Chapter 24: PATTERN OF PROOF
[National City, Various Locations — November 2016, Weeks 1-2]
The bank robbery happened on a Tuesday.
Kara engaged the alien perpetrator—a Valerian with density-shifting abilities who'd been using his powers to walk through vault walls. I stayed outside, coordinating the hostage evacuation while explosions of compressed air marked their combat inside.
Twelve hostages. Frightened bank employees and customers who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. I guided them out through the rear exit, maintained calm, made sure no one wandered back toward the danger.
The Valerian went down after seven minutes. No casualties. Kara emerged from the front entrance, dust coating her cape.
"Everyone out?" she asked.
"Clear. No injuries."
She nodded once and flew off to deliver the perpetrator to DEO custody. No conversation, no acknowledgment beyond the essential. But no criticism either.
---
The warehouse raid happened the following weekend.
Intelligence suggested a weapons-dealing operation running out of an abandoned manufacturing plant. Kara and the tactical team breached the front; I covered the rear exit in case anyone tried to flee.
Someone did.
Two humanoid figures burst through the back door—aliens I didn't recognize, scaled skin and too many arms. They saw me blocking their escape route. One reached for a weapon.
My instincts screamed to engage. Take them down before they could fire. End the threat with superior speed and strength.
I held position. Raised my hands to show I was blocking, not attacking.
"DEO," I announced. "Drop the weapon. You're surrounded."
They hesitated. Long enough for Alex's team to come through the door behind them. The threat ended without additional violence.
Afterward, Alex found me near the perimeter.
"They could have shot you," she said. "Standing there with your hands up."
"They didn't."
"If they had?"
"Then I would have defended myself." I met her gaze. "But engaging first would have escalated. Created crossfire with your team coming through behind them. Holding position was the tactically sound choice."
Alex was quiet for a moment. Then: "You're learning."
"Trying to."
---
The highway chase happened mid-week.
An alien vehicle—some kind of modified transport—racing through traffic with Kara in pursuit. I was airborne behind her, my flight still shakier than hers but functional enough for pursuit speeds.
The transport clipped an overpass support. Concrete began to fall toward the cars below.
I dove.
The TK field expanded as I threw myself between the debris and a minivan full of children. I caught the largest chunks, deflected them away from the civilians, absorbed impacts that would have crushed steel.
The minivan's driver swerved onto the shoulder, trembling but unharmed. I landed beside them long enough to confirm no injuries, then launched back into the air.
Kara had the transport pinned against a barrier by the time I caught up.
"The debris," she said without looking at me.
"Handled. No casualties."
"Good." She hauled the transport's driver out through a broken window. "Take him to the DEO transport. I'll finish securing the vehicle."
I obeyed. No argument, no attempt to take a more active role. Just execution of assigned tasks.
---
The alien bar was called M'gann's, named after its Martian owner who had some complicated history with J'onn that no one would explain. It catered to Earth's alien population—refugees, immigrants, beings who needed a place where they could be themselves without fear.
J'onn arranged my employment there as part of my cover identity integration. Mike Matthews, human bartender. A paper trail, a civilian life, something to anchor me to Earth in ways that the DEO alone couldn't provide.
My first shift was a disaster.
"You're holding the shaker wrong," M'gann said, watching me spray synthetic alcohol across the bar for the third time. "Wrist rotates, not the whole arm."
"On Daxam, servants handled drinks."
"You're not on Daxam. You're in my bar, and my customers expect not to wear their orders." She took the shaker from me, demonstrated the proper technique. "Rotate. Seal tight. Count to fifteen. Pour."
I tried again. Less spillage this time, though the resulting drink looked nothing like the picture on the menu.
A regular—some kind of amphibian species with translucent skin—laughed at my efforts. "New guy's hopeless."
"He's learning," M'gann said. "We all start somewhere."
I practiced until midnight. Then past midnight. The motions were simple in theory—pour, measure, shake, serve—but the precision required conflicted with hands calibrated for combat rather than cocktails.
By 2 AM, I could make a passable Aldebaran Whiskey Sour. Not good, but passable.
"Progress," M'gann observed, closing out the register. "Come back tomorrow. Same time."
The bar became routine. Three shifts a week, evenings when mission schedules permitted. The regulars learned my name—or at least my cover name. Shared stories about their home worlds, their journeys to Earth, their hopes and fears and small triumphs.
I listened. Learned names and preferences and histories. Remembered that the Thorian in the corner booth always wanted his drink with extra sweetener because his species processed bitter flavors as toxic warnings. That the Roltikkon couple came in every Thursday for date night and always ordered the same thing. That the old Saturnian who never spoke to anyone would occasionally slip me poems written in his native language, beautiful even in translation.
