Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The problem with Match is that he's gotten too good at pretending to be Thirteen.

Pretending to be Superboy.

The problem with that is that Match would rather be Superboy.

That Match would rather be Thirteen.

Those are technically different things, except for how they're not.

Match has never kissed anyone unless he was pretending to be Thirteen. Match has never been treated like a friend or an equal or someone desirable or interesting or entertaining except for by Thirteen’s friends. Match has never been treated kindly or softly or cared for or wanted except for when he was pretending to be Thirteen.

Except for by Thirteen himself, that is.

Thirteen didn't want to fight him, the first time they met.

Thirteen called them . . .

Match sits in the dirt outside a lab that he just burnt down to char and ashes and doesn't know what to do with himself now. He doesn't have any money or food or any other resources. His bodysuit is badly damaged and wouldn't pass for civilian wear even if it weren't. His head hurts. He might actually be bleeding a little, but who knows? He'd have to actually look to find out, and he doesn't care enough to bother.

Someone will come and take him to another lab soon, he knows. The Agenda won't let him go.

The Agenda will never let him go.

There's a plan again. They want him to be "Superboy" again. They had him dye his hair black and buzz it back into a fade and put in tinted contacts and he spent the morning being briefed on what to expect and where to go and what to do and . . . and . . .

And they told him that he needs to see Thirteen's friends again.

They told him that he needs to hurt Thirteen's friends again.

Match doesn't have friends. He never has. He never will.

Thirteen's friends didn't know that, when they thought he was Thirteen.

Match was lying to them the whole time he knew them, and they didn't even know that he wasn't who they all thought he was, but . . .

But.

Match has never kissed anyone unless he was pretending to be Thirteen.

Match has never . . .

He hears a heartbeat in the air, high overhead. He doesn't look towards it.

He recognizes it.

He doubts its owner would recognize his, though.

"Superboy?" Superman asks as he drifts down into Match's peripheral vision. "Are you alright, kid?"

Match thinks about lying. He sat through the briefing this morning, after all. He knows the Agenda's plan. He knows what he's supposed to do for his part in it.

"Superboy's in France," he says instead.

". . . what?" Superman says. Match doesn't look at him. Watches the lab burn down a little more in front of them, but nothing else.

"Superboy's in France," he repeats. "Outside Lyon, probably. That's where the new lab is."

"You're–ah," Superman realizes. "Match?"

"Yes." Match keeps watching the lab burn. He's honestly surprised Superman remembers his name. Or even remembers him at all.

Well, eidetic memory and all.

"If Superboy's in Lyon, then what happened here?" Superman asks, glancing towards the flames. Match thinks about lying again, but there's just not really a point.

"I did it," he says.

"Why?" Superman asks.

"They want me to kill Robin," Match says, and Superman . . . pauses. "And Wonder Girl, if I get a shot. But mostly Robin. He's the priority target."

"Why?" Superman asks again, very carefully. Some burning debris falls down. Match watches it go.

"To destabilize Batman," he says, because there's still no point in lying. It doesn't matter. When has it ever, really? Lying has never gotten him anything he wanted. "So the Justice League will be weakened."

"But you're not supposed to kill Superboy?" Superman says.

"There's no point in killing Superboy," Match says reasonably. "It's not like you'd care if he died."

"The Agenda thinks I wouldn't care if Superboy died?" Superman asks incredulously, just staring at him. "Why, because he's a clone?"

"Because I reported back my interactions with you when I was pretending to be him," Match corrects, puzzled by the vehemence of the response. "And also the lack thereof."

"What?" Superman says, still just staring.

"Batman loves Robin," Match reminds him, really not understanding the look on the man's face–like he's surprised or something, somehow? Like he somehow doesn't know how he interacts with Thirteen? "You don't even like Superboy. So killing him isn’t currently productive to the Agenda's goals. He's more useful as a live sample."

"You're telling me that Superboy is only alive right now because the Agenda doesn't think that someone murdering him would bother me," Superman says, his voice very careful again.

"Yes," Match confirms. More burning debris falls down.

Match watches it go.

"Take me to the lab in Lyon," Superman says. Match looks over at him, mostly because his voice sounds very odd all of a sudden, and frowns. Superman's eyes are burning red.

Heat vision. Okay.

"No," Match says. Superman's eyes burn visibly hotter, but he doesn't actually activate his heat vision. It's not an attack.

Then Superman exhales, and it's an icy fog.

But it's still not an attack.

"Why not?" Superman asks.

"Why would I bother?" Match says. "You can just destroy it after Superboy escapes."

Thirteen will escape, Match knows. He can't escape, but Thirteen always does.

"I'm going to go get him, Match," Superman says, and Match frowns in confusion at the statement. "I don't care about the lab or the Agenda. I just want to get Superboy."

"That isn't consistent with your previous behavior," Match notes, his frown deepening. He'd be suspicious, maybe, but . . . well, Superman does save people.

Just not usually Thirteen, in Match's experience of him.

Or . . . any clone, really.

In Match's experience of him.

Not that he ever expected Superman to bother with . . .

Thirteen called them brothers, the first time they met. Meanwhile, Match is pretty sure that this is at best the second time that Superman's ever even spoken to him without thinking he was Thirteen, and technically he still started off the conversation on that assumption.

It's just very obvious that he doesn't care about any shared DNA they have or . . . anything like that.

"Please take me to the lab in Lyon, Match," Superman says.

"So you can go get Superboy," Match says.

"Yes," Superman says.

You never came to get ME, Match doesn't say.

"Alright," he says instead, and gets to his feet.

Chapter Text

It's not an especially long flight to Lyon, comparatively, though Match has rarely been given permission to fly that far. Match isn't as fast as Superman, but he's faster than Thirteen. Superman doesn't seem to know the difference–he paces himself off Match's speed immediately and without any sign of surprise or hesitation, almost like he's never really flown with Thirteen like this at all.

Well. Maybe he hasn't, Match supposes.

He has the odd desire to inform Superman that he's faster than Thirteen. That he's an improved model. A more successful experiment.

That desire doesn't particularly make sense, though, so he just . . . doesn't.

But he does have it, all the same.

"I don't know why people keep doing this," Superman sighs as they stop in the air high above the cloud cover between them and the Lyon lab.

"Stealing your DNA?" Match asks.

"Kidnapping a sixteen year-old," Superman says like he thinks it's some kind of correction. Match frowns.

"Superboy is two," he says. And closer to physiologically eighteen at this point, even accounting for the temporary stall in his aging process. Definitely not sixteen by either count, though.

"I–well, yes," Superman says uncomfortably. "But you know what I mean."

Match doesn't, actually.

"It won't be difficult to crack the lab," he says instead of admitting that. "Security won't be prepared for an external assault from your full powerset."

"Because they think I wouldn't come," Superman says, sounding resigned.

"Yes," Match confirms.

"Because of your reports?" Superman says.

"Yes," Match says. "And you never did before, either."

Superman frowns, sparing him a confused glance.

"Why would I have come before Superboy was even here?" he asks.

"I was here," Match says.

Superman's frown deepens. He looks over at him again. Match isn't sure why; the lab is the current concern.

Maybe he assumes that he's lying about the security. Or that he's going to tell the Agenda that he's here. Those would both be fair assumptions.

"The Agenda thought I might come for you?" Superman says.

"The theory was presented, initially," Match says. "But you didn't, so external security in the newer labs is less intensive."

"Why did they think I'd do that?" Superman asks.

"Superboy and I only exist because of you," Match says. "And the Agenda knew he'd reported my existence to you."

"I wasn't actually involved in either of your creations, though," Superman says, still frowning. "My DNA was stolen."

"Yes," Match agrees, tilting his head. Did Superman think he didn't know that? "Because you made your DNA valuable."

"What?" Superman frowns at him again.

"Your DNA was stolen because it was valuable," Match clarifies. "Because you demonstrated it was valuable. You don't use science or tricks or magic or owe any gods or countries or labs any kind of allegiance. You just exist on this planet and you're the most powerful thing on it just because you're here. You can do anything you want, whenever you want, and no one else can stop you. Not even if they kill you."

Superman doesn't say anything.

"And you told everyone that," Match continues. "You told everyone that you were the most powerful thing on this planet just because of your very valuable DNA and the fact that we happen to be revolving around a yellow sun. That you can't even die. That you'll always do whatever you think needs done, no matter what anyone else thinks or who tries to stop you from doing it."

Superman still doesn't say anything.

"So Superboy and I only exist because of you," Match finishes, and then looks back down at the lab below through the cloud cover. Thirteen is down there right now. Or he should be, at least.

Maybe he's already escaped.

That's a very Thirteen kind of thing to do, after all.

"That's how you feel?" Superman asks, all careful-voiced again.

"That's what I know," Match corrects. "Would you prefer to go straight in or should I provide a distraction first?"

". . . I'll be the distraction," Superman says, still watching him with an absolutely indecipherable expression that Match doesn't understand the purpose of. "Find Superboy and say my name when you do. Then I'll get you both out."

"The Agenda will want me back, though," Match says with a frown, not understanding.

"Do you want to stay with them?" Superman asks.

Match has absolutely no idea how Superman can even ask him that. It's not a choice if he stays with the Agenda.

It's never been a choice.

"They made me," he says. "They own me."

"That isn't true," Superman says. "You don't have to stay with them just because they made you. Not if you don't want to. Superboy didn't stay with the people who made him, did he?"

". . . Superboy lives at Cadmus," Match says, more than a little confused by that statement. "He works for Cadmus. He's a field agent."

"He–what?" Superman blinks.

"Did you not know that?" Match asks. That really seems like something Superman should've known. Especially since it's something the Agenda knows. "They're under new management. But it's still Cadmus."

"I–he's still there? I thought that was just . . . why would he still be there?" Superman asks, looking troubled.

Match really, really doesn't understand Superman as a person.

"Because he requires food, shelter, and financial support," he ticks off on his fingers. "Also presumably other resources. And he has no legal identity or legal guardian to either obtain or provide said resources. Therefore: Cadmus."

Therefore: the Agenda.

It really doesn't seem like something that should need explained, to him.

Superman looks at him for a very long moment.

"Find Superboy," he says, finally. "Then say my name."

"Understood," Match says.

Chapter Text

Superman tears the roof off the lab. Match goes in a side door. It seems more prudent, for his part of the mission.

Match has never been assigned a mission like this one before.

Technically, Match is specifically avoiding an actual mission to do this.

It's more efficient than leaving Thirteen to get himself out anyway, he tells himself.

And it's one more thing to do instead of killing Robin.

He thinks about how easily he could kill Robin. It wouldn't be difficult at all. He wouldn't even have to get close enough to get his hands on him–he could break his neck with his tactile telekinesis just as easily as his hands, if he wanted to.

Robin is only human, after all.

And Robin would show up, if "Superboy" came looking for him.

But Match isn't killing Robin right now. Instead he's looking for Thirteen, so Superman can go and get him.

It's not necessary, Match knows. Thirteen always escapes anyway.

But he's still doing this instead of going and killing Robin while Superman and Thirteen are distracted.

He's . . . not sure why.

