CHAPTER 7: THE UNINVITED GUEST (AND HIS COFFEE)
The D.E.O. was definitely sniffing around. I could feel their digital tendrils reaching out, probing the city's data streams for anomalies. They were looking for "the Glitch." They were looking for me. And frankly, I was flattered. It was like getting a personal invitation to the world's most exclusive, paranoid hide-and-seek game.
"Amateurs," I scoffed internally, watching a grainy news report about a D.E.O. stakeout that went nowhere fast. "You think a couple of glorified G-men in tactical vests can track down a Fifth Dimension anomaly? Honey, please. I could hide a supernova in a teacup and you'd still be looking for the sugar." My ability to manipulate sensory input, even subtly, made it child's play to evade their initial, clumsy attempts at surveillance. A flicker in a security camera, a momentary loss of signal on a comm line, a faint, inexplicable smell of freshly baked cookies in an abandoned warehouse. Just enough to confuse, never enough to confirm.
The time for indirect assistance was slowly giving way to the need for a more… personal touch. My "Primary Anchor" marker for Kara was a constant, almost physical pull. I needed to see her, to interact with her, to begin to solidify that connection beyond mere observation and subtle intervention. But how do you "accidentally" run into a superhero without seeming like a complete lunatic?
"Right. CatCo," I thought, tapping my fingers on the armrest of my ridiculously plush armchair. "Her natural habitat. Like a majestic, caffeine-fueled gazelle in its concrete jungle. And what does a majestic gazelle need? Coffee. Very specific, very meaningful coffee."
My plan solidified. It was audacious. It was probably insane. It was perfectly me.
The next morning, I dressed with an almost theatrical flair. Not a suit, not sweats. Something in between. Expensive, but deliberately casual. Like I'd just rolled out of bed after a particularly philosophical dream. I made sure my hair was artfully disheveled, and applied just the right amount of cynical world-weariness to my expression. "Alright, Adam," I told my reflection, which still felt like a stranger's face looking back. "Time to turn on the charm. Or at least, the bewildered, slightly-too-sarcastic-for-a-Tuesday charm."
I arrived at CatCo, a gleaming monument to modern media, and somehow bypassed security with a polite nod and a perfectly executed, low-level Sensory Illusion that made the guard think he'd seen me before, probably at some charity gala. "Always remember, people see what they expect to see," I mentally lectured myself. "And no one expects a cosmic reality-bender to be trying to sneak into an office building for coffee."
The office floor was a buzzing hive of activity. Interns scurried, phones rang, and the pervasive scent of burnt sugar and desperation hung in the air. My gaze immediately found her. Kara Danvers. Sitting at her desk, looking exactly like the earnest, slightly flustered assistant I knew she was. She was scribbling notes, a look of focused intensity on her face that made me grin. "Yep. Still the beacon of hope. Even when she's just organizing Cat Grant's expense reports."
My heart did a strange little flutter. It wasn't just the meta-knowledge. It was her. The way her brow furrowed in concentration, the genuine warmth in her smile when she talked to an intern. My anchor. A very real, very human anchor.
I spotted the coffee station. My target. The grand stage for my subtle debut.
I approached, feigning a casual air, like I was just a lost soul looking for the vending machine. I scanned the coffee options, pretending to be deeply contemplative. Then, with a subtle shift in my internal energy, a focused whisper of intent, I activated my Sensory Illusion.
[SKILL: SENSORY ILLUSION (LVL 3). APPLICATION: OLFACTORY AND GUSTATORY PROJECTION. FOCUS: KRYPTONIAN SUN TEA.]
I pictured the taste, the smell. Not just a generic tea. The Kryptonian Sun Tea. The warm, subtle sweetness. The faint hint of exotic spices. The way it felt going down, like liquid sunshine. It was a taste Kara hadn't experienced since she was a child, something buried deep in her subconscious. Something only I would know to replicate.
Kara, seemingly oblivious, walked over to the coffee station, looking utterly exhausted. She poured herself a cup of the standard, bland office brew. She took a sip. Her eyes widened. She paused, took another, more deliberate sip. A look of profound confusion, followed by a flicker of something almost like wonder, crossed her face.
"What...?" she murmured, looking at the cup, then at the coffee machine, then back at the cup. Her brow furrowed again, but this time, it was with genuine bewilderment. "It… it tastes like… home."
"Gotcha," I thought, a surge of triumph going through me. "Phase one: confusion and nostalgia. Complete."
This was my cue. I turned, pretending to just notice her, a practiced look of casual indifference on my face. "Everything alright there, sunshine?" I asked, my voice a carefully modulated blend of curiosity and gentle mockery. "You look like you've just discovered coffee actually tastes like... well, something other than liquid regret."
Kara startled, almost spilling her magically enhanced coffee. She looked at me, her eyes, usually so open and kind, narrowing slightly with suspicion. "Who... are you?"
"Me?" I offered a slight, self-deprecating shrug. "Just a guy. Adam Stiels. Heir to an inexplicably large and dusty mansion, and a connoisseur of fine, mysteriously-flavored beverages. And you, I presume, are the reason Cat Grant's coffee occasionally tastes like existential dread and lavender?"
She blinked, then a faint smile, uncertain at first, started to play on her lips. "I… I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, I think you do," I said, leaning closer conspiratorially, my voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "Let's just say, the universe has a strange sense of humor. And occasionally, a bizarre preference for periwinkle. Now, about that coffee. It smells… familiar. Like, really familiar. Like a taste of home. Is that the new CatCo artisanal blend? Because if so, I might finally be able to ditch my personal blend of sarcasm and caffeine."
She looked at her coffee cup again, a genuine, albeit confused, smile now gracing her face. "It's… it's just coffee." But her voice lacked conviction.
"Is it?" I challenged, raising an eyebrow. "Or is it... more? The universe, Miss Danvers, is full of wonderful, inexplicable things. Like why socks disappear in the dryer, or how some people actually enjoy reality television. Or, for example, how a completely ordinary cup of coffee might suddenly transport you back to a place you thought you'd never see again." I held her gaze, letting the implication hang in the air. Not too much, just enough to sow the seed of cosmic weirdness.
She chewed on her lip, a tell-tale sign of her internal processing. "You're... weird."
"Thank you," I replied, a small bow of my head. "I aim for 'charming eccentricity,' but 'weird' is a perfectly acceptable starting point. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I hear the faint, ethereal song of a perfectly made latte calling my name. Probably from a dimension where things make more sense. Or at least, taste better."
I turned, leaving her standing there, still holding her cup of impossibly familiar coffee, a mixture of bewilderment and a nascent, curious amusement on her face. "First contact, complete," I thought, a triumphant grin spreading across my face as I walked away. "And no one spontaneously combusted. Success!"