The bar grounded me in ways I hadn't expected. These weren't superheroes or government agents—they were ordinary aliens trying to build lives on a strange planet. Not so different from me, really.
---
Two weeks of missions. Two weeks of following orders, staying in my lane, executing assigned tasks with precision. My flight had improved from wobbly to reliable. My combat reflexes continued sharpening through each engagement. The TK field now responded consistently, extending to protect whatever I touched.
Alex noticed the changes during a routine assessment.
"Your baseline metrics have shifted significantly," she said, reviewing data on her tablet. "Strength output is twelve percent higher than initial testing. Reaction time has improved by nearly twenty percent. And your energy efficiency—you're getting more power from less solar absorption."
"The adaptation is still active."
"Apparently." She looked up from the data. "You're not the same person you were a month ago. Physiologically or otherwise."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation." She set down the tablet. "For what it's worth, your mission performance has been exemplary. J'onn's noticed. The tactical teams have noticed. You're building a reputation for reliability."
"That's the goal."
"Is it?" Alex's gaze was sharp, assessing. "Because when you first arrived, I would have said your goal was to prove yourself through dramatic gestures. Save the day, win the glory. The fire rescue fit that pattern."
"It also fit the pattern of saving people who were going to die."
"True. But the missions since then—the bank, the warehouse, the highway—those weren't dramatic. They were disciplined. Controlled." She tilted her head. "What changed?"
I thought about the question. About Kara's demand that I figure out who I was. About J'onn's conditional support. About the little girl's rock, still in my pocket, a reminder of trust given freely.
"I realized dramatic gestures don't matter if no one trusts you," I said finally. "Consistency matters more than spectacle. Being reliable matters more than being impressive."
"That's... surprisingly mature."
"I have my moments."
Alex almost smiled—the same not-quite-expression I'd seen after the first mission. "Keep having them. You're close to something."
"Close to what?"
"Trust. Real trust, not just probationary tolerance." She picked up her tablet again. "Don't screw it up."
---
The night Kara came to the bar, I was practicing my pour technique on a slow shift. M'gann had shown me a new method that morning—something about the angle of the bottle affecting the foam ratio in certain carbonated beverages.
"Interesting place."
I looked up. Kara stood in the doorway, civilian clothes, no Supergirl regalia. She'd never visited before—the bar was my space, separate from DEO operations.
"Can I get you something?"
"Just watching." She moved to an empty stool at the bar, studied the alien patrons around her. "M'gann's. I've heard of it. Safe haven for off-world refugees."
"That's the idea." I finished the drink I was practicing, set it aside. "You didn't come for the atmosphere."
"No." She was quiet for a moment. "I've been watching your mission reports. The debriefs. The assessments."
"And?"
"You're actually trying." The words came out slowly, like she was testing them. "Not performing. Not trying to impress anyone. Just... doing the work."
"That's what you asked for."
"I know." She met my eyes. "I didn't expect you to actually listen."
The admission hung in the air between us. Not quite an apology, not quite forgiveness—something more complicated. Acknowledgment of change, however tentative.
"The old me wouldn't have," I said. "The prince who lied his way onto Earth, who thought charm could solve everything. He wouldn't have listened."
"And the new you?"
"Still figuring it out." I picked up a glass, started polishing it—a nervous habit I'd developed during slow shifts. "But trying to be someone worth trusting. Even if it takes longer than I'd like."
Kara was quiet for a long moment. The bar's ambient noise filled the silence—alien languages, clinking glasses, M'gann's music system playing something from an Orion colony.
"Two weeks," she said finally. "Consistent performance. No unauthorized actions. No dramatic gestures."
"That's the pattern."
"Patterns can be broken."
"They can also be maintained." I set down the glass. "I'm not asking you to trust me, Kara. Not yet. But I'm asking you to keep watching. Let the pattern speak for itself."
She studied me for another moment. Then she stood, reaching for her jacket.
"Same time next week," she said. "I'll stop by again. See how the pattern holds."
It wasn't forgiveness. Wasn't trust.
But it was something.
She left without ordering anything, the door closing softly behind her. I watched her go, then turned back to the bar, to the glasses waiting to be polished, to the regulars nursing their drinks.
The paper crane was still in my pocket. The child's rock too. Small weights, small reminders.
Tomorrow would bring more missions. More chances to prove consistency. More inches earned toward trust.
One pattern at a time.
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