A Gentleman and a Scholarship

[Raisa Janež]

The ignition clicked, the car's engine rumbling towards gentle silence. Beyond the vehicle's metallic frame loomed the castellian form of Brentwood Academy, a stronghold nestled in the Palisades beyond the city limits, surrounded by manicured ground and rolling countryside, to protect and nurture the best and brightest of Gotham's young minds. At least, that was the theory, the justification that Gotham's civic government offered to excuse investing so much of its education budget in an Academy that catered - a few well-meaning scholarships not withstanding - to the offspring of Gotham's rich and famous, at the expense of the inner city schools that struggled to provide more than a threadbare education to the less fiscally endowed masses.

Such things were as much out of sight and mind here as the city itself was, however. Brentwood was envisioned as a beacon of opportunity: a life raft for those seeking to climb out of the swirling dark waters of Gotham's shadow on a path towards liberation and greater things, before the maelstrom could drag them down into a futile life of crime or mediocrity. Corporations like Queen Consolidated and Wayne Enterprises did their best to uplift the best and brightest of Gotham's sons and daughters, offering scholarships to those whose minds and potential they saw as most tragically wasted in the city's public schools; but of course, their judgement was as corrupt and biased as any other institution on Gotham City. A worthwhile education for one's children had become a bribe, ensuring corporate loyalty from employees, and political accommodation from city officials. For the Wayne Foundation, its charitable efforts concealed something equally insidious: for every genuine case of benevolence towards a Gothamite child in need, another nurtured the latest generation of clandestine vigilantes, a secret reward for the illegal antics of America's latest teenage titans.

Not all such titans were self-made, however. Raisa's hands fell away from the steering wheel, but her eyes faltered for a moment before they turned towards the boy seated beside her. Mister Queen had been frugal on the specifics surrounding the boy - specifics that seemed to have eluded him, as well. There was no explanation for how Oliver Queen's genome was woven into Connor's superhuman genetic code, and yet paternity tests and extensive scrutiny confirmed that it was. There was no explanation for how the boy came to be, how he came to be capable of what he was capable, or how it was that he knew what he knew; how it was that he had been grown, or manufactured, or engineered.

It didn't seem to matter to Oliver Queen. It wasn't the first time he had adopted the mantle of fatherhood for a down on their luck youth that crossed his path, and it was unlikely to be the last. Perhaps it was empathy, seeking to provide for his fellow orphans in a way that his own guardians and custodians had never done for him. Perhaps it was more selfish than that, a theft of fatherhood to somehow feel closer to the parents that he'd never truly had the chance to know.

Whatever it was, it was that assumed responsibility that had led them here; led to Raisa delivering Oliver Queen's latest ward to the doorstep of his alma mater. It was done with the best of intentions, favours cashed in to secure a Wayne Foundation scholarship that would provide Connor with the kind of education it seemed he had thus far been deprived of. Giving him his best chance, that was the pitch; and yet, for all that noble intent, it was not Oliver Queen who was here, bringing his son to Brentwood for the first time. The absence was branded as protection, a barrier to protect Connor from the repercussions of the Queen name, and from the attention of those at Queen Consolidated who might seek to incorporate Connor into their nefarious schemes if they new. An odd paradox: a desire to be there for his son, executed by not being there at the sort of time when Connor might need him to be.

Raisa adjusted her features into a small, apologetic smile.

"He would be here if he could be."

A lie, or perhaps not. Perhaps Oliver Queen was here, lurking out of sight, watching from afar, forcing himself to endure whatever emotional cost came along with his choices. He was a far cry from the brooding, wounded soul he had been in the wake of his island exile, but some habits and patterns were hard to break.

A hint of mirth crept into Raisa's smile, her voice dropping part way towards a conspiratorial whisper.

"If you ask me, I think he is frightened of this place. Their parting was not exactly on the best of terms."

[Connor Kent]

In overt rebellion to the majestic stretch of building and land that rolled up on the periphery of his vision, Connor glued his gaze to the now-stationary road, ahead. Within the storm clouds of his private thoughts, he willed it to move. Apprehension was not something with which he was well-acquainted, but then, nor was looking like a total dork. They used that word on TV, like, all the time. They said 'like' a lot, too, in really inappropriate places. He didn't like it. All his short life, he'd taken refuge in cautiousness, suspicion, paranoia; this was something else. Through the butterflies and the gloom, Raisa's words cut with the bright flash of a knife, a smooth, weathered, antique buttering knife. Words were her butter. He was toast.

"Frightened?" he repeated, with narrow-eyed disbelief, "It's a school!"

He looked, at last. There it was: Brentwood Academy. It was big. It looked more like a palace than a school, with its sophisticated architecture - which, as Connor understood it, was a way of showing you had money, without showing off - its immaculate lawns, and countless looming windows. For the briefest instant, he dared to consider what mysteries lay within. His eyes roamed the grounds from the safety of the car. The difference from his previous home, the box room above Pete's Quick Stop, was breathtaking. There was no cardboard in those windows, and, if he had to guess, no paper-thin walls shored up with duct tape, or constellations in the ceiling made from bullet holes. His lips pressed into a thin line to keep him from smiling. Oliver had been in an unguarded hurry to get him out of that place. Connor could take care of himself, and he told him that. Queen didn't care. Maybe he ought to have been offended by all of this cotton wool he found himself wrapped in, but, honestly? It was refreshing to have someone give a shit, for a change. That was why he dismissed Raisa's first words with a shrug that had been carefully crafted to appear care-free. She made it sound important, like she knew what he was thinking, but what kind of asshole would you have to be to expect more from the man who owed you nothing, and had already given more than you deserved? He shifted in his seat with a discomfort that had nothing to do with the itchy new pants. He guessed he must be some kind of asshole, then.

His departure from the Crows was sudden and unexpected. A distant relative had reached out to pluck him from Gotham's grimy underbelly, that's what he'd told them. Turk was inconvenienced, Mo understood, and Owlish gave him the kind of send-off he'd come to expect from the balding half-man: "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, newbie." Connor could've convinced himself there was good humour to be found, buried beneath all that hostility, but he'd be kidding only himself. Owlish was an asshole, and they were sure to find a similar asshole to replace him within a day. Turk was fair, never sentimental. He'd miss them, in a way, his fellow scumbags - they had been the closest thing he'd ever had to a family. A highly dysfunctional criminal family.

And now? Now he had Oliver Queen looking out for him, the rich and mysterious agent of change, who knew how to take a punch, with his resources, and his connections, and his Raisa. She treated him like she cared, too. Yes, she was paid to care, but it was nice. She was also paid, however, to be an extension of Queen's merciless will, and she carried it out to the letter. That very morning, he had been presented with his first ever school uniform. And, despite all of his cantankerous objections, Raisa maintained course, cresting the tide of his ill-temper like a seasoned galleon in a storm. It was hell.

A phantom itch prompted him to tug, once again, at the stiff collar of his shirt. Then, in the loaded silence, he took a breath, and attempted one last stab at resistance.

"I'm taking the tie off."

[Raisa Janež]

The urge to smile tugged at the muscles in Raisa's cheeks, and she couldn't help but marvel at how ordinary Connor seemed at times for a boy of his age. Though information was scarce, Raisa's best understanding was that Connor had been manufactured, and that despite appearances he was - chronologically speaking - a mere infant at most. His head contained facts and knowledge, and while she might not have understood how, she could certainly imagine it being possible for those to have been placed there inside his mind. But a personality was something different. Connor did not act the way that one would expect from someone fabricated, not with the stiffness of an android or the simplicity of a child. He acted real. He acted exactly like a person was expected to act. That was a difficult notion to rationalise. Again, it was something she could imagine being possible, something a nefarious enough mind could design, and fake, but why would they? Whatever purpose had led to Connor's creation in the Cadmus Labs whose mysteries Oliver sought to uncover, why was it necessary for Connor to have these facets and attitudes? Why had they created a boy, rather than a man; and if they had sought to do the latter, but been interrupted, as Oliver speculated, why then was Connor's personality so complete in the meantime?

It was a question that Oliver wrestled with, but for Raisa the answer was clear. It came not from science, or from understanding, or from facts, or implication; it came from her faith, and her belief in that which lay beyond the world that mortal minds could comprehend. Quite simply, Connor Kent had a soul. He seemed real because he was, circumstances of his birth be damned.