He's upset Robin before. Deliberately antagonized him. Sown seeds of dissent and distrust between him and the rest of Young Justice. Caused problems for him.

And kissed him, too, although that's something he didn't actually report to the Agenda.

He'd reported kissing Wonder Girl. That had been on orders. That had been supposed to happen.

Robin hadn't been supposed to happen.

Match wonders if the Agenda still would've assigned him this mission if he'd reported that kiss.

Probably. Wonder Girl is the secondary target, after all, and he's kissed her too.

But then again, they told him to kiss Wonder Girl.

Neither kiss had been particularly interesting, Match had thought when he'd instigated them. Neither had made him feel any particular sense of pleasure or arousal or anything else he'd been informed that kissing was intended to result in. Which had made sense to him, at the time, since he obviously hadn't been built to be capable of feeling anything like that. Why would he have been, after all?

That would've been a design flaw. One they'd have corrected from Thirteen.

But Wonder Girl and Robin had both acted like they'd felt something.

So the kisses hadn't made Match feel anything much, but the ways that those two had both looked at him after the kisses most definitely had.

He'd wondered if it was something like how a real person might've felt, at the time.

It couldn't have been, of course. Match is a better experiment than Thirteen. A corrected one. He doesn't feel things like that.

But he'd wondered, all the same.

Thirteen is in a cell in the basement, to Match's entire lack of surprise–that's standard procedure, with his class of prisoner. There are no guards on the floor, but Thirteen is currently suspended in an anti-grav field in the center of the room.

No way to use his TTK on anything but himself, then.

That's not as secure a containment procedure as the Agenda thinks it is.

Match should inform them of that. And he will inform them of that.

Eventually.

"Superman," Match says as he inspects the room for a power source or some manner of off switch for the field. Thirteen says nothing, because he's unconscious. Sedated, presumably, which is also standard procedure with his class of prisoner.

That would explain the lack of guards despite Thirteen's recorded tendency to escape, Match supposes. Though there'll be eyes on the cameras either way, of course, so they don't have long before someone shows up.

The reinforced door on the other side of the room tears off its hinges and reveals Superman standing behind it. His eyes are blazingly red. There's crumpled metal twisted up in his hands.

"I found the other experiments," he says.

"Were they viable?" Match asks.

"No," Superman says, very darkly. Match wonders if that means Superman killed them, or if that means they were already dead. It's not really something he's going to think too much about either way.

He has a lot of dead brothers, after all. Some of them he killed himself.

Assuming that he uses Thirteen's definition of what a "brother" is, anyway.

They have a lot of dead brothers from Cadmus, too.

Or at least twelve of them, anyway.

Superman strides forward into the room, staring up at Thirteen's suspended form. Match inspects the power source he's found.

"I think I can disable the anti-grav," he says. "I don't see any traps or failsafes, at least."

"Then disable it," Superman says. He's still just looking at Thirteen.

He's only ever looked at Thirteen.

Match wonders what might've happened if he'd just pretended to be Thirteen after all, and never told Superman anything about this lab. It's a stupid thing to wonder, though.

He already knows Superman doesn't even like Thirteen, whether he looks at him or not. There's no reason he'd like Match any better.

Even if he is a better experiment.

Match disassembles the power source with a quick burst of TTK and the field deactivates. Thirteen falls out of the air. Superman catches him in his arms.

Match wonders why he bothered. It's not like the fall would've injured Thirteen. He's not even conscious enough to have noticed the impact.

"Ngh," Thirteen says, his eyelashes fluttering restlessly.

. . . alright, maybe he would've noticed the impact.

Still, though.

"You're safe, Kon," Superman tells Thirteen quietly. "I've got you."

"Ngh," Thirteen repeats, and then just sinks back into unconsciousness and goes completely limp in Superman's arms. There is no trace of wariness or fear or anything but absolute faith in those words in any part of him.

Match cannot even imagine ever having a similar interaction with another sentient being.

He feels . . . odd, he thinks, hearing Superman say "Kon". He knows it's one of Thirteen's preferred aliases, of course–he's heard the various members of Young Justice all use it more than once, usually by unknowingly calling him by it. It's not a secret or anything.

He's never heard Superman use it before, though.

And Superman's never looked at him the way he's looking at Thirteen right now, either.

Match isn't even a clone of Superman. He was cloned from Thirteen, not him. Their genetic connection is secondhand and not something Superman has ever cared about or even acknowledged the existence of. Match is absolutely irrelevant to him and has never affected his life in any way except via participating in the occasional temporary inconvenience in it.

Match doesn't understand why any of that bothers him.

Things like that aren't supposed to bother him.

And usually they don't.

"The second wave of guards will be coming by now," Match says, though obviously that's more a personal concern than anything Superman has to care about. After all, even once the Agenda reclaims him, that won't actually affect Superman. And there's no guard in all of the Agenda who could possibly keep Superman in this lab.

Match will have to go kill Robin once he's been reclaimed, of course, but since Superman already knows he's supposed to do that . . . well. It's not going to work, obviously. So it's irrelevant.

And so it won't matter to Superman, when Match is reclaimed.

Really, would it even be "reclaiming" anyway? It's not like Match is anything but the Agenda's, even after ignoring a mission and his standing orders to burn down a lab and lead Superman to Thirteen and tell him the Agenda's current plans.

Though he supposes they might terminate him for doing all that, now that he's thinking about it.

Actually, they probably will.

"Let's get out of here," Superman says, and Match wonders where the man even thinks he could go.

"I'll provide the distraction this time," he says. "You can retreat with Superboy."

It's the most rational option. The only really logical one.

Superman stares at him like he thinks he's insane as soon as he says it, though.

"Why the hell would I ever let you do that?" Superman demands incredulously. Match tilts his head, really not understanding the question. He isn't a trustworthy ally, he knows, but it's not like he has any intel about where Superman is going to take Thirteen or anything like that. And the distraction he'll be providing is just a minor convenience, not a necessary assistance.

"I don't have intel that can compromise you," he says. "There's no risk in using me for a distraction."

"I mean why would I let you get yourself captured again, kid," Superman says, and Match . . . blinks. Tilts his head the other direction.

And officially understands the question even less than he already did.

"Because it's simpler for you," he replies, because he can't make enough sense of what Superman's asking to answer him in any way but by addressing the literal interpretation of what he's saying. He's never been "captured". The Agenda's always had him. So there's no . . . "again", or anything similar. Just a reestablishment of the status quo.

Even if they kill him, well . . . they were always going to do that eventually.

"'Simpler'," Superman echoes.

"Yes," Match says.

"You think I care about 'simpler'?" Superman says.

"Yes," Match says.

From every conversation where he was pretending to be Thirteen–yes. He definitely thinks Superman cares about "simpler".

Superman thinks people can do better. Superman thinks there's a moral standard he has to hold himself to; a distance he has to maintain. Superman thinks their DNA connection is irrelevant and doesn't matter and is too convoluted to be concerned by.

And that he's only responsible for himself, and not what other people choose to do because of him.

Or at least, that's what he thinks in relation to Thirteen.

. . . and Match.

Superman stares at him. Match doesn't know why. He knows Superman is unfathomably faster than anyone in this lab, but standing around still seems like a waste of time to him right now. Thirteen might need medical attention, depending on the sedatives that were used. Or the Agenda might have kryptonite on hand.

They usually do, in Match's experience.

"It is simpler," he says, and tugs aside the torn and singed fabric of his suit to reveal the Agenda's symbol where it's tattooed into the left side of his chest to illustrate his point. "I'm the Agenda's property. Superboy isn't. The Agenda can't complain about you breaking in to retrieve him without confessing to abducting him to begin with. If you stole me, though, they could make things difficult for you."

Superman flicks his eyes down to Match's branded chest and, somehow, just stares even more.

His pupils have pinprick-sparks of red in the center, Match notes.

He wonders why.

"Is that a brand?" Superman asks in a strange tone. Whatever it is, Match has never heard it before.

"Yes," he says.

"Match," Superman says, and suddenly Match's arms are full of Thirteen's unconscious, defenseless body and Superman's eyes are blazingly red. "I can hear the guards. They're going to be here in twenty seconds. I'm going to clear a path. You just get yourself and Superboy up above the cloud cover, no matter what. Understood?"

"No," Match says. That plan doesn't make sense. Wasn't Superman listening to him at all?

Then again, when does he?

Superman's jaw tightens.

"That's fine," he says. "But do it."

"Yes, sir," Match says, because he doesn't know what else to say.

Then Superman breaks the lab in half as easily as if he were cracking an egg, and Match . . .

And Match has Thirteen in his arms, unconscious and defenseless, and conflicting orders for what to do about that.

He could kill Thirteen right now. The Agenda might still take him back, if he did. And he doesn't have anywhere else to go either way. If he doesn't kill him . . .

Match doesn't know what's going to happen to him, if he doesn't kill Thirteen. The Agenda will track him down and execute him, most likely. Make an example of him.

He was made to serve. Made to serve them.

Nothing else.

He should've lied to Superman. Should've killed Robin. Should kill Thirteen right now.

He looks up at the sky through the smashed-open roof, listening to the sounds of Superman destroying the guards' weapons and throwing them into the walls, then bolts up towards the clouds with Thirteen still just as defenseless in his arms.

Thirteen would've gotten out in the end anyway, he reminds himself. So it's not like it matters.

And he's still faster than Thirteen, so this is just more efficient than the alternative.

Chapter Text

Up above the cloud cover, Match doesn't know what to do. He's just hovering here like an idiot with Thirteen sprawled unconscious in his arms, head slumped against his shoulder and body perfectly still but for the rise and fall of his chest, and Superman is still down in the lab. Match doesn't know what the man's doing down there, but he's heard a lot of explosions in the past thirty seconds.

Thirteen hasn't woken up again. Not since Superman told him that he was safe.

He's not safe.

He's in Match's arms right now, after all.

So Superman is a liar, apparently. He told Thirteen he was safe and that he had him, and the moment Thirteen trusted that he gave his unconscious and defenseless body to Match.

Thirteen's TTK is only functioning subconsciously right now, if that. He's nowhere near as invulnerable as he usually is. Match could rip him apart without any effort at all. Crush his throat or snap his spine or rip out his veins.

He hasn't even kept track of how many times he's tried to kill Thirteen since he was created, much less how many times he's been instructed to.

So Superman is a liar. He told Thirteen he was safe and then immediately handed him over to someone who's tried to murder him on multiple occasions while he was in a vulnerable state, and he told Match that he didn't have to stay with the Agenda.

He told him that the Agenda didn't own him.

So . . . yes. A liar.

Thirteen still hasn't moved.

Match waits, because he doesn't have any other orders. Because he doesn't know what else to do.

He decided to listen to a liar, yes, but it's not like the Agenda tells him the truth all that often either.

No one bothers telling things like him the truth.

Things like . . . them.

A much, much bigger explosion goes off. Match can see the resulting flames illuminate the clouds from below. Thirteen's eyelids twitch, and he turns his face into the crook of Match's neck with a soft breath of a noise. Match can feel his TTK wrapping around him and flickering against his own.

He's never felt it like this. Always just as an impact or an obstacle. Right now, though . . .

