CHAPTER 4: WHISPERS OF RED AND BLUE
The world, for all its undeniable strangeness, was beginning to feel… normal-ish. Or at least, my new normal. I had established a routine: wake up, spend hours trying to make a spoon float while simultaneously making it smell like strawberries (still working on that one), manage my ever-growing financial empire from the safety of my mansion, and monitor the news for any signs of… well, of her.
Kara Danvers. My Primary Anchor.
The System, ever since that first flash, had maintained the subtle, almost imperceptible marker on my HUD, a faint arrow always pointing in her general direction. It was like a compass, but instead of north, it pointed to destiny. Or, at least, to the blonde Kryptonian who was apparently the gravitational center of my entire cosmic existence.
"Alright, Kara," I'd muse, staring at the invisible arrow while pretending to read a particularly dense economic report. "You're out there, doing your thing, probably saving cats from trees or wrestling giant alien squid. And here I am, honing my ability to make paperclips dance. The glamor of it all is truly overwhelming."
My humor, my sarcastic wit, was becoming sharper, a finely tuned instrument. It was a shield against the heavy truth of my new reality, and a coping mechanism for the lingering grief. It was also, I suspected, an inherent part of my Fifth Dimension bloodline, a chaotic spark that delighted in absurdity and disruption.
I was getting better with my powers. Minor Telekinesis was now at Level 3, allowing me to lift objects up to 150 kg with a reasonable amount of effort. I could lift a small couch now, though not gracefully. Sensory Illusion was at Level 2, and I could create surprisingly convincing visual or auditory illusions, but not both simultaneously yet. The dust bunnies now sometimes looked like actual, if somewhat ethereal, cats. Progress! Pocket Storage was practically second nature, maxed out at Level 10, allowing me to store a volume equivalent to a small apartment. Great for emergency supplies. Or, you know, an entire bakery.
The news was always on in the mansion, a low murmur of current events. I wasn't just listening for Kara, though. I was listening for anything. Any whispers of strange occurrences, of unexplained phenomena, of anything that hinted at the comic book world bleeding into my new reality. The world was still blissfully unaware of aliens, metahumans, and interdimensional travel. For now.
One Tuesday evening, I was in the library, trying to make an ancient quill write its own autobiography, when the news report changed. The reporter, a harried-looking woman with perfectly sprayed hair, looked genuinely flustered.
"...And in breaking news, a passenger plane, Flight 237, experienced catastrophic engine failure mid-air over National City moments ago. Witnesses reported strange atmospheric disturbances just prior to the incident. Authorities are on the scene, but early reports indicate—"
My heart slammed against my ribs. Flight 237. It was like a switch flipped in my meta-knowledge brain. I knew this. I knew this scene. This was it. The start of everything.
My eyes darted to the System HUD. The "Primary Anchor Detected" marker, which had been a faint, almost subliminal presence, suddenly flared, pulsing brightly, growing larger. The arrow, sharp and insistent, pointed directly towards the sky, towards the coordinates of the falling plane.
[PROXIMITY ALERT: PRIMARY ANCHOR DETECTED. IMMEDIATE THREAT LEVEL: CATASTROPHIC.]
"No. No, no, no," I breathed, my carefully constructed calm shattering like that water glass. This wasn't a subtle manipulation, a quiet investment. This was the opening act. The very public debut.
I scrambled to the window, throwing open the heavy velvet curtains. Outside, the city lights blurred, but above them, high in the inky blackness, I could see it. A faint sparkle, a rapidly descending star, plummeting towards the city. The plane.
My hands clenched into fists, the fragile control I'd cultivated over the past months threatening to unravel. The raw power within me surged, a chaotic tempest. I could feel the grief, the fear, the desperation of thousands of innocent lives. It was overwhelming.
[EMOTIONAL OVERLOAD. POWER OUTPUT UNSTABLE. DE-ESCALATION RECOMMENDED.]
Shut up, you emotionless algorithm!
My gaze was fixed on the falling plane, then on the System's flashing anchor alert. Kara. She was out there. She had to be. This was her origin, her moment.
And then, a blur. A streak of red and blue, impossibly fast, impossibly bright, shot across the night sky, intercepting the falling behemoth. I leaned closer to the window, my face pressed against the cool glass, my breath fogging the pane.
It was her. Supergirl. Catching the plane, her silhouette a beacon of hope against the city lights. My anchor. The girl who was supposed to tether me to reality.
And she was real. Not a character on a screen, but a flesh-and-blood Kryptonian, soaring through the night. The sight of her, so effortlessly powerful, so undeniably good, sent a strange mix of relief and terror through me. Relief that she was here, that the timeline was holding. Terror at the immense responsibility that knowledge now placed on my shoulders.
I watched, mesmerized, as she guided the plane to a safe landing on a distant runway, the cheers of the grateful passengers echoing faintly even through the television. A wave of exhaustion washed over me, the emotional and mental strain of the past months, coupled with the sudden surge of power, taking its toll.
I sank to the floor, my back against the cold wall, staring up at the empty sky. The System's alert had faded, the marker for Kara returning to its previous, calmer state.
"Oh, hell no," I whispered again, but this time, there was a different inflection. Less dread, more… an almost manic excitement. A flicker of the mischief, the playful chaos, that was a core part of my inherited persona. My lips curved into a small, almost imperceptible grin.
"This is going to be fun."