She knew that was part of what Oliver wrestled with as well. For as long as she had known him, he was a person ruled by his heart. His choices were rash, and emotional, but they were pure. Even before he understood what Connor was, and what mysterious connection existed between the two of them, he had sought to help: not because there was anything to gain, and not because of any paternal obligation that he had not yet come to understand, but merely because it was the right thing to do. It had been the same with Roy, and with Mia. Oliver found himself with the power to affect change, to influence for the better the life of someone who deserved it; and he simply did. There was no hesitation, no overanalysis, he simply acted on impulse, and did what he felt was right. Thankfully, those impulses and instincts came from the whispers of a good soul; and if Connor had inherited that along with the Queen blood in his veins, then he deserved all of this. More than this.

Raisa fought against the urge to smile, instead turning on Connor with a look so stern that it would have steered a comet off course and sent it skulking back to the outer reaches of the solar system; a look so stern that even Oliver Queen withered beneath it, on the occasions where he managed to earn it.

"You will not," she insisted, leaving no room for protest, instead reaching across to pull the tie an iota tighter.

She fell silent for a moment, carefully adjusting the angle, the lapels, a corner of his collar that had tucked up in a way it wasn't supposed to. "A uniform like this is about respect, Mister Kent." Her voice was soft and insistent, the kind of words that gently demanded to be heard and heeded. "Wearing it right shows respect for your school, and respect for yourself, and in turn it shows that you deserve for others to have respect for you. That is why soldiers, and Senators, and businessmen pay such attention to their appearance. They are not showing off, they are showing respect; showing that those they present themselves to are worth the effort."

She glanced past Connor, and gestured to the building beyond.

"Keep your eyes open in there, Mister Kent, for the students who do not respect the uniform they are wearing. They are the ones who do not respect or appreciate the opportunities that they have here at Brentwood, and that are not the ones you should seek to emulate. You are better than them. Better than that. Show that to everyone; and show that to yourself."

[Connor Kent]

With a single look, his last bastion of defence was scorched away. It was a feat not to flinch, the moment she reached out to adjust his tie. He dared not move, as the fabric coiled tighter around his neck, the subtext might as well have been emblazoned across the sky in neon lights. The indignity drew out like a life sentence: evidently, the breaching of personal space held no fear for a woman like Raisa Janež. While she worked, plucking and nipping at him like a delicate flower, he caught a scent of almond hand cream. It made the whole ordeal not entirely dreadful. Once she was done, her words took root, deep inside, wrapping themselves around each of his wary preconceptions until they were shaped into something new. He managed a grunt of acknowledgement.

"I hadn't really thought about it like that before."

In the silence that followed, he stared at his hands, his big, clumsy, dangerous hands. If she only knew. Connor was not proud of the life he lived, before today, of the company he'd kept, of the things he'd done. Maybe some drop of redemption could be squeezed from his work with Barbara, undermining the Crows, bringing their criminal dealings to light, but, really, that was all her doing. Being a spectator to someone else's decency was not the same as being decent. No, Connor Kent was angry. So angry, in fact, that he struggled to see the good things right in front of him. And that made Raisa special. He didn't deserve it. And, one day, she'd know. Raisa's kindness felt like a mirage: if he got too close, it would surely vanish.

"Raisa..."

Her name rose to the surface like a thought spoken aloud. While he attempted to piece together the puzzle of words he wanted to say, Connor stared out of the window, as if there was something captivating about the sight of a clean sidewalk - which, in Gotham, there was. No-one had ever really spoken to him the way this plain unassuming little woman had; she was a woman unburdened by prejudice, it seemed, who somehow saw fit to attribute qualities to him that didn't exist. He barely knew her, and yet, he felt this need to not be a disappointment. He wanted to tell her... explain what it meant... show his gratitude.

"Raisa, I..." When he finally looked her way, he lasted all of 3 seconds, before averting his gaze, again, "Thanks for the ride."

With a click, the car door opened, and he promptly evacuated.

[Raisa Janež]

Raisa sat in silence, waiting patiently as Connor departed. She barely shifted in her seat as she watched him trudge towards the entrance to the school, only to reevaluate his stance mid stride, attempting to move with the kind of presentation of respect that Raisa's words had instilled in him. It was a manipulation in a way, she supposed, something to - briefly at least - cover over the harsh edges that Connor's life so far had left him with; harsh edges that might rub his fellow students the wrong way. It was bad enough to be the new kid, harder still to be one there thanks to a scholarship rather than familial privilege. It would be far worse if Connor's first impressions were made as his natural self; teenagers would find enough reasons to prey upon their newest peer without Connor's rugged attitude offering an easy target.

It was on that front where Raisa disagreed most strongly with Oliver in the way that he approached his burgeoning relationship with Connor. If Brentwood Academy's latest student was not Connor Kent, but Connor Queen, his reception would be vastly different. That name would earn him leniency, or at the very least caution from his peers; a preexisting presumption of respect that would far outweigh anything that a well-worn uniform could provide. Of course, she understood Oliver's reluctance as well. He had more to consider, more to balance, than merely optimising Connor's best interests. A new Queen heir would attract attention, not just from Queen Consolidated but from the tabloids and media as well. Oliver had experienced the attentions of journalism in a way that Raisa never had; and if Oliver felt that sheltering Connor from their attention for as long as possible was the optimal course of action, then Raisa had to respect that judgement. He was the boy's father, after all; even if Connor was yet to discover that truth.

She didn't flinch as the rear door of her sedan opened and closed, didn't even glance at the rear view mirror to identify the figure that covertly clambered in. Her hands returned to the wheel, and the gear shift, but she didn't spur the vehicle into motion just yet, affording her stealthy passenger with a few moments of discrete observation before she finally shifted from neutral, and began to pull away.

"You don't want the world to know," she said aloud, weaving her way into the precession of vastly more expensive and impressive cars that had similarly deposited day students at the school. "That I understand. But why you hide it from the boy, that I do not. What harm is there in him knowing he is your son? What harm in knowing that the reason you care is not just a fleeting interest?"

[Oliver Queen]

Oliver had been braced for it; he knew the conversation would rear it's head again eventually. Raisa had waited until he was most vulnerable, too: the exact moment when he was most likely to change his mind, watching the son he'd never expected to have walk into school alone. It didn't seem fair, not to Connor in isolation, and not by comparison, either. With Roy, starting school had been part of how they'd figured out their dynamic, Oliver just as unsure of how to be a legal guardian as Roy was about having one. With Mia, he'd been so present that it had become an annoyance, and as much as it stung to know how eager she was to escape from him, it warmed his heart at how normal that felt for a father and a teenage daughter.

With Connor it was different, and try as he might, Oliver couldn't stop himself from trying to see it all from his side. Would he be jealous? Would he see the difference as a reflection upon him? Would he think he understood, misinterpreting the reasons as some distinction between the children that Oliver had "chosen", and the one who had been forced onto him?

It was the answer to Raisa's question, the only consolation that came from how insistantly the thoughts plagued him.

"If I tell him -" Oliver replied quietly, without his usual confidence and certainty, marred instead by a resigned sadness that matched how persistently his eyes continued to gaze out of the window at the uncomfortably familiar school. The knife twisted in his gut as he remembered his own first experiences of Brentwood, practically abandoned on the doorstep by an uncle who frankly didn't give a shit. Was that how Connor felt - abandoned? Was he inflicting the same injury upon his son that he himself had suffered?

His eyes peeled reluctantly away, as the driveway from the school took a turn, topiary hedgerows blocking the main building from view. He turned towards the front of the car, but avoided the mirror, avoided the eye contact with Raisa that it risked.

"- he'll think I care because I have to. Roy, and Mia, they know that I chose to care. They know it wasn't some involuntary obligation. Connor deserves the chance to know that too, and I don't want the truth getting in the way of that."

Oliver's eyes shifted without permission to the mirror, catching the briefest flash of Raisa's eyes.

"Don't give me that look," he shot back in protest.

[Raisa Janež]

"I do not know to what look you are referring," with all the coyness of a cat who'd eaten the canary.