Right now it's trying to cover him, because Thirteen is a drugged-up idiot who apparently doesn't realize who's actually holding him. Match doesn't even need Thirteen's TTK; he has his own.

And also, he's one of the last people in the world Thirteen should be trying to protect anyway.

"Mm?" Thirteen mumbles against Match's collarbone. Match considers dropping him. If he's waking up, he can fly himself.

He doesn't drop him, but he should.

Superman appears in front of them in a blur of speed too fast to track. There's thick black smoke rising up through the clouds, and Superman smells like smoke himself. Match eyes him dubiously. That level of destruction was an unnecessary provocation.

"The Agenda is definitely going to make things difficult for you after this," he says.

"Not right now they're not," Superman says, his expression strangely . . . attentive, almost.

Match has never been looked at attentively by Superman, either as himself or while pretending to be Thirteen. That's just not a thing he does to either of them.

But at the moment he's looking at both of them, for some reason.

Match doesn't understand why.

"Right now they're probably compiling a report for the authorities and a complaint to the Justice League," he says.

"Are you hurt?" Superman asks. Match . . . blinks. Thirteen still isn't conscious enough for Superman to be talking to him, but there's no way he's talking to him.

"Not in a compromising way," he replies anyway, and Superman frowns.

"Are you hurt at all?" he asks. Match is just mystified enough to actually answer.

"The guards shot me twice at the last facility," he says. "And threw a grenade at me. I have two second-degree burns on my stomach and right thigh and might have a mild concussion. My nose and left ear were both bleeding earlier."

The grenade was much more effective than the shots were, but they were energy bolts, not standard bullets, so they weren't exactly pleasant-feeling either. TTK isn't as good at blocking energy weapons or flames or concussive force as it is physical impacts, and it's practically useless for sound waves, so that'd been a problem.

Match has been getting better at blocking things like that, but "better" isn't the same thing as "good".

Superman's jaw tightens for a moment, and then he exhales.

"Alright," he says. "Does it hurt?"

"Yes," Match replies, still more mystified by the question. He's injured. Of course it hurts. That's not useful information, though, so he doesn't know why Superman is asking.

"Right," Superman says tightly, floating a little closer towards them. Match doesn't actually realize what he's about to do, so he doesn't pull back quickly enough, and the next thing knows, Superman is wrapping his arms around them and–

What the fuck?

Match stares blankly at the S-shield on Superman's chest. Superman continues to have an arm around him, and have Thirteen gathered into his other arm like a child. Match . . . stares.

What the fuck.

"Hold tight," Superman says. Match is not going to do that.

The world blurs, Match's gut lurches, and then they're somewhere else. The air is cold–cold enough that he actually notices the cold–and the surrounding sky is bright and clear, no clouds or smoke in it at all.

Match didn't even register Superman's muscles tensing to move until now, when he can feel them relaxing again. And Thirteen didn't so much as twitch, though that flight must've taken them miles and miles away and Match himself feels vaguely nauseous from the rush of speed.

He doesn't understand what's happening here at all.

"You do realize I can fly perfectly fine on my own," is what he says, even though obviously he can't fly like that. Just–just–

"Sorry," Superman says, letting go of him. Match has the absolutely irrational and illogical desire to take Thirteen back from him, but doesn't. "I should’ve asked. I just wanted to get you both away from there as fast as possible.”

Match would laugh at that "asked", if he'd been designed as something that was capable of laughter. No one "asks" him for anything but mission reports, and even those are technically mandatory.

"Since when?" he says instead, because Superman is a liar and the landscape below is cold and icy-white and the air is bitingly cold and Thirteen is still unconscious. The sedatives can't last much longer, though, especially given the way he's already been stirring on and off.

Maybe Superman will go back to making sense when Thirteen wakes up.

For the moment, though, Superman's jaw just tightens, and he looks–strange. If it were someone else wearing that expression, Match might assume they were in pain.

But it's Superman, of course, so obviously it's not that.

"Come with me," Superman says. "Please."

"Why?" Match gives him a mystified look.

"You're injured," Superman says. Match stares blankly at him and keeps waiting for an actual answer.

Superman keeps not providing one.

"I need to report back," Match says abruptly, trying to figure out what Superman is actually talking about. "I'm–supposed to report back."

"Match," Superman says, his jaw tense. He reaches out again; puts his free hand on Match's shoulder. Match is too bemused to avoid the contact. "What will happen if you . . . report back?"

"I'll be made an example of," Match replies, still too bemused to do anything but answer. "Terminated."

Superman's fingers tighten on his shoulder, but not enough to hurt. Match wonders how he even does that, come to think. How does he just . . . not hurt people? As strong as he is, it should happen all the time. It should be the only thing he ever does, in fact.

But it's not.

"Then why do you think I'd let you do that?" Superman says.

"Because it's irrelevant to you," Match says.

Because he's irrelevant to Superman.

Superman looks like another person would look in pain, again, and then exhales.

"I changed my mind," he says evenly. "Consider yourself stolen."

"What?" Match frowns reflexively. Superman adjusts his grip on Thirteen; cradles him more carefully.

Doesn't stop looking at Match, though, for some inexplicable reason.

"You say you're property?" Superman says, quiet and intent. "Fine. But property doesn't return itself when it gets stolen. If the Agenda wants you back, they're going to have to take you from me."

". . . why," Match says, very slowly.

"Because they're going to have to pry you from my cold dead hands before I ever let them near you again," Superman says, his pupils illuminated by red pinpricks of light.

Match doesn't think this man has ever made less sense to him than he's making right now, and Superman almost never makes sense to him. Not in anything more than the most abstract terms, anyway.

Superman doesn't want anything to do with him. Doesn't care that they share secondhand DNA. Doesn't care that–

This doesn't make sense.

Neither does the fact that Superman bothered going to get Thirteen when Thirteen always escapes anyway, though, or why Superman caught Thirteen when he fell, or why he told Thirteen he was safe and then gave him to Match. None of those things are even a little bit logical or rational.

Superman isn't logical or rational. Match knows that. He doesn't have to be, after all; he's probably the most powerful singular person on Earth. "Rational" is just whatever he feels like doing, because no one else can really stop him. Because it's not rational to even bother trying.

Superman has made that very clear over the years, Match thinks, but it doesn't make this situation make any more sense.

He opens his mouth to say . . . something, but then Thirteen makes a raspy little noise and all of Superman's attention refocuses on him.

Of course.

Though "all" of Superman's attention is a lot more than even Thirteen usually gets, admittedly.

"Kon?" Superman asks carefully.

"Mmph," Thirteen mumbles, his eyelids flickering but not quite opening as he shifts to hide his face against Superman's chest. "Five m'minutes."

Drugged or not, Match can't imagine ever, ever waking up that slow and groggy.

It's not safe.

Though given it's Superman, it's not like waking up any faster would save Thirteen if Superman wanted him dead anyway.

Match wonders, sometimes, what Superman expects them to become once they're full-grown. If he even expects anything from them at all.

Match has seen the projections, himself. Seen the DNA analyses and developmental tracking. Superman should want them dead, if those projections are accurate. Especially him, considering.

And they were conservative projections.

"Kon," Superman repeats, and then, awkwardly, lifts a hand to brush lightly over Thirteen's hair. Thirteen melts under it.

Then he startles and jerks back from the contact, his head snapping up fast enough that the only reason he doesn't knock heads with Superman is the other's superspeed.

"The fuck?!" Thirteen blurts, practically falling out of the air. Superman still has an arm around him though, so he doesn't.

"Kon," Superman repeats one more time and still more carefully. "Are you alright?"

"What?" Thirteen blinks rapidly, then shakes his head, looking bewildered. "I, uh–yeah? yeah. Uh. What . . . happened, exactly?"

He backs up and looks around, seeming disoriented, and only then notices Match. He's an idiot, so Match isn't surprised. And also they're in the air, so his TTK can't feel him right now.

But mostly the part where he's an idiot.

"Uh," Thirteen says slowly, staring at Match. Match glowers back at him, more reflex than real intent. "Let me reprioritize my questions."

"The Agenda had you. Match told me where you were and helped me find you," Superman says, putting a hand on Thirteen's shoulder and squeezing it gently. "He carried you out while I took care of the lab."

"Match did," Thirteen says. "Like . . . unprompted? And on purpose?"

"The Agenda ordered him to impersonate you and kill Robin. He burned down the lab he was in instead," Superman says as if that's some kind of an explanation of anything. Match continues not to understand this man at all. "I found him when I went to investigate the smoke. Thought he was you, until he told me otherwise."

"Sure," Thirteen says, looking briefly uncomfortable. Given that Match hadn't been trying to convince Superman he was Thirteen when Superman had assumed he was, Match isn't surprised. They look alike, but nothing else about them is alike. They're different people with different postures and intonation and vocabularies and fighting styles and thought processes.

So obviously it would bother Thirteen to have Match be so easily mistaken for him, since Thirteen is clearly operating under the delusion that Superman in any way cares about who he is as an individual.

Thirteen is stupid, like always.

"Match is injured," Superman says. "And we don't know what kind of drugs might be in your system. I'm taking you both to the Fortress."

"The what?" Match says, too bemused to clarify that he does, in fact, know what drugs the Agenda most likely would have put in Thirteen's system–they had to test those drugs on someone, after all–and Thirteen just looks leery.

"Uh," he says. "You want to take Match to . . ."

"Yes," Superman says.

Thirteen looks uncomfortable. Upset, too. Match assumes this "fortress" is some sort of base or safe haven either belonging to the Justice League or Superman himself, and has no idea why Superman would want him anywhere near it. That seems like an incredibly severe lapse in judgment on his part, actually.

Does he have a head injury? Can Superman actually get head injuries?

Actually, maybe he's been drugged, now that Match is thinking of it. It'd explain some things. A lot of things, at this point.

“Uh, okay,” Thirteen says, still looking uncomfortable. “You're the boss, Kal.”

Superman gets an odd look on his face, very briefly. Match continues not to understand him, though Superman's never gone to any effort to explain himself to either of them, so that's not exactly a surprise.

This isn't how he normally acts, though.

“Let's get you both checked out, alright?” Superman says, then puts a hand on both of their shoulders and squeezes inexplicably not painfully. Match immediately has a brand-new and completely unanticipated experience, which is the experience of making eye contact with Thirteen while thinking the exact same thing–in this case, what the actual fucking HELL is Superman doing?

Match is increasingly convinced of the validity of the head injury theory, actually.

“Follow me,” Superman says, then lets go of them and flies off. Match exchanges another unanticipated-experience look with Thirteen–seriously, what the HELL?–and then Thirteen takes off after Superman, and Match . . .

Match should leave. Should figure out where he is and then go report back to the Agenda, or at least find someplace he can contact them from. Let them make an example of him, because it’ll be so much worse if he doesn’t report back for it willingly.

He’s not actually sure Superman would let him if he tried, though, which is . . . strange. A strange thing to think.

Why wouldn’t he, after all?

Except Superman already said he wouldn’t let the Agenda have him again.

Match doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean in the long run, though.

