl got adopted yesterday. Her name was Lucy. She was twelve. She had been in the home with us for about two years, one of the longest stays (other than mine, of course) in this damn foster home. I try really hard to be happy for her, because that's what our mentor says we should feel. But I can't, I only feel anger. Next to no one wants a girl older than thirteen. Absolutely no one wants a Luthor. I'm sixteen and I happen to be a Luthor, if only by name. So I've long since moved past the point of being jealous simply because I've long since moved past the point of having hope.

Hope. Dammit.

When I was eleven, a girl around my age was brought to the home. Her name was Hope. Her twin brother had just been murdered in front of her – by their drunken father. She didn't speak to anyone. She would barely even come out of her room. But when she did, she would shy away from everyone. Except me. I had distanced myself from all the other girls in the home the whole time I had been at the foster home, but I still interacted with them. But when I saw Hope and I saw a version of myself. So I approached her one day about a month after she came to the home and talked quietly to her, telling her it wasn't so bad here. I was lying when I said it to her, but when she smiled and whispered, "Thank you, Lena," I believed myself.

We became best friends. We snuck into each other's rooms (it reminded me of the good memories I had of Lex), sat together at the dinner table, and actually participated in group, always together. Hope had me believing in a bright future for six entire months.

But then the Palmers came along. They were the (a?)typical, benevolent millionaire type, always donating to good causes and showing up at humble charity events. They were interested in accepting Hope into their family. And they were perfectly good people. It would have been so much easier for me if I could despise them. But I couldn't.

Hope fought tooth and nail for them to adopt me along with her. I was outside the room while she was begging for them to at least consider it. But they said they were only looking for one girl, and they wanted Hope. I understood their reasoning, even as my world crumbled around me. I heard Hope ask them if it was because I was a Luthor. They said no. I only half believed them. The worst thing is, again, that I understood why they wanted Hope and not me. Hope was so charming and sweet, despite all she had been through. And she could love. I was raised by a boy-turned-psycho who was only five years older than me and the foster system. I didn't have the luxury of loving.

I told Hope this and she broke down in tears, hugging me and promising she would find a good family and convince them to come adopt me, and that she would write to me, and that she would never forget me. I told her it was okay, she didn't need to do that. She only cried harder and thanked me for saving her, for pulling her out of her depression. I just rubbed circles in her back, saying, "You're welcome," with silent tears rolling down my face.

Hope left the day after that. That's when I started building up walls around my heart. I didn't want that to happen to me again. The first law of war, I told myself.

I've had years of practice at this, and yet I still don't really know how to feel when a blonde shows up in the common room at the foster home, as broken-looking as Hope once did. I think I should feel sympathy. Probably empathy, but no one here's worthy of that knowledge. First law of war: build a barrier to keep others out. If you look strong and act strong, you will become strong, and I started building the second I stopped receiving letters from Hope (five years and three months ago). So I feel nothing. That is, until she starts walking towards me.

I can't really identify it. The feeling, I mean. Part of it, I'm sure, is anger. Certainly at her, for thinking I'd be of any comfort (In her eyes I can see that's what she's searching for). But even more of that anger is pointed at me, for appearing approachable in the first place, especially since I don't want a repeat of Hope (this girl looks young enough – or at least sweet enough – to be wanted). That's when I feel the regret and sadness, but I push them down. Is it sad that anger is the only emotion I can truly identify?

I can tell she thinks I haven't seen her yet. I can see it in the tentative steps she's taking towards me, in the way she keeps her head more or less lowered. She's trying to hide it, but she still looks utterly pitiful (this place has gotten me good at reading people).

I don't know how, but she's managed to get close to me. Like, actually close. As in, even in my peripheral vision, I can see her wounded blue eyes. I snap my head up, staring straight into a crystal sky. One that's ready to shatter. I can see her on the brink of something, but I'm clueless as to what. Good. Let's keep it that way. Since the age of eight, I've conditioned myself to be alone. Why change now?