Raisa fought against a smile, letting her gaze linger on the mirror for a moment longer. She disagreed with Oliver's decisions, yes, but she didn't challenge them to change his mind: quite the opposite, in fact. Oliver had doubts, painted across his aura as clear as day. That was unacceptable. Doubts served no one. He had chosen the path that he felt was right, and Connor deserved conviction on that front: every hesitation, every second guess, every falter diminished Oliver's commitment to that path, and indecision would only make things worse. If this was how Oliver chose to take these first steps with his son, then very well: but Oliver needed to be sure of himself, so that in due time Connor would be able to see that certainty as well.

For Oliver Queen? If he had doubts, there was no surer way to bolster his confidence than have him explain to someone why he was right.

A little flicker of warmth was added to the glance that was reflected back in his direction. "I am just the maid, Mister Queen. You do not pay me to judge."

[Wally West]

* * *

Wally fidgeted at the top of the stairs, idly wondering if he'd selected the best place to wait. It made sense, right? Brentwood Academy's newest student was going to have to walk up those stairs when he arrived, and so that was the most sensible place for a Student Ambassador to wait in ambush. Not that this was an ambush, obviously, more of a welcome wagon really. Though, weren't welcome wagons supposed to have banners and things, or at the very least one of those signs with the person's name on, like limo drivers waiting at an airport? Maybe he should do that. There was still time, especially for him: a blink of an eye, and he could be back here with a sign before anyone even noticed he'd gone. But no, he thought to himself, suspiciously eyeballing the security camera above the school's main entrance, while at the same time trying to look like he wasn't eyeballing the security camera, that was irresponsible. He was meant to be using his powers for good, not convenience, and the risk of exposure was too high. Sure, he was faster than the frame rate on even the most high tech digital camera, but even if that didn't catch him, there was the rare fleeting possibility that one of the other students that usually spent all of their time ignoring him might catch a glimpse of lightning, or might feel the breeze as he sped away and back. And even if they didn't know that it was him, even if they just saw or felt something, next thing you knew there'd be rumours of metahumans at Brentwood Academy, and there'd be a full DEO lockdown and investigation, and that would put Kara at risk, and himself, and that might lead back to Barry, or even to Superman; and who knew what other secrets he might expose by being that careless?

So, no sign. Definitely no sign.

Oh, bitchsticks, Wally thought to himself, borrowing a profanity from the show he'd spent the previous evening binge-watching. It took a little persuasion to convince a computer to play things back at the kind of speeds that his enhanced mind was capable of processing, but after a week spent memorising every book on programming in Brentwood's library, he'd managed to code together a little work around, and was actually getting pretty close to his latest life goal of watching everything on Netflix. He had a short window before the service went and added more stuff, but based on his projections, this was the month where he finally got caught up, and then it would just be a matter of matching pace.

But oh, right, the bitchsticks. Far too late, the realisation slowly dawned on Wally that he'd been provided with a name for Brentwood's new student, but had no idea what the guy looked like. It was a grievous oversight on the part of the faculty, absolutely, and if he'd had the forethought he probably could have blitzed the internet to find enough to at least recognise them at a glance, but he'd been too busy juggling about a dozen other things to have that kind of forethought. Damn it, Wallace, he chastised, but in this oversight he found an opportunity, to apply some of the detective skills that Barry had tried to instil during their time together.

While true, statistically speaking there was a good chance that the new kid had passed him by already, Wally chose to believe otherwise, and set about scanning the crowd, piecing together the mediocre jigsaw puzzle of information that he knew about Connor Kent. He was here on a scholarship: that's why Wally was the student ambassador doing this meet and greet, rather than one of the fancy-pants rich kids. On the one hand, it made a certain amount of sense, pair a new student with someone who'd been through the same experiences, potentially had answers to some of the more likely questions, and all that; but at the same time, there was definitely a class thing here. The scholarship program was supposed to be about giving poorer kids in Gotham an equal chance, ensuring that smart minds didn't miss out on the potential for success and greatness just because the opportunities they needed and deserved weren't available to them; but those equal opportunities didn't extend to equal acceptance by the students. The rich kids knew who they were, they knew who weren't, and they were usually massive dicks about it. It was like Harry Potter, except with a bunch more Draco Malfoy pureblood Slytherin rich kid douchebags, and absolutely none of the cool classes. Okay so sure, the odds of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Brentwood was a little slim, what with magic not being real and all that - no matter what some heroes and villains claimed, there was definitely a scientific inspiration for their mystical mumbo jumbo, even if no one had managed to figure it out yet - but come on. At this point, Wally would have settled for some botanical approximation of herbology classes. But no, that kind of hands on, hands dirty sort of business was definitely not the sort of thing covered at rich kid school.

Despite Wally's mind being off on a total tangent, parts of it still managed to operate and function towards the task at hand. A scholarship meant a less wealthy student, which ruled out all the Bentleys, limos, and Aston Martins, and probably anything that had a plate from the last few years. That left affordable sedans, hatchbacks, and those big van-car things that soccer moms drove; and thankfully, there weren't a lot of those. From that small pool of data points, Wally began to exclude all of the students whose faces he recognised - which was everyone; part of the blessing/curse of a lightspeed brain - and that left only one option.

He probably could have guessed it, even without all the mental gymnastics. Take one look at the crowd of students arriving at Brentwood, and there was one who was obviously knew. They walked differently, less certain, less sure of where they were going. The uniform was new, too, in that first day of school way, not in that I get a new uniform each week because mama and papa are too wealthy for the trivialities of laundry way. And, well, he just looked like a Connor, y'know? There was a look of normalcy about him, nothing overly preened about his appearance, a hairstyle that was more function than style, eyes that weren't constantly on the search for the nearest person to judge and look down on.

Wally chose his expression carefully - enough of a smile to seem friendly, but not so much that he seemed like a psycho; and a little splash of eyebrows to seem inquisitive - and bounded down the stairs with a pitter patter of shoes on stone, making no qualms about striding straight over.

"Hi, you must be Connor."

He thrust his hand out eagerly.

"I'm Wallace West, but my friends call me Wally. I've been asked to show you around."

[Connor Kent]

It was a long walk to what Connor supposed was the main entrance to Brentwood Academy - it was certainly impressive enough, flanked by proud stone columns, with an ornate crest carved into each formidable cherry oak door - the walk gave him time to think. Too much time. Despite already spotting some students disappearing inside the school, dressed in full uniform, just like him, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something unmistakably odd about his appearance, and the others would sniff it out, right away. He became acutely aware of every movement; his smart new shoes scraped the path with every step, forcing him to lift his feet more when he walked, and, after having battled the urge to bury his hands in his pockets, instead they hung like dead weights by his side; he was an intruder in his own skin.

He missed his hat. In a ruthless pre-emptive strike, Raise confiscated his beloved cap, the moment he climbed into the car. It was not melodramatic, in this case, to wonder if he'd ever see it again. Dipped low, the peak acted as a shield against probing stares and the need to make eye contact with strangers; Connor was forced to remind himself that it was extremely unlikely Cadmus Labs made a habit of infiltrating schools. And that was when he was identified by a stranger, who blurted out his name, and descended upon him, all handshakes and smiles. He stiffened beneath those fresh itchy fabrics, and swept a precautionary glance, left, then right. The hand was accepted, at last.

"Hey," he said, taking note at once of the handsome knot in his tie, and the cleanliness of his shirt; the Raisa in his head gave a nod of approval. Wallace had approached him with confidence, which meant he was either sincere in his offer to help, or he was one of the popular kids that Barbara had warned him about. He had nice hair. Maybe he was one of those cheerleaders. Shit. Why didn't he watch Mean Girls when he had the chance!? Regardless of whatever high school faction he represented, Wallace was to be given the benefit of the doubt, and treated with respect for as long as he deserved it.

"I, uh, appreciate the offer," he said, remembering his manners. Once again, the impressive scope of Brentwood Acadamy drew his gaze, turning his apprehension to wonder, "It must be pretty easy to get lost in a place like this."