Chapter Text

The fortress is not at all what Match expects it to be. The fortress is a very literal fortress, in fact–enormous and crystalline and looking some strange cross between an organically-formed mineral and a deliberately constructed building. From a distance, it looks like ice, but by the time they’re landing outside its enormous doors in the freezing cold, Match can see there’s just ice covering it, and the actual structure itself is literal crystal. Or . . . something crystal-like, at least.

Not any kind of crystal that he’s familiar with, though.

It’s not hidden. It’s very, very cold out here, but there’s nothing concealing the fortress itself aside from a clearly unintentional dusting of ice and snow. Match can’t tell what the security system even is, though there must be something.

Then again, if this place is Superman’s, maybe he’s actually just stupid enough that there's not.

Thirteen is rubbing at his arms and shivering. Match has already locked his muscles with his tactile telekinesis not to let them do the same. He’s felt colder. Much colder.

Though if they’re out here much longer, he’s pretty sure frostbite’s going to start setting in.

Superman, of course, is entirely unaffected.

“Welcome to the Fortress of Solitude,” he says, which seems like an incredibly melodramatic name to Match, and then he opens those enormous doors and gestures them through. “After you.”

Maybe it’s a trap, Match thinks warily as he stares down the crystal-lined hall stretching ahead. A trap would make more sense than Superman bothering to be concerned with his injuries. Much more.

But also it’s fucking cold and Thirteen is already headed inside, and hell if he’s going to get left out here alone with Superman right now. He’d actually rather never be alone with Superman again, at this point.

Match follows Thirteen in, and Superman closes the doors behind them.

Match wonders if he's locking them, but really can't tell.

“Welcome home, Kal-El,” a voice says, and a luminous hologram of a man in long pale robes cut in a strange style appears in the high-ceilinged, arching hallway in front of them.

“Home”? Match thinks in absolute incredulity. That cannot possibly be accurate. Just–no. Not even slightly.

“Hello, Jor-El,” Superman says, smiling at the hologram with a slightly stressed expression. “We have a couple of guests.”

“I see, yes,” the hologram says, looking from Match to Thirteen and then back again, his eyes lingering assessingly on Match. “Jor-El”, apparently. “Well-done, Kal-El. You are proceeding very well, for lacking a proper birthing matrix to work with.”

“That’s, uh–that’s not–” Superman cuts himself off, looking flustered. “I didn’t commission them, Jor-El.”

“Isn’t ‘Jor-El’ your dad’s name?” Thirteen asks, peering curiously at Jor-El. “And you kinda look like . . .”

“I am an artificial intelligence uploaded with Jor-El’s memories and shaped in his image,” Jor-El explains. “I maintain the Fortress when Kal-El is away.”

“Sick,” Thirteen says, then looks embarrassed for some reason, possibly because he sounds like an idiot. Then again, Thirteen is rarely embarrassed by being an idiot, considering how often he is one. “I mean–uh, cool.”

“The current external temperature is 15°F,” Jor-El says agreeably.

Match cannot for the life of him figure out what he should be doing here, but “escaping this conversation” is an increasingly tempting option.

“I need to make a call,” Superman says, clearing his throat. “But first–ah, Jor-El, can you scan our guests for injuries and pharmaceuticals? Just–general health scans, actually, but focus on injuries and pharmaceuticals, please.”

“Kon-El has high levels of hypnotics and sedatives in his system,” Jor-El says. “And your youngest has moderate levels of sedatives and tranquilizers, along with low levels of opioids. He has one second-degree burn on his stomach, another on his right thigh, and a minor head injury. All other injuries are negligible.”

“What?” Superman startles, his eyes snapping to Match. “They drugged you?”

Match frowns, not understanding why the man looks so surprised by that idea.

“Yes,” he says anyway, since apparently there’s actually a question there.

“Why?” Superman asks. Match continues not to understand why he’s surprised, or why he’s asking questions with such stupidly obvious answers.

“To keep me manageable,” he says, because why else? Superboy is prone to anger and rage and drastic emotional spikes, and Match was made from the same template. And everyone knows what an angry Kryptonian can do.

Even just half of an angry Kryptonian.

Superman stares at him, looking . . . unsettled, almost. Thirteen grimaces. Match really doesn’t understand what the problem is.

“You mean they always drug you,” Superman says slowly.

“Obviously,” Match says dubiously. “I wouldn’t be manageable otherwise.”

“Jesus Christ,” Thirteen mutters under his breath, putting a hand over his mouth and looking nauseous. Match doesn’t bother wasting time on trying to figure out why. Thirteen never has rational reactions anyway.

“I’m . . . let me get you something else to wear,” Superman says abruptly, his voice a little tight, and then vanishes in a blur. Match barely has time to be annoyed before he’s back with a tacky purple sweatshirt and a pair of gray sweatpants with a drawstring waist. Both are definitely too big for Match, but apparently Superman isn’t concerned about that.

Match wonders where they even came from.

He doesn’t actually know how he feels about the idea of wearing civilian clothes. He never really has. Even when he’s pretended to be Thirteen, he never dressed like that.

His suit is burned and bloody, though, and not in particularly good condition. And it’s not like he’s going to refuse an order, even an implied one.

If Superman’s stolen him . . .

He thinks he’s supposed to follow his orders, if Superman’s stolen him. The Agenda always insisted on loyalty and obedience. Of course they did.

So if Superman actually meant it, when he said he was stealing him . . .

Match takes the clothes. The sweatpants are old and worn; the sweatshirt is an obnoxious purple with yellow lettering that says Metropolis Meteors in a large, bold font. Match is vaguely aware the Metropolis Meteors are a sports team, but doesn’t even know if they play football or baseball or fucking field hockey.

He also doesn’t know why Superman has clothes that clearly have been worn and washed multiple times in his arctic fortress. If he didn’t know better, eyeballing it . . .

Well. They would fit Superman, if he actually wore them himself, but Match can’t even begin to imagine the situation in which the man ever would.

He starts to strip off his torn-up suit and Superman startles, then quickly looks away.

“Would you rather get changed in one of the bedrooms?” he attempts awkwardly. Match is mystified enough by the question to stop while only halfway undressed.

“Why?” he asks.

“. . . for privacy, Match,” Superman says, looking a little pained. “Modesty.”

Match has no idea what this man is ever thinking.

“Superboy sees me naked every day,” he points out dubiously. They look exactly the same, after all. And that "exactly the same" is also "exactly like Superman", on top of that.

“Also he was kinda naked when we met, so . . .” Thirteen shrugs.

“I was, yes,” Match agrees, then decides Superman’s just being ridiculous again and just finishes stripping off his ruined suit. He really doesn’t see why Superman thinks he should care about being naked in front of anyone at all, frankly. He’s lived in a lab all his life; he was born in a lab. “Modesty” isn’t a thing he’s ever either had or needed.

Superman still looks pained, for some reason, but it’s irrelevant.

Match pulls on the pants and sweatshirt, which both feel strangely soft and fit much too loosely, though at least that keeps them from dragging against the burns too much. The pain is irrelevant, obviously, but it'd be annoying if the fabric stuck. And if either of them got infected–

He wouldn't be performing to expectations, if he ended up with an infected wound.

Match ties the drawstring of the sweatpants as tight as he can and rolls up the cuffs and sleeves above his wrists and ankles, just in case he needs to fight, and then doesn’t know what to do with his ruined suit. There’s not exactly an obvious trash can in this arctic alien fortress, much less any sign of a laundry bin.

“Your youngest’s name is ‘Match’, Kal-El?” Jor-El asks, frowning skeptically.

“Oh, ah–” Superman hesitates. Match frowns too. It is his name. Why is Superman hesitating? “Well, technically, but . . .”

“I require the literal one, Kal-El, or I will not be able to list him in the family register with Kon-El,” Jor-El informs him dryly. Superman looks startled.

Match is, again, mystified.

“I, uh–let me get back to you on that, Jor-El,” Superman says, looking flustered now. “I wasn’t even aware you’d put Kon in the–never mind, just–one moment, alright? I really need to make that call. Kon, if you could just take Match to the bathroom so he can clean up some of that blood and ash, or just directly to the infirmary so we can bandage up those burns properly . . .”

“Yeah, sure. Where are they?” Thirteen asks, tilting his head curiously. Superman . . . pauses, briefly, and an odd expression crosses his face.

“You don’t know where–” he starts, and then cuts himself off, still looking strange. “Jor-El can show you. Just . . . follow him, please.”

“On it, man!” Thirteen says, flashing Superman a confident grin that Match instinctively wants to smack off his face. Idiot.

Superman still looks strange. Almost . . . bothered, somehow.

That can’t be right, Match thinks, but he isn’t coming up with an alternate explanation for that expression.

“This way, if you please,” Jor-El says, and Match resignedly follows him down the hall with his ruined suit in hand as Superman heads off . . . who knows where, really. Thirteen comes along, which is obviously unnecessary since he doesn’t know where anything is either, but Superman ordered him to, so Match doesn’t point that out.

He’s tempted, though.

Very tempted.

Match doesn’t know why Thirteen is here. Or why he’s here. Just–what’s the point, exactly?

Superman is no longer available to provide an explanation, though Match doubts he’d say anything that made sense even if he were.

“So, um . . .” Thirteen says, peering curiously at Jor-El. “You’re always here?”

“I am, yes,” Jor-El says. Match just wonders why an AI is bothering to simulate walking ahead of them. Jor-El is displaying himself as a hologram, after all. He doesn’t need to “walk”. He doesn’t even need to display himself at all, presumably; he could just communicate through whatever theoretical systems keep this place running. There’s clearly something. “We did not meet on your previous visit because Kal-El wished to offer you your name and place in the House of El privately.”

“Oh,” Thirteen says, and then ducks his head and grins a little, as if he’s remembering . . . well, presumably that visit, given the conversation. It’s not an expression Match has ever seen on his face before. Well–their face.

Same difference.

“‘Name’,” Match repeats skeptically. He’d really just assumed that Thirteen had come up with the “Kon” thing on his own–used the leftover letters of “clone” after “El” was taken out of it and changed the “C” to a “K” to look closer to “Kal-El”, or something as obvious and stupid and contrived as that. It would’ve been a very Thirteen kind of idea, in his opinion. Certainly as fucking presumptuous and undeservedly prideful as Thirteen’s always been, if nothing else, deciding he counted as an “El”.

Match isn’t sure what he thinks of the idea that Superman actually gave Thirteen that name.

It’s . . .

“Oh, yeah,” Thirteen says, looking over to him like that was actually intended to be a conversation starter. Ugh. “It’s Kon-El. Not sure if you actually, like, explicitly know that or whatever. We could probably get you one of those later, maybe. Like, if you’re done with being a dick and all. Or really just if you want one. Uh–I don’t actually know any other Kryptonian names, though, and we’d have to ask Superman if it’d be cool to use one of ‘em anyway, I guess.”

“. . . your name is Experiment Thirteen,” Match says.

“Yeah, not so much, dude,” Thirteen says, giving him a dry look.

Match gives him a blank one in response, pushing aside the idea that Superman gave Thirteen a name–a stupid and half-assed borderline insult of a name, but a name–and a . . . “place in the House of El”, apparently. It’s not relevant, and even if it were, it wouldn’t matter.

Superman never makes sense, so he's obviously not going to start now.