[Wally West]

Wally's smile broadened. Step one was a success. He wasn't exactly sure how many steps there were supposed to be, but this first step, saying hello and successfully managing to not get told to screw off or some other more linguistically colourful alternative, that had gone just great. Step two was next, obviously, and that was a pretty solid slam dunk as well. Step two was icebreakers, and if there was one thing that Wally West was good at, aside from running real fast, solving complex equations and puzzles, and reciting from memory the names of all eight hundred and seven pokémon, it was anecdotes.

"Oh man, you have no idea," Wally offered back. Now was the perfect moment to shove his hands into his pockets, shrug a little, and sway on the balls of his feet, but that was something he was trying to train himself out of. It was one of the reasons his Kid Flash suit didn't have pockets - that and aerodynamics, obviously - and he'd been trying to become more conscious of his mannerisms, the sorts of things he needed to indulge at the right moments as Wally West, but steadfastly avoid as Kid Flash, lest someone figure out that he was him. Instead he let his hands clasp loosely behind him - that felt less awkward than letting them dangle by his sides, or thread together awkwardly in front of his crotch - and pushed his weight onto his heels. Overcompensating, definitely, but at least it was a start.

"When I first started here, I was supposed to meet someone for my orientation in Room 105. You'd figure that would be pretty easy to find, right? First floor, maybe, sandwiched between Rooms 104 and 106? That would make sense. But Brentwood? Brentwood Academy does not make sense. Turns out that there is no Room 104, because it got converted into extra office space back in the nineties, and Room 106? That's over in the Performing Arts building, which is definitely the kind of place that you'd expect to be going for orientation, but actually 105 is downstairs off the main corridor, on the way towards the canteen and the gym, because it would be stupid to expect that a damned school would be able to follow something as complicated as basic numerical order -"

Wally caught himself. It was too late - far too late - to do anything about the runaway tirade that his mouth had engaged in, but he slammed the brakes on anyway, screeching to a halt like one of those movie scenes with all the metal-on-metal shrieking, and the sparks, and all that good stuff. With any luck, he'd managed to stop the thing that perfect instant before it smashed into the poor unfortunate victim that was Connor Kent.

"Sorry, I have -" A hand gestured ambiguously towards his head. He stopped as soon as he realised he was inadvertently implying some sort of mental problems. "My mouth runs away with me sometimes. But yeah, it's definitely easy to get lost in here. You'll get the hang of it, though. At least we don't have staircases that magically move, or dorm rooms hidden behind enchanted paintings that require ever-changing passwords to get in."

[Connor Kent]

Wallace's story rolled over him like a verbal storm, he stood steadfast against the gales of enthusiasm, and divided his concentration between following the tale and keeping a straight face. It was not amusement that threatened to wriggle through the cracks of his composure, but bewilderment; the creased brow and troubled frown, or the surprised eyes with the gaping mouth. It came in only two flavours, and each was unflattering as the last. By the time Wallace was done, Connor discovered he'd only absorbed a small portion of the detail, and, to his dismay, realised he still had no idea where to find the infamous Room 105. He could only hope that it was a place that never appeared on his timetable.

Beyond the galloping pace and tangential nature of his fellow student's story-telling, what struck him as most surprising was the dramatic change of tone towards the end, when Wallace related his apparent frustration at the school itself. He'd cut himself off, prematurely, and it was a tactic that Connor recognised in himself, no less. There had been no evidence of balled fists, no gnashing of teeth, or punching of holes in walls, but, even without any of his own trademark theatrics, he had to wonder if this friendly unassuming Wallace West suffered from anger issues, too. A tenuous connection, perhaps, but it was just enough to make this new ground feel a little firmer underfoot. He could feel a smile starting to surface, when his entire grasp of the conversation was derailed with a single sentence.

Moving staircases? Paintings with passwords!? His thoughts came crashing down around him, creasing his face with confusion, pulling the corners of his mouth into that unflattering frown. Mystified, and also a little apprehensive of potential eavesdroppers, Connor leaned in, and said, "Is that... a thing?"

[Wally West]

Wally's thoughts faltered, like a speedster tripping over an icy pothole and transforming into a tumbling snowball of fractured limbs and embarrassment. It was an oddly specific metaphor, but also a a painfully familiar one, and even years later, his once dislocated shoulder still ached in sympathetic memory of the fiasco. It hadn't been some foe that had thwarted him either, not Captain Cold, or Mister Freeze, or Icicle, or anything like that - just winter, and his own attentiveness. That was his true nemesis, the arch-rivalry that defined his exploits as Kid Flash. Batman had the Joker. Barry had Eobard Thawne. Wally had a brain that was just too fast for its own good.

It wasn't a pothole that tripped him this time though; more of a plothole, or a knowledge hole, or some other kind of pesky breach in the fabric of Wally's understanding of reality. There was no denying the fact that Wally was a nerd. In fact, he wasn't just some mere mortal of a nerd, he was a nerdish god. When your mind could devour an entire book in the amount of time it took a normal person to make a sandwich; when you could binge watch the entirety of BBC's Sherlock while waiting for one of your female friends to come back from the bathroom; when you could complete a homework essay in the blink of an eye, but had to then wait periodically for the words to sluggishly appear because the word processing software's buffer was full; those kinds of factors left you with a lot of time to indulge in all manner of different interests, and Wally had indulged in pretty much everything. He was the arch-nerd, no fandom unexplored, no content unsampled, no ship unshipped. It was easy then - no, normal - for Wally to find himself referencing something that flew over the head of who he was speaking to. But some things were safe bets. Some references you could rely on; some cult followings were universal. Until now, he had counted Harry Potter among them. But now?

For a split second, Wally studied Connor's features, searching for the micro-expressions he'd read about in the batch of criminology texts and papers he'd been skimming through for fun a few weeks ago. Opinion was divided on whether any of the information was valid or not, but Wally liked it. It was another weapon in his arsenal, something else to pay attention to, something else to occupy his mind and hold it at bay from speeding off during those times when he needed to slow down and focus. He studied them now, searching Connor's features in the blink of an eye for signs of deceit and deception, for indications that Connor might be screwing with him, as it seemed the vast majority of the student body was inclined to do. Wally found nothing, not even the faintest hint of anything disingenuous; just some poor kid who didn't have a damned clue what Wally was saying.

In an instant, Wally felt sorry for him. It wasn't that this boy was somehow sheltered from the unifying awareness of Harry Potter that seemed to bind huge swathes of the internet together: it was everything that unawareness implied. What else was Connor sheltered from? What other experiences and literary discoveries had been denied to him; or had he denied himself? Was he one of those people who turned their nose up at books, and if so what would it take for Wally to repair such a heinous character flaw? In an instant Connor transformed, no longer a new student in need of Wally's literal guidance, but rather some cave dwelling Neanderthal in need of reprogramming to better align him with the rest of the human race - in other words, a challenge.

"Not here," Wally replied happily, skidding sideways around Connor's knowledge gap in a mental equivalent of the sweet stopping move of Barry's that he'd spent literally days practising in the privacy of an abandoned warehouse in Keystone. "So don't worry about that."

Immediately, Wally swerved the conversation in a new direction. People often talked about how cars were able to turn on a dime. It had always struck Wally as weird: he understood the premise of the idiom, that something had such a small turning circle that it would fit inside the radius of something very small, like a coin; but it was one of those stupid linguistic absurdities, like trying to fit a camel through the eye of a needle, far too surreal for his liking. Even so, the English language lacked a better alternative; so it was on a dime that Wally changed the trajectory of their conversation, swerving off in an utterly new direction.

"So, where are you from?" Wally asked, hoping the forward momentum would allow any awkwardness Connor felt to be left behind in their dust. Not that Wally kicked up dust - unfortunately; and not for lack of trying - when he ran, and certainly not when he talked, but it was one of those idioms again, and Wally had learned to just roll with them. "I'm from Keystone City, over in Kansas. A friend of mine -" He hesitated for a nanosecond, trying to connect the dots between Kara, her cousin, and the Ma and Pa she'd once told him about. "- has relatives who own a farm near Smallville, and their last name is Kent. Don't suppose you're related?"

It was a stupid question, obviously - as if the world was that small! - but at the very least it was an opportunity for Connor to speak again, and hopefully this time it would go a little better than the last.

[Connor Kent]

"Smallville?" Connor repeated, tasting the word for any hint of fiction. It sounded made up, but then, so did plenty of places. He shrugged it off, "Nah. No family out there."