The hallway opens up before them, revealing an enormous, sparsely-decorated hall that takes up more space than is even remotely practical to. It's the kind of space that should be taken up by a training field or a stadium or at least a theatre, but it's mostly empty. There's a massive statue near the middle of a man and woman in long, strange robes together holding a large globe over their heads. Match can't tell what it's made of, but it looks almost golden in the cool light. It's much too big to belong indoors, whatever it is. He doesn't understand the purpose of it.

Match usually doesn't understand the purpose of things like unnecessary decoration, admittedly, but the statue seems especially unnecessary.

“A proper name will be required,” Jor-El says as he leads them past the unnecessary statue. Match has no idea why this is even a topic, much less a relevant one.

“I don't need a ‘proper’ name,” he says dubiously. “‘Match’ is perfectly functional.”

“Yeah well I always said I was fine just being ‘Superboy’, but when Kal said I could be ‘Kon-El’ too I was so happy that I literally fucking cried, so I call absolute and entire bullshit on that one,” Thirteen snorts. Match stares blankly at him again. Why would Thirteen even tell him something like that? Much less react that stupidly to begin with?

“That's because you're an inferior design,” he says. “You experience unnecessary emotions. I behave rationally.”

“Sure. Then why don't you explain to me the ‘rational behavior’ behind you not murdering my uptight control freak team leader when you got ordered to,” Thirteen says dryly, looking unimpressed.

Match doesn't answer. It's–not relevant, why he did that.

And it's not something he'd tell Thirteen even if it were.

Obviously.

“Why does Superman have civilian clothes?” he asks instead. Thirteen–pauses, then just shrugs.

“Ask him,” he says, which means he knows and is just being an asshole. Figures.

“More thorough scans would be helpful as well,” Jor-El says as they approach a very large . . . well, Match genuinely doesn’t know. It might be a computer. There’s something screenlike involved, at least. The rows of crystals underneath said screenlike something are definitely not a part of any kind of “computer” he’s ever seen before, but it’s still the likeliest theory he has. “The infirmary is not currently optimized for cloned lifeforms, but we should be capable of extrapolation where necessary. And the Fortress’s programming is certainly familiar with Kryptonian-human hybrids, at this point.”

Match doesn’t respond, considering how obvious a statement that was. His genes are functionally identical to Thirteen’s, after all, so of course Superman’s already familiar with his physiology.

Well–of course he’d have access to Thirteen’s files, more accurately. Match has spoken to him as “Thirteen” enough times to know Superman is no kind of “familiar” with anything about him past the most simplified–and a good six months outdated–version of the basics.

“Um,” Thirteen says, frowning in confusion. “It is? I–oh, yeah. Uh. I guess it, uh . . . would be, huh.”

Match cannot believe how incredibly stupid his gene donor is. Was Thirteen somehow under the impression that advanced alien technology couldn't have accessed Cadmus’s files by now? Hell, the Agenda can get into those with minimal effort. Cadmus’s security is not impressive. He's walked right in the front door enough times at this point.

“It is, yes,” Jor-El agrees. “If you could hold still for a moment, please. Both of you, ideally. We may as well scan you as well, Kon-El.”

Match–frowns.

Wait. If the Fortress already has Thirteen's files, then why would . . .

A pale blue-white light materializes from the crystals beneath the screen and pans over both him and Thirteen. He doesn't feel any hint of warmth from the light or hear anything, and there's no pain.

In addition to the pain he's already in, he means. Obviously.

The whole process seems very . . . simple, for a DNA scan. For–testing, he means. Not involved enough. Not complicated enough. Not even uncomfortable.

Not–what he would've expected.

That's all.

He assumes this is just a first step, and the actual testing Jor-El intends to perform will involve something more invasive or–

“Scan complete,” Jor-El announces as the light flicks off. “Genetic profiles now on file for Kon-El and the as yet unnamed new member of the House of El currently classified as ‘Match’. Proper name impending.”

Match has absolutely no idea what to say to any of that.

“I think the AI is malfunctioning,” he says to Thirteen, who scowls at him and folds his arms.

“Rude much?” he says.

“It just called me a ‘member of the House of El’,” Match informs him dubiously, because maybe Thirteen actually is oblivious to have missed that obvious glitch of a statement.

“. . . maybe Kal can run a virus scan or something,” Thirteen mutters under his breath with a grimace. Match resists the urge to roll his eyes. It's a superfluous gesture. And one he only ever started doing to impersonate Thirteen anyway.

“All Fortress systems are currently running at peak performance,” Jor-El says like a malfunctioning AI would even be an accurate source of information, then gestures off to the side. “The preliminary infirmary and basic medical supplies are this way. Please follow me.”

“The damage is minimal,” Match says. He's healed from worse without wasting medical supplies. The burns aren't even third-degree. And Superman can't possibly want to spend actual resources on him, much less anything that would presumably need to be replaced or recharged or reset later.

The clothes are strange enough, at this point.

“Then treatment will also be minimal,” Jor-El replies matter-of-factly before heading off. “This way.”

Jor-El is definitely malfunctioning.

Thirteen follows him, though, and Match doesn’t know what else to do, so he does the same. Either way he doesn’t want Superman to catch up when he’s alone, so . . .

He doesn’t even know what Superman is doing right now, aside from allegedly making whatever call he needed to make, and who knows what that’s about or for. Maybe he’s warning the Justice League about the likelihood of the Agenda causing problems for them, publicity-wise. Or . . . something to that effect, anyway.

They’ll take the opportunity to, he’s sure. The Agenda doesn’t miss opportunities like that.

The infirmary is sparse and open and both laboratory-bright and laboratory-sterile and mostly made of that strange crystal Match can't identify, but . . . off, somehow. Something about it just seems . . . off. The crystal is strange enough, but something else is stranger.

Match isn’t sure what, exactly.

Maybe it’s just that he can’t smell blood or bleach in it.

Jor-El instructs him through the process of using the cleaning wipes and disinfectant spray and strange alien bandages from the supplies–Match uses his tactile telekinesis to keep himself from flinching, like always–and Thirteen tries to help, which is irritating. Match glowers at him until he backs off, which takes twice as long as it should.

Superman probably wouldn’t appreciate him killing Thirteen, after all this fuss. And Superman is . . . in charge of him now, he thinks. Technically. Presumably. Or at least he owns him, if nothing else.

For now, at least.

The Agenda will want him back, so . . .

So–for now, yes. Until the Agenda reclaims him and disposes of him as a failed experiment. A defective result.

Superman would be–harder to reclaim him from, though. Harder than government custody. Maybe even harder than the Justice League, because Superman by himself doesn’t necessarily have to answer to the same specific pressures that the whole League altogether would.

So if he does . . . whatever Superman wants him to do, exactly–if he does whatever makes Superman want to keep him, for whatever reason Superman decided he wanted to keep him to begin with . . .

He won’t be disposed of as soon, if he does that. Eventually Superman will change his mind and the Agenda will take him back, but–only eventually.

Not yet.

So he just needs to do that.

Match can do that. Superman can't be any harder to please than the Agenda. He . . . thinks he can't, anyway. Superman tolerates Thirteen, so . . .

But Superman only tolerates Thirteen. He doesn’t keep him around. Thirteen doesn’t live in Metropolis or see Superman all that often, or even regularly. They don’t even know each other well enough for Superman to tell the difference between him and Match when Match isn’t trying to trick him.

And Match and Thirteen are the same build, technically. Match is an improved design, but he still came from the same base DNA. Still has the same powers; the same natural inclinations and the same genetic potential.

Match could do it all better than Thirteen, obviously, but . . . well, if Superman wanted any of those things, he could’ve gotten them from Thirteen already. So he’s an upgrade, yes, but he’s an upgrade of something Superman doesn’t even want. Which is . . .

It doesn’t matter. The Agenda will scrap him in the end no matter what, and that’ll be–all. Nothing will change. Nothing will be any different. It’ll all come to the same end no matter what.

It doesn’t matter, so it’s the only thing that matters.

Match . . . doesn’t know why he thinks that.

The bandages feel strange, partially because they're not standard medical supplies and partially because he just isn't used to wearing bandages. Definitely not while he's still on his feet and conscious enough to be aware of their existence, anyway.

It's not worth patching up a weapon that's going to heal on its own anyway. It's not worth patching up a weapon that won't heal on its own anyway.

So he isn't used to them, no.

Match doesn't understand why Superman is wasting resources like these on him. Or what Superman even wants him for at all. Or–any of this, really.

But it's this or he goes back to the Agenda to get culled, so he's doing as he's told.

What he's getting told is getting increasingly stupid, mind, but he's doing it all the same.

“All good?” Thirteen checks, trying to peer at the bandages. Match pulls the sweatshirt and sweatpants back over them and glares at him. “Just asking, man.”

“I’m functioning to acceptable parameters,” he says, irritated by Thirteen’s inexplicable interest. Especially because it’s only really “inexplicable” if he assumes Thirteen isn’t trying to identify weaknesses or vulnerabilities in him.

“What’s ‘acceptable’, exactly?” Thirteen asks skeptically.

“I could kill you with absolutely no effort whatsoever,” Match reports flatly, narrowing his eyes at him.

“Sure, no effort,” Thirteen snorts, rolling his own. Match considers proving his point, but Superman would probably consider that undesirable behavior. Superman isn’t going to cull Thirteen, after all. Even if he actually keeps Match.

It’s . . . a strange thought, even though it’s an obvious thing. Superman doesn’t kill people, after all.

Not that they’re people, just . . .

He’s not sure what the “just” is, there.

Maybe Jor-El does the culling, when it’s necessary. It might be an automated process. Something Superman doesn’t have to waste his own time on or dirty his hands with. Something . . .

Just–something.

Match doesn’t really think Superman intends to cull either of them, but he also doesn’t understand what Superman actually wants, both in general and right now. He and Thirteen are irrelevant to Superman. They don’t matter to him. They're footnotes in his life, at most. Nothing to concern himself with past that.

Obviously they are.

They are, but then why did Superman retrieve Thirteen and steal Match and bring them both here, and why is he wasting resources on Match’s injuries and instructing his AI to scan their systems and put them in the . . . register?

It doesn’t make sense.

Which–Superman never makes sense. Obviously.

But it’s strange and suspicious and frustrating, because knowing what’s going on is the only way Match can ever . . . control anything. Not that he ever controls anything, just–it's the only way he can ever prepare for anything. That’s all. If he doesn’t know what’s going on . . .

Match hears the carefully deliberate rustle of fabric and the barest echo of a heartbeat he knows, and turns his head just enough to see Superman walk into the infirmary area. Thirteen straightens up in an obvious unconscious reflex. Match . . . isn't sure what to do. He's usually pretending to be Thirteen when he's around Superman. And he's never been around Superman for this long either way.

Superman always leaves before he's ever around him for this long.

“All good?” Superman checks in almost the exact same tone Thirteen did a minute ago. Match immediately eyes Thirteen, who looks torn between being pleased and uncomfortable about it.

Probably he wasn’t deliberately imitating Superman, then, but it’s still annoying.

“Medical attention has been administered,” Jor-El says. “Minimally.”