A flicker of a smile was offered in consolation, to both shoot Wallace's question out of the sky, and to rise up as a barrier between himself and any further probing. Behind the smile, though, he wondered. Kents in Smallville. It was nothing, really. Just another question mark anchored to the end of the words that had haunted him since he first blinked himself to life inside a test tube: Who am I? Queen. Kent. Queen. Kent. Absently, his fingers rose up to toy with the cold metal tags pressed against his chest, only to fondle his fancy new tie instead. Remembering himself, and his current situation, he cleared his throat and ploughed forth, into his own practiced fiction:

"I'm from a small town in San Juan County, Colorado. Middleton. It's 9,793 feet off the ground."

With a nod, Connor punctuated the extent of his own knowledge of his supposed home town. Resources were scarce when it came to the humble unincorporated community of Middleton, Colorado. And, despite the shortage of information available to him, it was admittedly a pretty fun fact he'd just sprung on his new... he shouldn't call him friend, yet. His new... Wallace. His first Wallace, in fact. He was a nice guy, it seemed. Like, really nice. And that left him conflicted because there weren't many genuinely nice people in the world; Barbara was nice, once she'd stopped attacking him with her taekwondo wizardry, and Oliver was nice, but that had taken them a broken nose to get there, which left Raisa. At least there was nothing unusual about her. Ok, so maybe this Wallace was one of the good ones. It didn't mean Connor had to trust him with his life or anything.

They passed through the heavy wooden doors, and stepped into a spacious hall, peppered with stone busts and framed paintings. Already, Connor could feel his eyebrows embarking on an expedition up his face. His nose twitched, then, at the invasion of a pungent smokey new aroma; he was reminded of his trip to the library, the day after its floors were revarnished. Up ahead, a corridor, where the grey morning light plunged in through tall windows, giving the glossy wooden panelling an understated gleam. Again, that sophistication. When they stepped into the long corridor, they were greeted by the thunderous applause of a hundred distant footsteps; Connor faltered in his step, and locked his jaw like a vice.

"This place," he said, splitting his grimace into a grin, "It sure is something."

A turn on the spot allowed him to drink in the details of the ornate vaulted ceiling, while bracing himself for the aural onslaught to come. Finally, his eyes fell on Wallace, again, "So, do you like it here?"

[Wally West]

...off the ground?

Wally was glad that this Connor kid - was it okay to call him 'kid'? Normally that was something older folks said to younger folks, just to emphasise the age difference and put the youngsters in their place. Maybe it was valid, but that all depended on how old Connor Kent was. It was a close one. They were in the same class after all, so that put their ages in the same ballpark, unless Connor had been bumped up a year or something, and no offence to Mr Off The Ground, but he didn't exactly seem like the sort to have that happen. If Wally didn't get to skip a grade, there was no way.

But anyway, Wally was glad this Connor maybe-kid wasn't some kind of supervillain. If he were, his superpower would be tripping Wally up, and that was pretty much nightmare nemesis territory. It took a few nanoseconds of deliberate concentration to realise that Connor was talking about elevation, about his home's height above sea level; rather than it actually being an admission that he came from some sort of flying city like the Jetsons or something. What followed was another few nanoseconds of pause, this one invested in disappointment. A flying city would be so cool. So sure, the logistics would be a nightmare, you'd need some kind of practical antigravity technology that didn't tear a hole in physics, or one hell of a powerful set of turbines or something; and sure, technically science said that was impossible, but you know what? Science also said that Wally was impossible, and he was fairly confident that he was in fact a real person doing real things. Science was only right about stuff until it was wrong; that was the whole point.

But that hadn't been what Connor was getting at. He was just offering up some kind of trivia about his home. A pretty random and weird piece of trivia, granted, but then British people always talked about the weather, so maybe that was just something that folks cared about back in Middleton, Colorado. Maybe it was a point of pride or something, like that movie with Chief O'Brien and Mr Fantastic where they made a hill in Wales a tiny bit taller so that the English would decide that it was actually a mountain.

His eyes narrowed imperceptibly for a split microsecond. Was this Connor kid secretly British? It would certainly explain how weird he was being.

Regardless, while Wally had been busy wasting point three microseconds thinking about all kinds of tangents, Connor had already moved the conversation along, and spun their trajectory back to talking about Wally. That was a blessing and a curse. Wally didn't like talking about himself, but he was also incredibly good at it, usually by accident and while being totally oblivious. His friend with family in Smallville had once pointed out that maybe that was the reason his love life was in such dire straights, and so Wally constantly reminded himself to let others speak, constantly peppered people with little questions that would provoke them into doing the talking so that he could spend a culturally appropriate amount of the conversation listening. It was a good thing, Wally knew that, but at the same time it could be incredibly boring. Not because learning about other people was boring - far from it! Wally loved knowledge, regardless of the source; he was a veritable Johnny Five when it came to craving input and information, and knowledge about people was usually way more fascinating than anything books or the internet could tell him. Problem was, people talked so slow. It wasn't that he needed people to speak at lightspeed the way he did, even though that was clearly the most efficient way of having a conversation, especially if your brain was awesome enough to keep pace with it; it was more the rate at which people actually said stuff that mattered; that ratio between the number of words they said, and the number that was actually enlightening. Wally knew for a fact that he could spend half an hour with even a base model computer with a half-decent internet connection, and find far more out about a person than he could in a whole month of conversation.

Of course, Barry had to go point out that technically that was kinda weird and stalkery, and an invasion of privacy, and all that stuff; and so the slow way was Wally's only recourse - and not even one he could engage in right now, because stupid Connor had gone and outsmarted him again with his nefarious villainous ways. Wally fumbled for a response, considering his options. A short answer, perhaps, to steer the conversation back to Connor? But no, that might just give him the impression that short answers was all that's acceptable, and the last thing Wally wanted was to undermine that enlightenment ratio even further.

An honest answer, then? But that too came with a problem, because Wally didn't have an honest answer; not one that was ready, at least. It wasn't one he could muster together quickly, either. For all Wally's speed, for all his rapid thought, when it came to emotions everything ground to a halt. Speedsters didn't quite understand how everything about them worked, but Wally had a theory, that if the crux of their abilities came from compelling the molecules and energy fields of their body to move faster, then a speedster's rapid thought just came from compelling the electrons in their synapses to fire faster, the chemicals in their brains to shift and change at faster rates. If that was the case, then processing emotions, overcoming grief, getting over a broken heart or a love unrequited, all of that should have been faster too - except it wasn't. It was almost like emotions were different, almost as if they had an energy of their own that a speedster's power wasn't able to manipulate.

That left Wally to deal with his emotions like a mortal. Slowly. Agonisingly. Wally's usual response was to run away; to flee from the thoughts; to fill his head with so much else that they didn't get the opportunity to surface. Did he like it here? At Brentwood? At Gotham? Did he like being half a continent away from home? Did he like leaving everyone he knew and loved behind? Did he feel that the shift, the transition, the opportunity to carve out a little independence away from the shadow of Barry Allen was worth that exchange? Did he secretly worry that this situation was all false, that Barry had sent Wally away just to be rid of him, not to give him this new chance? That the opportunity to dress in red was a consolation for Barry's efforts to thrust him out of sight and mind; make him Batman's problem, Gotham's problem; let Central City be rid of him?

It wasn't what Connor was asking, but that was the problem. Slow down enough to think about those kinds of things, and suddenly a whole horde of them grabbed hold at you, wrapping around your thoughts like the clammy necrotic hands of shambling zombies. Shambling emotional zombies, of grief, and doubt, and fear.

Wally blinked, and they were gone, his thoughts speeding into the distance on a path that passed by arbitrary calculations, and benign recollections of historical facts. The tiniest sliver of consciousness turned itself to a more restrained and confined interpretation of Connor's question.

"Some of the rich kids are real jerks, and there's a bunch of weirdo traditions and ways of doing things that honestly I just don't understand. But not everyone and not everything is like that. It's nice here. Everyone is either here because they want to learn, or because mommy and daddy is paying a fortune for the privilege. A school like this gets good teachers, good resources, good equipment; and the grounds? Man, wait until school ends, and you get to walk back out those doors and see the sunlight peeking through the trees. Wait until you see the sunset reflecting off the Gotham skyline before it disappears behind the school. I can't even begin to imagine what it'll be like when fall hits its stride, or when winter gets here. There's a lake on the grounds; I heard some of the other kids talking about how last year they found some scientist from the university to help make sure that the whole thing froze safely, and they turned the whole thing into a skating rink; offered that as an alternative to phys ed for the kids who wanted it."

Wally's voice trailed off, his mouth settling into a wistful smile as it stilled itself.

"Do I like it here? Hell yeah I do. I miss home, and it's not easy being a scholarship kid surrounded by all these rich kids, but man, the food alone is enough to make up for that, and that leaves everything else as a perk."

[Connor Kent]

They were walking, again. That sluggish convenient walk that went hand-in-hand with trying to give someone your undivided attention, while attempting to push forward. Connor wanted to believe that Wallace knew where they were going, he had to trust there was a plan, but, at the same time, he found himself wondering how anyone could talk so much and do anything else, at the same time? He was like some sort of social superhuman, and that made conversation easy - chiefly, because Connor was not doing the talking. All of the other sounds, the clap and scrape of shoes on wooden floors, the thudding of doors, the clatter of pencils, the rumbling of pages, the shrieks and barks of laughter, and the storm surges of conversation from every class room, it all faded into the background, like the ambient hum of a ceiling fan, while Wallace spoke. His answer was illuminating.

It was curious that the first thing he'd elected to share was the fact that some of the kids were jerks. Suddenly, friendly talkative Wallace West was painted in new shades of colour, the murky browns and greys of bullies who encroached upon his own vibrant self-portrait. Even now, in the placid and prosaic environment of a school corridor, he could feel the red beast stir, inside. He spoke of the standard of resources and facilities that would be available, too, and that was an exciting thought, even if Connor had no basis for comparison. Wallace's enthusiasm was infectious. He found himself smiling, a little taken by the way his verbose tour guide waxed lyrical about the sun, and the trees, and the skyline; no-one had ever spoken to him about those kind of things, before. He remembered his first sunset, it was like everything had stopped, and the sky seemed to radiate this warmth, and kissed everything with soft reds, yellows, oranges, and pinks, and, for just a few moments, Metropolis looked its very best; he remembered standing on top of the park bench, climbing a tree, just to follow the trail of the setting sun, until its last embers vanished into the sea. In the blissful aftermath, he looked around for a friendly face to share in the moment, but Metropolis, it seemed, had other plans: no-one stopped, no-one cared. Connor loved the sun. Perhaps, in Wallace, he'd found a kindred spirit.

But, how to know? Connor wasn't born yesterday, and while, admittedly, it wasn't that far off, he knew enough about guys to know you couldn't just ask a dude if he wanted to sit and watch the sunset with you. Baby steps, he reminded himself. First, he'd have to convince Wallace he wasn't a rich jerk - which he wasn't, but it wasn't like he was one of the smart ones, either - no, it sounded like he was some sort of abnormality, in the absence of rich parents, Connor was a charity case, there by the good graces of some other rich person, and, somehow, that felt worse. With a stab of anxiety, he found himself wondering how long would it be before Wallace and the other kids saw him for what he was? This was a bad idea. He should never have left himself get talked into-

"Food?" His eyebrows gave a surprised leap, as if he'd just recalled the existence of things like steak, pizza, and barbecue chicken, and the smile returned in full, "That's good to know. When it comes to meal times, I take no prisoners."

It was said with pride, like a mission statement, and was followed up with the next, most obvious, question:

"Hey, do you guys have burritos, here?"

[Wally West]

A burrito. Standing in the lobby of one of the most expensive private boarding schools on the eastern seaboard, and his first instinct was to ask about burritos.

Wally decided that he liked this Connor kid. In actual fact, he had already decided as much prior to now, but this moment reaffirmed it, cemented it, and froze it in carbonite. Burritos were a delicacy crafted by the gods, as far as Wallace West was concerned. Growing up in Kansas, his culinary experiences had never been all that adventurous. Ma did all the cooking; Pa liked his food exactly the way he liked it, no variations; and that was that. It had been Aunt Iris who'd taken him for his first burrito, swooping in like some wondrous flame-haired angel to liberate him from dietary mediocrity. She'd made out like it was no big deal; just an aunt and a nephew hanging out. She'd never understand the wonder, the majesty, the life changing significance of that first bite of wrap wrapped spicy Mexican goodness.

It had been a rare commodity at first; but the Speed Force had changed that. Eating to excess transformed from indulgence to requisite, and the trip that had only been possible from the passenger seat - yes, the passenger seat, Aunt Iris had been awesome enough to let him sit up front as well - turned into something he could achieve in the blink of an eye. But he restrained himself. He saved it, cherished it. A treat, a reward, a banquet befitting a fledgeling hero every time he rescued Central and Keystone Cities from the brink of villainous destruction.

Part of him was glad of the answer to Connor's question. While the food here at Brentwood Academy was of the standard the wealthier students were accustomed to, there was a certain repetitiveness to it, a certain pattern that became monotonous for someone like Wally. It worsened with Wally's own dietary complications; every use of his powers demanded a meal unto itself, and Brentwood had no accommodations for his indulgence. Every supplement came from his personal stores, or from errands run into the city; and there were only so many places that Wally could visit quickly and discretely without raising too much suspicion. Tacos, burritos, quesadillas, and every possible permutation thereof - they were the rare break to the bland repetition, the sparkle of special that assured his stomach that he didn't hate it.

"Not at the school," Wally replied. The answer was sombre, mournful; but respectfully so. "But there is a Taco Whiz just on the far side of the bridge that I could run out and -"

He stopped himself, tripping over his tongue and screeching to a verbal halt. Thoughts of melted cheese and the crunch of crispy shells had undermined his common sense and better judgement, leaving him vulnerable. Connor Kent's supervillainy strikes again, it seemed.

"- I mean, when we get the chance to head off campus, we can totally swing by and pick some up. The school runs a shuttle bus down to the ferry at evenings and weekends, in case any of the boarding kids want to head into Gotham."

His brow furrowed slightly, idle curiosity creeping into his voice.

"Are you gonna be staying in the dorms, or do you live somewhere in the city?"

[Connor Kent]

"Uh... I don't know yet." He shrugged before he could stop himself, "I have a place in the city, right now."

Even as the words tumbled out, he sounded unsure of them. It wasn't a lie: he did have a place, and, granted, it wasn't his place, but it was a marked improvement over the room above Pete's Quick Stop. Mal was a good guy, and had done a lot in a small amount of time, just to accommodate his new lodger. If he was being honest, Connor could see himself being happy there; he could help around the garage, they could go for burgers at Jeff's, and spot each other on the bench - there probably weren't a whole lot of people who could keep up with Tank Top, after all. Yeah. He liked crashing at Mal's place, but that was exactly the problem: Mal was a good guy. He deserved his space, and Connor hated the idea of him being an imposition, when another option was on the table.

"And this place..." Hands plunged firmly inside his pockets, he turned stiffly on the spot, rigid from the weight of all the ornate grandeur around them. He considered their surroundings. Outside of Gotham Library, he'd never seen a place like it, and like the library itself, it felt like a place for books, and paintings, and polished marble, a place for the educated; he loved his library, but he could never see himself living there. The same was true of Brentwood Academy, and it showed on his face, which creased with uncertainty. Even the expectant look on Wallace's face filled him with doubt. He was a nice guy, certainly different from anyone else he'd ever met before, but at least he had the whole conversation thing figured out. In lieu of an eloquent expression, he offered another shrug, "I don't think it's me, you know?"

Of course, Wallace West did not know. How could he? They'd only just met, but, by the way he spoke about the rich and privileged students of Brentwood, it was clear that he was not one of them. So, he had to understand on some level, right? Then there was the other thing. The thing that no-one could understand. He felt the features on his face starting to rearrange themselves into the look that Raisa had warned him about, but, contrary to her claims, he did not brood - it was his thinking face. Still, he took her unspoken advice to heart in that moment, and returned Wallace's curiosity:

"Do you... crash here? Like a, uh, a boarding student, I mean."

[Wally West]

I don't think it's me.