“Uh . . . good?” Superman looks briefly perplexed, then looks at Match and Thirteen and just looks stressed instead. “How are you two . . . feeling?”

“I’m good, man, no big,” Thirteen says with a shrug while Match is still mystified by Superman's use of the word “feeling”. “Not like I’ve never gotten kidnapped by an evil lab before, right?”

Superman looks even more stressed, for some reason. Match continues not to understand him at all.

“At acceptable functionality for field work,” he reports shortly.

Superman looks much more stressed.

Match really doesn’t know what’s wrong with this man. He asked for a report, didn’t he?

He doesn't know how to behave, if Superman is going to be like this. He doesn't know how to be–safe.

Not–he's not–

It's just–irritating. Superman's being more complicated than he needs to be about this and keeps making even less sense than usual and not giving clear instructions and–and that's all. Clear instructions make his job easier. Make it easier to be . . . useful. And being useful is–necessary. Performing to standard and being useful and–

He doesn’t know how to behave, if Superman is going to be like this.

Match feels like he's getting a headache, and not from the actual head injury.

“That's–alright,” Superman says, still looking stressed. Match doesn't let himself bristle. Doesn't let anything–show. “Jor-El, ah . . . if any non-emergency communications come in, just take a message, please. But alert me immediately if either Batman or Wonder Woman calls back.”

“‘Calls back’?” Thirteen looks puzzled.

“I spoke to them about the Agenda's plans so they could make certain that Robin and Wonder Girl were both safe,” Superman says. “The Justice League is going to be looking into things from here.”

Match frowns. Why does that matter? Looking into the Agenda, he means. That doesn't seem relevant to anything once Robin and Wonder Girl are secured.

“Shit, I shoulda called ‘em,” Thirteen mutters, wincing to himself.

“You’ve just been abducted and drugged, Kon,” Superman says, looking briefly pained. “And I’m right here. It really wasn’t something you had to worry about.”

“Uh . . . I guess,” Thirteen says, clearly unconvinced. Well, at least he’s being less stupid than usual, Match supposes. There’s no situation in which Thirteen should assume Superman is going to do anything for him, in his experience of the man.

Save his life if something happens directly in front of him, maybe, but that’s about it.

Honestly, Match is a little surprised that it even occurred to Superman to call Batman and Wonder Woman at all, given his usual total lack of concern in regards to anything Thirteen might care about. Though he supposes it’s because Batman and Wonder Woman would be just as upset as Thirteen would if Robin and Wonder Girl were killed, so that probably explains that.

Still. It’s . . . unexpected.

“Just . . . don't worry right now, alright? Either of you. I'm taking care of everything,” Superman says. Match stares blankly at him. He can't possibly think they'd believe that. In what possible world would either of them ever believe that? Superman might take care of everything he thinks requires taken care of, perhaps, but the likelihood of those things being relevant to either of them is slim to none.

“Um–sure?” Thirteen says hesitantly, which sounds about as convincing as Match feels when he has to pretend an incompetent handler knows what they're doing.

“Excellent,” Jor-El says. “Then please provide your youngest's name for the family register now, Kal-El. All necessary medical care has been administered and all necessary information has been relayed to your allies, so there should be no further delays in updating it.”

“Ah . . . just . . . give us a moment here, Jor-El, if you don't mind?” Superman asks, looking awkward. “Uh–privately, I mean?”

“Very well, Kal-El,” Jor-El says, though he looks disapproving about the idea. He flickers out, which seems misleading; he's an AI, after all. He doesn't need the illusion of a physical presence to observe . . . whatever it is Superman wants to do “privately”.

Match isn't sure what to expect for that. More testing? Combat-related tests, maybe. Skill assessments. Or maybe Superman will wait until his injuries are healed for that, to be certain he's getting him in top form. That would be logical. Superman doesn't send Thirteen away like he did Jor-El, though, so maybe he does want to do testing now. Compare and contrast their results.

Or . . . something else.

Match can do that. Can outperform Thirteen. The pain isn't relevant.

But if he does outperform Thirteen, then . . . what does that mean, even? What would Superman do with that information?

He doesn't–know.

He doesn't . . . it'd be preferable. To know.

Obviously.

“Uh, should I go too, or . . .” Thirteen trails off, hooking his hands together behind his back and looking uncomfortable.

“Would you rather do this with just the two of us?” Superman says. Thirteen doesn't answer.

. . . Match blinks, very slowly, and tilts his head.

Superman is looking at him.

“I wasn't designed to have opinions,” he says. “It's unnecessary to inquire after my preferences.”

“Jesus Christ,” Thirteen mutters again, putting a hand over his face. Superman looks–

Very strange, for some reason.

“I didn’t destroy that lab badly enough,” he says under his breath. Match frowns. Why is that relevant? Why does Superman even think that? He saw the damage. There’s no way the Lyon lab is going to function again anytime in the next six months, assuming it ever functions again at all. If Superman had destroyed it any worse, in fact, it would’ve been easier to get it up and running again because there wouldn’t have been enough of it left for there to be a point in either attempting any form of salvage or for a demolition crew to be necessary.

“Don’t waste time on unnecessary questions,” Match says. “Just tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”

“. . . why,” Superman asks, very slowly. It’s a stupid question, and definitely unnecessary. Match barely resists the urge to glower at him for it. He just said not to waste time on unnecessary questions.

He should’ve known Superman would be the type to, though.

Superman doesn’t even ask it like it’s a test, which would at least have a purpose.

“You stole me,” Match reminds him. “Therefore you own me. I understand how to behave for whoever owns me. I’ll perform to expectations.”

Superman covers his eyes with a hand for a moment and exhales roughly, which seems unnecessary too. Superman doesn’t even need to breathe, except to speak or use the ice breath. So why does he do things like that? Why does he breathe and move like a human would; why does he even blink like a human would?

It’s a waste of time and energy, and there isn’t a reason to do it.

Thirteen’s fists are clenched tight enough to visibly strain the seams of his gloves. He isn’t in an offensive stance, though, so Match doesn’t understand the purpose of that either.

He waits for Superman to collect himself. Doesn’t reiterate his statement. That would be unnecessary too. Talking too much.

He talks too much, his handlers all say. Runs his mouth too much; likes the sound of his own voice too much.

Don’t take after the obsolete version, Subject Match.

Match can talk to Thirteen as much as he wants. Could talk to Thirteen’s friends as much as he wanted, because Thirteen talked that much.

But Superman isn’t Thirteen, and Superman doesn’t even talk to Thirteen. He isn’t going to want to waste time on what Match has to say.

And Match has already been talking too much as it is.

“Alright,” Superman says finally, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. Match keeps waiting for him to say something relevant. “My first expectation is that you understand that questions about your opinions aren’t ‘unnecessary’. I want to know what you think about things. Especially things that matter to you.”

. . . Match will never, ever understand Superman. The Agenda didn’t even want his opinions on tactics or battle plans, much less anything else.

He doesn’t have opinions, so why would they?

“Nothing matters to me,” he lies, because he knows better than to say anything else.

Superman exhales, dropping his hand away from his face, and Thirteen glowers at Match. Neither reaction particularly makes sense, still, but Thirteen’s is at least more expected than Superman’s. Thirteen should be glowering at him. That’s normal, for them.

“If nothing matters, then answering questions about your opinions won’t either,” Superman says, because apparently “normal” isn’t good enough for him anymore. “So: do you want Kon here for this, or do you want to do it privately?”

Match, objectively, wants absolutely nothing to do with either of them. But–objectively–wants even less to do with just Superman by himself. He doesn’t even know what Superman wants right now. Is he intending to test his capabilities? Instruct him in something? Make sure he understands the rules he expects him to follow and the correct way to behave?

He doesn’t know the correct answer to Superman’s question, either. If Thirteen is here, will that make it easier for Superman to test and assess him? Is Superman even intending to do that yet? If Thirteen is here, will that affect the kind of testing Superman wants to do?

Will that kind of testing happen either way?

Match doesn't want–

Nothing. He doesn't want things. Ever.

He wasn't made to. So he doesn't.

“Privacy is not a concern,” he says, because Superman obviously still expects an answer and he isn't stupid enough to be difficult about it. Even if it's the wrong answer, well–then he'll know what to say next time. “Privacy” isn't exactly a concept that he's familiar with anyway. He’s never had it in his life, except for a handful of times when he was pretending to be Thirteen. Even when he was left alone in his cell or a training room or anywhere similar, there were always the cameras, and the guards were never far either.

And if Superman is intending to do assessments that involve Thirteen, then . . . then they'll be done.

Match doesn't know if it's better that way or not.

Superman lets out a little sigh, some tension draining out of his shoulders. He smiles at him, just a little. Match finds the experience unnerving, given that he’s never once had Superman smile at him. When he thought he was Thirteen, once or twice. But never when he knew he wasn't.

It's . . . strange. And it doesn't make any fucking sense. But apparently he managed to pick the correct answer, so that's–good, then. That's what Superman wanted to hear, for whatever reason.

But Match still doesn’t know if it’s going to be better this way or not.

“Alright,” Superman says, and then looks–awkward, briefly. “Ah–Kon’s name is Kryptonian, obviously. I named him after a cousin from the second house of El who he's always reminded me of. But I don't–well. I don't know you well enough to have a suggestion like that, unfortunately.”

Match stares blankly at him. What is he talking about?

“I mean, Jor-El's gotta have a baby name book or something somewhere around here, right?” Thirteen asks, glancing towards the spot where Jor-El disappeared. Match continues to not understand this conversation, because it actually sounds like Superman’s gone back to trying to name him, as if that is any kind of priority in the current situation or even remotely necessary either way. “I dunno, did Krypton do baby name books?”

“I'm not an infant,” Match says irritably, narrowing his eyes at Thirteen on principle.

“You're younger than me, Matchstick,” Thirteen shoots back, making a face at him.

“I'm older, in fact,” Match reminds him dubiously, folding his arms. “I'm not the idiot who broke his aging process for the better part of a year.”

“That was your fucking bosses’ fault!” Thirteen sputters indignantly, jabbing a finger at him. “And anyway, it doesn't count! You got made like six months after I did!”

“You expect to be treated as your physiological age,” Match retorts pointedly, raising an eyebrow at him. “So why wouldn't it count?”

“That's–okay, fuck you, it does not!” Thirteen protests, gesturing wildly with both hands. “That is literal cheaty bullshit based on some shit supervillains did to me! You are the damn ‘infant’ here! You! Not me!”

“That's a very adult and mature approach to countering a logical argument,” Match drawls, keeping his eyebrow raised. Thirteen fumes.

“Who's your worst relative?” he demands of Superman, whipping around to face him instead even as he points at Match again. “Got anybody in the Phantom Zone or whatever? Name him after that asshole.”

Superman's mouth–quirks, slightly. He looks a little stressed, still, but also like he might be trying not to laugh, which is just . . . what? What the hell?

“I don't know if that's quite the sentiment we're trying to achieve here, Kon,” Superman says, smiling wryly, and Thirteen looks disgruntled and folds his arms. Match understands even less of the conversation than before. What the hell does Superman mean, “sentiment”?