The words had been uttered with a shrug, but they might as well have been delivered with a sledgehammer. That feeling that you didn't belong, of being an outsider, of being unworthy of your surroundings and your opportunities? Some would say that it was hardly unique, an essential component of the teenage experience; but Wally knew better. He knew better than to try and compare and contrast: his experiences and Connor's existed solely within the confines of their own minds, so there was no metric by which to assess whose was worse; and there was no point to it, no value. Loneliness, suffering, sadness; it wasn't a competition, and Wally could empathise and sympathise without needing to imagine where it ranked next to his. For Wallace, it was a different kind of isolation, perhaps. He was a metahuman, a status that would see him ostracised if it was ever exposed; but more than that he was a speedster, blessed and cursed by a power that defied scientific explanation, with abilities and perceptions that changed the way he experienced the world around him. He was apart from everything, as if he interacted with the world through water, everything slowed and blurred and muffled. He could engage, he could focus, but it was a struggle, a constant effort.

Barry had learned how to overcome it, how to keep himself in the moment, how to experience every moment with Aunt Iris. It had been an icky conversation, but also one that had given him hope - and if that was true for him, then maybe it was true for Connor. Hope was fleeting, and illusive, and that was why it was so important, so essential, to grab hold of it and never let go.

"I do!" Wally replied, enthusiastically. He didn't know Connor well enough to be sure of the best strategy. It would take a process of elimination to figure that out. First, the salesman approach. Back before he'd become super-fast and super-awesome, back when he was only regular levels of awesome, his dad used to impart little nuggets of wisdom about his career. You've got to sell it, son. Don't just praise the product, love the product. Make them feel as if you'd spend your very last dime on one, because you can't imagine life without it.

"Oh man, it's so great," Wally continued, subconsciously echoing Connor's stance, hands digging into his own pockets. "They have this whole rule and policy thing about matching appropriate students for the dorm rooms. Part of it is probably just code to make sure none of the rich kids have to share with any of the scholarship students, but they also want to cut down on drama and friction, so everyone gets matched up with someone they're gonna be compatible with. I guess maybe I just enrolled too late or something though, because I get a room all to myself. It's pretty awesome, there's so much extra closet space, no one to complain if I stay up reading or if they don't like my music choices -"

He let out a contented sigh.

"Don't get me wrong, having a roomie would be awesome. Who wouldn't want that kind of friendship, right? It's great, though. The atmosphere, that feeling that everything is taken care of, no chores, no nagging parents? If you aren't sure about fitting in, you should try staying a few nights. This place is daunting at first, but once you get used to it? It's like a hotel, except with less pretentious adults clogging up the place."

[Connor Kent]

From the moment he started talking, Wallace radiated enthusiasm like sunlight; his words crested and rolled like playful ocean waves, brilliant and azure, boiling, hissing, frothing, in perpetual motion; it was impossible not to be swept up by it. Connor struggled to suppress a smile, even when the opening salvo of "I do!" leapt out at him like bright-eyed puppy. Sometimes, his hand was raised for tactical cover, others, his head would suddenly dip, as if he'd found something interesting on his shoe - the last thing he wanted was for Wallace to think he was laughing at him, even if he was, because it wasn't like that. Who even spoke like that? Back in the Narrows, guys spoke like their throats were made of wire wool, and spat words at each other like sharp objects; when Wallace spoke, each sentence had its own melody and rhythm, and the warm timbre of his voice was unpolluted by, what Connor had come to recognise as, the ubiquitous cynicism and distrust of your everyday Gothamite.

He leaned against the nearest wall, and listened, hands still buried inside his pockets. For the most fleeting of moments, he could've been back in the grubby kitchenette, behind the shop, listening to Turk and Mo dissecting the latest Guardians game. At the mention of compatibility, his thoughts stalled, as he attempted to imagine the kind of person with whom the school would consider him to be a suitable match. A decision like that required the kind of snap judgement that could only be based on first impressions, and, historically, Connor Kent was not known for his strong first impressions. The other points, he weighed in turn, attempting to divine links between the things that were important to Wallace and important to him: there were few. Extra closet space was wasted on him, the only time he read was in the library, and his music tastes were limited to a selection of loud and thrashing metal on his second-hand QPod, which he experienced exclusively through a pair of tinny earphones; when it came to music, Connor had only one rule: the louder, the better.

Connor had always taken care of himself, until now. It was not easy, handing over control of any aspect of his life to anyone else, let alone a band of faceless school teachers. Oliver's interventions, on his behalf, had been just enough to keep him on the right side of comfortable. This was crossing into No Man's Land, and he struggled to share in Wallace's positivity. Chores held no fear for him, either; he worked for his keep with the Crows, and helping Mal broke the monotony of the day. If there were no chores at Brentwood, what would he do with himself, when boredom came so easily? And, as for parents, he didn't have any of those, nagging or otherwise. Their experiences were drawing them apart, putting gulfs of difference in the small space between them. Shit. Connor hadn't even been to a hotel, before. Maybe they weren't compatible, after all.

With a rumble of laughter, a group of boys appeared, they were tall, at least one as tall as him, with smart haircuts and pristine shoes. If Connor had to guess, they were of a similar age, and yet they carried themselves with the poise of, well, someone like Oliver Queen. The smiles evaporated as they zeroed in, closing formation, and every pair of eyes tracked his way. There was a coolness, a hostility, even, to the way they looked that suddenly had Connor standing upright, hands unsheathed from his pockets, until they passed by, and out of view. Once the tension bled from his muscles, he returned his attention to Wallace, and offered him an apologetic look.

"I don't know, man. I kinda like my space. You seem like a good guy, and I'm-" Down the corridor, a tin pencil case crashed onto the floor, disgorging its contents with all the clamour of an unloading garbage truck. Forcing his clenched teeth apart, Connor managed, "Can we go someplace quiet?"

[Wally West]

I kinda like my space.

This wasn't a trip this time, this was an invisible forcefield directly in his path, that Wally barrelled into full-force. It was an odd expression that. Barrelled. Motion wasn't something you normally associated with barrels, not these days. They were static. Full of booze. Perched behind bars, or in the basements of floofy rich people who thought it was so fancy to have alcohol in such large quantities, when in reality all they were doing was buying in bulk like a regular thrifty person. It wasn't until you read or saw The Hobbit - Wally had done both; the latter at a regular cinema at regular speed with regular people, and that was an agonising few hours of his life that he'd never get back - that you started to understand the metaphor. Maybe it was supposed to evoke the idea of barrels rolling down a hill, under inertia, out of control; but Wally had always imagined that as being an unsteady and unstable affair, nothing at all like the idiom suggested. Barrels in a river, though? Hurtling down rapids, everything inside bashed and battered about without mercy? That felt apt. That felt like now - like being tossed off a waterfall, and then smashing into pieces on the rocks below, dashed asunder like an overconfident goldfish.

It hadn't been conscious, but somewhere in his stream of insistence about how great it was to have a room all to himself, part of him had begun to realise that maybe it wasn't so great after all. It made him different. Weird. He lacked something all the other kids had; a cruel twist of fate given how most of these kids seemed to have pretty much everything. That same part of him had barely even wondered, barely even dared to hope that he might be able to spin this around, to leverage Connor Kent into becoming the roommate he'd been denied. What better way to guarantee a friend? What better way to feel a little less lonely in this strange school in this strange city, surrounded by strange people who all kept their distance from Wally because he was a different and wrong kind of strange?

His heart sank a little, emotions racing along at the same hyperspeed that everything else about him did. The five stages of grief raced past, acceptance settling in as he bounced off rock bottom, seizing that reflected momentum to hurl him forwards and back into the conversation.

"Uh, yeah, sure!"

Wally pulled on his Australian boots, and wrestled the pleasantness and optimism back into his voice with all the determination and confidence of Steve Irwin wrestling an unruly crocodile. He'd got ahead of himself, as per usual, and had lost sight of a simple fact: he had a job to do, to show this new kid around and help him settle in. If the new kid wanted quiet? Then sure. It was his responsibility to deliver.