The man is actually just unfathomable. Or clinically insane in a way that Match doesn't understand how to predict the pathology of, but it’s the same difference from his side of things.

He doesn’t know what to expect here at all.

“Just pick something, then,” he says, increasingly irritated by how long this is taking. It’s not important, so he doesn’t know why the hell Superman’s fucking dithering about it. “Your planet is dead, you can’t possibly have that many relatives.”

“Technically, the House of El is fairly old, so . . .” Superman sighs a little, looking briefly wry again, but mostly just–unsettled, maybe. Off-balance? Match isn’t sure what to call it. “I just–I’m not sure what’s an appropriate choice to offer you, that’s all.”

Match really is having the stupidest day of his life.

“This is literally the least important decision you’ve ever had to make,” he says. “Just pick something so we can move on to assessments.”

“. . . ‘assessments’,” Superman repeats carefully, almost like it’s a question.

“Testing,” Match says, not looking at Thirteen. He still doesn’t know if Superman intends to involve Thirteen in that or not. “Or whatever you’re actually intending to do with me.”

Superman grimaces. Thirteen glares, but not even at Match this time, just the wall.

“Fucking Agenda fucks,” he mutters. Match doesn’t even know what the Agenda has to do with this conversation, but fine, whatever. Thirteen’s said much stupider things, considering.

“This is a waste of time,” he reiterates, and then realizes that he’s definitely been talking too much and just–stops. Doesn’t say anything else.

Even if Superman is, objectively, wasting time, and also being irritating about it.

Superman stares at him for a long, strange moment. Match very badly wants to hit him. At least that’s a script he knows how to follow. Not that he actually wants–it’s a figure of speech. That’s all.

Obviously.

“So like, who all’s in the House of El, anyway?” Thirteen asks as he glances back to Superman again, which is still annoying but at least more productive than just staring at Match like an idiot like Superman is. Match doesn’t appreciate it, obviously, just–it’s more productive. That’s all. “Aside from, uh, the obvious.”

“It’s an old house, like I said,” Superman replies slowly. “Thousands of years old, in fact. The founder of the original house was Erok–he was the first to take the name ‘El’, and his great-grandson Hyr-El is the common ancestor of the . . . surviving line. Bur-El was an archivist. His son Val-El was an explorer. Jaf-El was a prophet. Im-El was a scientist. Nox-El was an entertainer. Sul-El was an astronomer, and his son Hatu-El lead a revolt against the–”

Match is aware that Superman has an eidetic memory, but had never previously realized that could be a character flaw.

“Um,” Thirteen mercifully interrupts, looking overwhelmed. “No offense, man, but is there maybe, like, a shortlist, or . . .?”

“Er.” Superman looks–embarrassed, almost, which is actually insane, and then clears his throat. “Well–personally relevant members were my father Jor-El–and, well, my mother Lara Lor-Van. And Jor-El had a brother named–”

“Understood,” Match cuts in shortly, because he is not sitting through another list as long as the last one. “Which designation are you assigning me?”

Superman looks pained.

“It’s a name, kid,” he says. “I’m not assigning it to you, I’m offering it. I told you, I want to know what you think about things. It matters, what you think about things.”

Seeing as no one actually listened when Match pointed out that this entire idea is an unnecessary waste of time that he has no interest in, that’s an obvious lie, but fine. He’ll pretend to believe it. He knows how to do that.

“Understood,” he repeats. Superman looks no less pained, which is–frustrating. Match is doing what he wants, so why is he upset about it?

Superman just never makes sense at all, and less and less the longer Match actually spends in his presence.

“I mean it,” Superman says, and then lets out a sigh. “Just–alright. Just . . . don’t worry about it, yet. Ah–Jor, then. Jor-El.”

So the most obvious and least appropriate option. Fine. Match doesn’t care either way. It doesn’t matter if Superman wants to rename him. The Agenda named him to begin with, so–it’s a claim, obviously. A declaration of authority. Match isn’t stupid enough to require proof of his owner’s authority, but he’s put up with worse than answering to something that isn’t his name.

Much worse.

“‘Jor’?” Thirteen repeats, sounding a little skeptical. Match is much more skeptical, but again, clearly no one in this conversation cares about that. “Uh–you-know-who isn’t gonna think that’s weird?”

Superman frowns, looking puzzled.

“‘You-know-who’?” he repeats questioningly, and Thirteen looks awkward.

“You know,” he says. “Uh–naming him after your dad and all. Isn’t that weird? ‘Cuz you named, uh . . . you-know-who after–uh, your dad. Like–also. Right?”

“. . . ah,” Superman says, and clears his throat. Match cannot possibly imagine why the AI would care about sharing a designation with him, though he supposes it might be annoying for clarity-related purposes. Depending on how long Superman deigns to keep him, anyway, and if he keeps him specifically in the fortress for that length of time. Probably overlapping labeling in unrelated assets is something that would bother an AI, considering. “I didn’t, er . . . mean it like that.”

“Um, yeah, I know,” Thirteen says, fidgeting slightly and rubbing at his arm as he glances just past Superman’s ear in an unimpressive attempt at looking like he isn’t avoiding making eye contact with the man. “So that’s why it’d be weird, right? Because it’s–not like that.”

Superman looks at Thirteen for a very long moment, and then his jaw tightens just the slightest bit before he just–sighs, again, and his shoulders slump a little.

Match has literally never seen Superman’s shoulders slump. He’s seen pictures of his “corpse” after Doomsday, both collapsed on the broken street and laid out on a table in Cadmus, and they weren’t even slumped then.

He doesn’t even know what Thirteen means by “like that”, though hell if he’s going to admit to that.

It’s a stupid name anyway. The most obvious and least appropriate one, again. And also annoying for clarity-related purposes, on top of that.

“Lara,” someone says, and Match only realizes it was him when Thirteen and Superman both look at him.

. . . that wasn't . . . intentional, exactly.

“What?” Superman asks carefully. Match feels an erratic thrum of tension under his skin; locks his muscles with TTK and ignores it.

“Lara,” he repeats, less because of any actual “want” than because “Jor” really is irritatingly unclear. Even Thirteen thinks so, for fuck's sake. Anyway, Superman wants him to state “opinions”, so this should either placate him or prove that he's a liar. And then Match will know that he's lying, and can behave accordingly. “‘Jor’ is a flawed identifier. So–Lara.” It's still parallel to Superman's incredibly stupid suggestion, but at least less stupid. Unless there's another AI somewhere around here, anyway.

Thirteen blinks, looking confused. Superman . . . tilts his head, slowly. Match doesn't let himself react, but braces himself for–whatever reaction Superman is about to have.

“. . . sorry, I might've made some assumptions,” Superman says carefully, not quite frowning. “Are you a girl?”

Match has no idea why he'd ask a question that ridiculous. Superman has Thirteen’s files, and whatever scans the AI took too. And on top of that, he knows Thirteen was made in his image and that Match was made in Thirteen’s image, and just saw him naked on top of everything else. How is that even a question that would occur to him at all?

“No,” he answers anyway, because ridiculous and pointless as it is, he knows better than to ignore a direct question.

“The masculinized version would be ‘Lar’,” Superman says. Match has never met a more exhausting person in his life, including Thirteen.

“How is that relevant?” he asks irritably. Does Superman want his damn “opinion” or not?

“. . . alright. Lara-El it is,” Superman says after a moment’s pause, looking at him . . . thoughtfully, almost. Match doesn’t let himself bristle. “And, well . . . a human name, if you'd like it. You could both probably use one of those, at this point.”

“Huh?” Thirteen says, looking bewildered. “Bewildered” is not a strong enough word to cover what Match is currently feeling, or his absolute exasperation at the idea of doing a second round of this stupid nonsense. “What for?”

“For . . . being human, still,” Superman says with another quiet sigh. “Part of you both is, after all.”

“Part of us is Paul Westfield,” Match reminds him dubiously. “I don't really see how that's the genetic heritage that you want us getting in touch with.”

“Part of you is Clark Kent, too,” Superman says, and Match–frowns. Thirteen stares bug-eyed at Superman, looking like an absolute moron about . . . whatever he’s doing that about, exactly. Match doesn’t like not knowing what that is. Doesn’t like not knowing–anything, really.

Obviously.

“Who’s Clark Kent?” he asks suspiciously, because as far as he knows there weren’t any other gene donors included in Superboy’s design, so who would Superman even be–

“I am,” Superman says.

Match stares blankly at him. Thirteen cringes. Match . . . keeps staring.

What. What did he just–

What?

“. . . you have a secret identity,” Match says, slowly.

“Yes,” Superman says.

“. . . you have a secret identity, and you just told me it?!” Match demands in disbelief, raising his voice without even meaning to. He needs to not–he’s not allowed to–just–just what the actual, literal, entire hell?!

“Yes,” Superman repeats.

“Okay, wow, I like had to save multiple realities from my evil Hypertime self to accidentally find that out and you still didn't even actually admit it until that time you got mentally compromised by getting turned into a teenager and forgot how to keep a secret,” Thirteen says, staring at Superman in utter bemusement. It doesn’t feel like enough bemusement, frankly. Match needs him to outsource some, at this point.

And maybe share, while he’s at it.

“Yes,” Superman repeats again, just barely wincing as he folds his arms. “That was . . . a mistake. I should've told you my identity long before I did, Kon. So I'm going to avoid repeating that mistake now.”

“Oh,” Thirteen says, his voice sounding–odd, a little, and his expression turning uncomfortable. Match is fairly certain that Superman has lost his mind to a degree of which the Justice League should probably be informed, so can’t even blame him for it. Thirteen glances towards him, and he has that flashed thought that they might be thinking similar things again, which is no less bizarre than the first time.

What even is this conversation?

“You are actually making a much worse mistake, in fact,” Match says, because when the Agenda takes him back–what, does Superman think he won’t tell them? Think he won’t follow his owner’s orders, no matter who that owner happens to be? Is he actually that stupid? “And for completely irrelevant reasons, because 'Clark Kent' isn’t human.”

“By nurture, if not nature,” Superman says, and sort of . . . shrugs, almost. “Humans raised me. And they raised me well, and more kindly and compassionately than they needed to. And when no one else would've blamed them for not doing it.”

“I have no idea what you think you’re saying,” Match says, because he really does not and doesn’t know how to fake it. He’s a very good liar and very good improviser, for obvious reasons, but this is just–there is just no logic to what Superman is saying right now. Nothing he can figure out from context or deduce or just brush over.

“Westfield was some of the worst of humanity,” Superman says. “My parents are some of the best.”

. . . Superman has parents. Superman has parents, who are human. Superman has parents who are human, who are apparently alive, and who he apparently thinks highly of and presumably cares about, and he just told Match they existed.

Match might actually not get culled for this, if he told the Agenda that.

Doesn’t Superman know that?

“I mean, they are both really nice,” Thirteen says hesitantly, rubbing awkwardly at his arm. “Like, from what I know about ‘em, I mean. Like–just the couple of times we've met and the stuff you've said and all, not . . .”

“They are,” Superman says, and glances at Match. “And I suppose it’s time you met them too.”

“. . . what,” Match says, because apparently he’s experiencing auditory hallucinations now or maybe something in the fortress just echoed strangely or–

“You're . . . you were right, Lara,” Superman says quietly like it’s a real name, letting out an even quieter sigh. He reaches over and puts a hand on Match’s shoulder, for some reason. Squeezes it, for some reason. “You and Kon both exist because of me, whether we share DNA or not. So you're both my responsibility. And you're both as much of the House of El and as much of a Kent as I am, too.”

“. . . what,” Match says, because auditory hallucinations could not possibly account for a single word that he just heard.

“Uh,” Thirteen says, and looks overwhelmed and confused and unsettled, and Match, unfortunately, does not see any similarly logical reactions in Superman’s expression. Superman looks . . .

If Match were absolutely stupid, he’d say Superman looked regretful.

“I mean it,” Superman says, his voice very gentle. Thirteen hunches his shoulders and shrinks in on himself a little warily, his posture something between him folding his arms and wrapping his arms around himself–and, Match is sure, his TTK. Match cannot even account for how insane this situation is, because clearly Superman doesn’t think he’s Thirteen right now, but also, what, does Superman think he’s Thirteen right now? Does he actually think he’d keep any of his secrets or–or be–or that he’s–

He doesn’t. He can’t. Not even Thirteen is stupid enough to think any of that, and Thirteen was stupid enough to call them brothers the first time they met. Superman cannot possibly be enough of an idiot to actually believe Match won’t be reporting all this word-for-word to the Agenda in debriefing as soon as they reclaim him. There is literally no possible way that he could be. If nothing else, being on a yellow sun planet couldn’t let him be.

So why is Superman saying all this?

It doesn’t make sense.

“You do?” Thirteen asks hesitantly, digging his fingers into his own arms. Superman glances towards him, but doesn’t take his hand off Match’s shoulder. Thirteen stiffens and tries to straighten up and puff up his posture back to its normal bravado, but it’s not remotely convincing.

Match doesn’t know what to do about Superman’s hand still being on his shoulder.

“I do, yes,” Superman says. “You’re both my responsibility, and I’ve . . . neglected that. Neglected you.”

Thirteen visibly swallows, just barely ducking his head as his eyes slide away to the wall, but doesn’t say anything else. Match–it’s accurate, arguably, that Superman has “neglected” them. More accurate that he’s ignored them, but probably the argument could be made. It’s definitely accurate that they only exist because of him and his behavior. He decided to make himself Superman, and other people decided to react to that fact. He decided to make himself a symbol and a declaration, make himself something and someone that everyone knew existed. Made his DNA unspeakably valuable and then went and left his dead body lying around, and then proved to the whole world that nothing could ever stop him from doing what he wanted to do. Not even being dead.

Superman can do anything he wants, but all he wants to do is help people. Or so Match has heard people say, anyway, mostly while pretending to be Thirteen. It’s certainly not how the Agenda talks about him, and not Match’s own experience of him either. But . . .

Well. He and Thirteen aren’t actually “people”, so maybe that is true. Maybe that really is all Superman wants to do.

Match really doesn’t know, but it’s not like it changes the results of his behavior either way. Not like it changes the fact he told everyone exactly what he was like, and exactly how impossible to contain or control.

And exactly how valuable his DNA was.

Match’s DNA is all he has. It’s the only thing he’s ever had. It’s not even actually his, but it’s the only reason he was ever made; the only reason he ever existed. The only reason he was ever worth anything to anyone at all.

And now he’s a defective subject, and his DNA will be all he’s good for once the Agenda culls and dissects him. The only thing he’s ever been good for.

Assuming the word “good” could ever even apply to him anyway.

But Superman is saying . . .

“You’re literally insane,” Match says, because as much as he doesn’t want to be culled, he wants to listen to Superman lie to him even less. “I’m a weapon. A clone. A supervillain. And did I mention the being a weapon part, because that’s what I am.”

“You’re a part of me,” Superman says carefully, which is true, but also not something he’s ever previously cared about. And anyway, it’s only true through the theory of transitive property. Thirteen was made from Superman, and Match was made from Thirteen; ergo, Match was made from Superman. Made from a part of him, anyway.

But Superman has never cared about that before.

“I don't know quite how to define our . . . relationship, to be honest, but–you're a part of my family,” Superman continues, his tone still slow and careful like he thinks they’re stupid or something. Thirteen is stupid and Match is now concerned about his own genetic risk factors for sudden-onset psychotic breaks, but it’s irritating anyway. “You have my DNA, but more than that, your creation was a direct result of my actions. My choices. Same for Kon. You're both my family.”

“That is absolute trash logic,” Match says flatly, and doesn’t even care that he’s talking too much anymore, or about talking back or telling Superman what an unbelievable idiot he’s being. Doesn’t even care what Superman wants anymore. He’s not making sense anyway, and even when Match does what he wants, the bastard just gets upset about it. So Match just turns to the only other person in the conversation with any trace of sense left in their head and snaps, “Thirteen, make Superman shut up and find me a reasonably ethical telepath so they can erase my memory of this idiot’s identity before the Agenda takes me back and debriefs me. Is Dubbilex still with Cadmus? Yes? Get moving, we're going right now.”

“Uh–” Thirteen starts, glancing between Superman and the door hesitantly, and Superman just–sighs, a little. He won’t stop doing that. It’s irritating.

“You don’t need to go to Dubbilex, Lara,” Superman says, steady and certain and clearly even stupider than Match thought he was. “I'm trusting you not to tell the Agenda who I am. And if they try to take you back, I’m not going to let them. Even if they do manage to take you back, I’m going to come for you. Just wait for me. I’ll come.”

Match stares at him. So does Thirteen. It’s the only reasonable reaction to have to anything about this situation, as far as Match is concerned, but especially the only reasonable reaction to have to Superman saying any of that.

“What in the history of our entire non-relationship has made you decide to do that?” he demands incredulously, still staring at the man. Superman has parents. He has a name and a life and presumably people he has at least a passing tolerance for in it. He has parents. Why would he ever trust him with that information? He shouldn’t even trust Thirteen with it, and clearly he knows that because he didn’t actually tell Thirteen about it until he was mentally compromised!

“I'm doing it because you deserve at least that much from me,” Superman says quietly, his voice tight but even and arms still folded, and Match nearly malfunctions from absolute disbelief. “I abandoned you. I knew you existed, I knew what the Agenda was like and what they were doing, and I never came for you. I left you alone with them. I let them hurt you. I thought–I don’t know what I thought. I thought you didn’t want anything else, and I didn’t consider whether or not you knew you could have anything else.”

. . . oh, alright. This is just clone degradation, Match realizes. His DNA’s finally collapsed and he’s just hallucinated this entire experience while dying on an examination table in whichever satellite lab he’s currently in.

That makes more sense, yeah.

“Uh,” Thirteen says again, and swallows roughly. “That’s, uh–I mean, Cadmus would probably hire him too, if we asked? Like–they hired Heat Wave, Lara’s not any worse than him or anything. And they’re pretty okay to work for, it’s not–”

“Kon,” Superman cuts Thirteen off, looking pained. “I’m not letting Cadmus take you back either.”

Thirteen . . . stops. Stops, and stays very, very still. Match wonders when to expect the hallucinations to dissolve into the experience of vivisection. He assumes vivisection would probably be enough to interrupt hallucinations, anyway, even ones this thorough. Especially a complete one, as opposed to the kind of procedures he’s used to.

Superman apparently wasn’t really dead, when he was dead. Was . . . aware, at least on some level. Apparently.

Match would–prefer not to have inherited that trait, considering there’ll be an autopsy too. And they’ll be breaking him down for parts and samples, even if he’s degrading this badly, so–

“Neither of you belongs in a lab,” Superman says evenly, his jaw tight and eyes strange and unreadable. “And I don't want either of you to ever be left in one again.”

Never mind. Match isn’t hallucinating. There is no possible reality in which he would even hallucinate Superman saying something like that.

He looks at Thirteen again on reflex, like an idiot–exactly like an idiot, because Thirteen looks at him too. He doesn’t–he’s not–

Just–again, what the actual fucking hell is Superman doing? What is he thinking? What does he even–what’s even–

Match doesn’t understand.

“You, uh . . .” Thirteen swallows, glancing back to Superman with a strange expression on his face, hunching in on himself again. Match is actually almost impressed with him for once in their lives, because he can’t even begin to figure out what to say to any of that. “. . . you actually, like . . . really think that?”

“Yes,” Superman says. Simple. Certain. Insane.

“. . . oh,” Thirteen says, his voice very, very quiet. Match still can’t figure out a single thing he could possibly say. He doesn’t even–what is Superman even–

This isn’t what Superman does. Isn’t how he acts. Isn’t consistent with his previous behavior. Not in regards to Thirteen, anyway, and even less in regards to him. Not . . .

“Jor-El,” Superman calls, and the AI’s hologram reappears beside him. Superman clears his throat, then gestures to them. “Kon-El and Lara-El. Or–let’s say . . . Conner Kent and . . . Lane Kent. For, ah–the family register. If you’re both alright with that, that is.”

Match stares at him again, and is sure Thirteen is doing the same.

“Um–uh–yeah?” Thirteen manages, sounding uncertain and unsettled and blinking very quickly a few times, his shoulders tight. “Um–yeah. Yeah, that’s . . . uh, that’s alright. With me.” Then he glances sidelong at Match, looking unnerved, and Match is still too busy trying to reconcile the impossibility of this entire conversation to even understand the question. It’s–that’s–

Why the hell does Superman want their opinions about this? About any of this? Of anything, ever, at all? Why is he–why would he–

“Yes,” he says stiffly, because that’s what Thirteen said and Superman didn’t get upset at him for it, so–it’s the right answer, then. Isn’t it? Thirteen knows Superman better than he does, so–so it must be.

And he doesn’t know what would happen if he said the wrong thing right now, but he’s even less sure what he’d do about saying the wrong thing right now.

Superman smiles at them, and it looks sad and strange and a little painful on his face. Something in Match’s gut–twists, almost, and his chest feels like there’s something heavy on it. Heavier than even his tactile telekinesis can seem to affect.

“Thank you,” Superman says in that gentle tone again, like he thinks either of them is a thing that ever needs either thanked or anything gentle. Even Thirteen’s not that useless. He reaches out and puts a hand on both of their shoulders, and squeezes them like before. Match doesn’t know what to do about it. “Then–Kon-El and Lara-El. Conner Kent and Lane Kent. Welcome to the family. Both of you.”

“Lara,” Jor-El repeats, and sounds–longing, almost, even as he smiles too. It looks even sadder and stranger and more painful on his face, though Match doesn’t understand how or why. “Grandchild. It’s so good to meet you.”

Match can’t decide if it makes less sense that the incredibly advanced alien AI looks like he’s about to cry or that said AI just called him “grandchild”, but–but he doesn’t know what to say, still, and when he glances back to Thirteen, he clearly doesn’t either.

He can’t even blame him for it, for once.

“Alright,” Superman says, and lets out another sigh before smiling at them both again. It’s still sad and strange and painful, and Match still doesn’t understand it. “Then . . . well, I suppose we still have a few things to figure out, but . . . let’s go home, boys.”

. . . what?