He made a show of glancing down at his watch, one of those fitness gizmos that he'd started wearing just for the sheer comedy value of seeing how many steps he took on an average day. Currently it was set to calories burned rather than the actual time, but that didn't matter; he had this whole deal scheduled out anyway, it wasn't like he needed to actually see the time, just seem like he had.

"We've got a few minutes before Home Room. How about we check out the library?"

[Connor Kent]

"The library?" Connor was confused. He imagined the pair of them taking leave of the school to visit Gotham Library, where he'd introduce his new... Wallace to Barbara, they could have grande americanos with cream, for Connor and Wallace. It was an exciting prospect that left him conflicted between his desire to show Wallace his favourite place in the city, and his obligation to take full advantage of this new opportunity he'd been given, this fresh start. He imagined the look on Oliver's face when he discovered he'd skipped his first day of school, the look on Raisa's face... The creases of confusion transformed into regret, and then:

"Wait. This place has its own library?" Surprise shifted into a lopsided, but very impressed, grin, "Shit. Lead the way!"

It was the first spark of genuine enthusiasm he'd felt since arriving at Brentwood Academy. Sure, Wallace was a nice guy, but he had to be: he was his tour guide. But the idea of there being a library at the school itself was enough to chase away some of his doubts. Gotham Library had become his refuge from the chaos of the city, and all of the sights and sounds that waged war against his senses every moment of the day; the walls where thick, and its ceilings high, and there appeared to be this literally unspoken agreement between all who visited to just keep the noise down. He could happily sit for hours, sometimes reading, but mostly just pretending to read, while he watched people going about their business, being normal. And in some way, perhaps by proximity or mimicry, it made him feel normal, too. In the library he was safe, sheltered from the madness of crowds, but, more importantly, he was sheltered from himself. What a relief it was to discover that he might experience the same sense of security in this alien environment.

And Wallace, true to his word, tour-guided the hell out of their journey. Not a single bust went unidentified - doctor of this, famous for that, professor of something, famous for whatever - every painting prompted a story, every classroom, an anecdote; the detail was, well, it got Connor thinking: how did anyone have the time to learn all this stuff? Wallace West was either a super geek or he had far too much time on his hands. It was nice, though, to see how he committed to the task at hand, and the lengths he was prepared to go to in order to make him feel welcome. In Connor, Wallace had a captive audience, grateful for the way the stories robbed his foreign surroundings of their imposing nature. Still, every now and then, he experienced an unsettling flutter of anxiety that reminded him of where he was and what he was doing. And, as they came upon a pair of large heavy doors, he felt that uncertainty once again.

The brass handle groaned, and the door drifted open with scarcely a whisper of sound. Following Wallace's lead, when Connor stepped inside, his new shoes met the floor with a resounding thud that fell upon his ears like a gunshot. The sound carried into every corner of the room, as if to announce their arrival. Then, in the renewed silence, he met Wallace's gaze and advanced this time on gentle feet. After a few more steps, his momentum faltered. Connor found himself in the middle of the library, a broad open space, with high ceilings and packed shelves; he was reminded of the first time he entered the Martha Wayne Reading Room. Light poured in from a pair of enormous arched windows that stood at either end of the library, grazing over every wooden surface in flecks of gold, and there was that smell, that old papery smell that he loved so much. For a moment, he stared, inspecting columns of shelves, not only on the ground floor, but also that spanned the periphery of the room above, on the balcony; tables and chairs were arranged in neat rows on either side, and some cosy benches sat closer to the stacks for a more casual reading experience; there were paintings here, too, and framed signs detailing each area from literature, to languages, to natural science, and amongst them, so many of those fancy leather-bound tomes that populated the more prestigious parts of Gotham Library. Most importantly, though, the silence. It was so quiet, Connor could hear nothing but the ticking of the clock above the main desk. It was unoccupied, at the moment, as was most of the library, aside from a kid with his head face-down in an issue of National Geographic, and there was movement coming from above, on the balcony, too.

"Ok," he conceded, in an undertone, "This place is cool."

[Wally West]

This place was cool; but Wally only paid token notice to Connor's quiet praise. When their journey towards the library had begun, Wally's mind had been swept up in Connor's enthusiasm, and he'd crested along on that bow wave, channelling his best approximation of a museum tour guide. It was a sketchy and dubious approximation at best, based on vague recollections of rare and fleeting visits to museums in his pre-teen years, back before he had become a conduit for the Speed Force and had ascended from mortality to the comparative godhood of being Kid Flash.

It wasn't as if he hadn't been to a museum since then. He had, often. Every museum he could find. School trips. Recreationally. The more opportunities the better; the more chances to expose himself to new sights and knowledge. It was one thing to devour every literary and digital source of information known to man; it was another to actually see those artefacts and relics in person, to have them be something physical rather than an abstract concept. Unfortunately, while being Kid Flash vastly increased his museum prospects, bringing several states-worth of institutions into convenient running distance, they had also turned the more interactive parts of museums into a painfully slow and tedious prospect. Being part of a tour was a nightmare, milling about at turtle speed, waiting for the guides to rattle off asinine entry level details, never leaving enough time for the flurry of questions that Wally was desperate to have answered. Even going alone could be its own special hell, several hours of shuffling along in a traffic jam of gawking tourists interrupted by a few momentary glimpses of something interesting. The Speed Force had done the impossible: it had made museums boring.

That was an experience that Wally had urgently and eagerly sought to avoid inflicting upon Connor; but the closer they got to the library, the more Wally's stockpile of trivia depleted, and other thought processes began to creep in. Thoughts processes about what was going on around them, students milling back and forth, the day students chatting eagerly with the boarding students to compare notes on the thirteen hours of agonising withdrawal from each other they had been forced to endure. A few glances at clocks, watches, phone screens, and what-not as they passed warned that Home Room was slowly approaching; not urgently enough that they might need to rush, but enough that Wally would likely need to postpone the remainder of his orientation tour until after first period.

And then the library doors had opened, and Wally had begun to think about what he'd been trying not to think about.

Something Wally struggled with was knowing too much. He wasn't quite sure what aspect of Speed Force exposure had given him such a reliable memory, but he had theories. At the speed he moved, for his eyes to process any sort of meaningful vision, he must need to be capable of processing and retaining a ridiculous amount of data, else he would see the world as some sort of weird strobe effect light show - like a pigeon, or one of the other myriad creatures who experienced the world at a different frame rate than humans. Those adaptations must have translated to other parts of his brain as well, letting him retain the information he read at superspeed; and just about anything else that crossed his path.

At first, that was great. He knew things, he remembered; it was kinda awesome. But then the too much had kicked in. Let Wally glimpse your timetable for the semester, and it would be fused into his brain. Accidentally forget to glance away when someone punched in their PIN or password, and he'd never forget the finger motions responsible. Walk in on Uncle Barry and Aunt Iris in the throes of passion, and the traumatic visuals of usually unseen tattoos and mole clusters would haunt him to his grave. Information faded, eventually; or perhaps it was just overwritten, constantly keeping himself within the limits of the amount of data that could physically be contained inside his head. That was actually a real thing: if memory was essentially just electrical impulses, then at some point you would reach a level of knowledge where either the electrons just simply wouldn't fit inside the volume of your skull any more, or worse, would be compressed into such a density that they might collapse into some sort of gravitational anomaly and destroy the whole world. Wally wasn't there yet - during one evening of inescapable paranoia, he'd run the calculations, and was pretty confident that he would die of old age before he was able to absorb that much information - but still, that looming danger was out there.

The curse wasn't just the alarming potential to destroy the cosmos by knowing too much, though. It was the more immediate potential for damage; the personal and social damage that remembering everything could cause, and the danger that came from your lightspeed thoughts racing off before you had the chance to think things through. Like, take Linda back in Keystone City. Sweet, kind, wonderful, beautiful Linda Park. Wally had never been brave enough to talk to her; not like that, anyway. She was always friendly, always willing to chat; but when it came to flirting, busting out his moves, all of that, he went utterly to pieces. She was his Moby Dick, except not at all whale-like, or aquatic, or really similar to that literary character in any meaningful way other than the fact that she made his chest feel like a cannon, and he'd shot his heart to pieces on it.

It started out innocent. He'd wondered when her birthday was, thinking that maybe he could do something subtle, something sweet, something that would make her think, You know, that Wally is so kind and thoughtful, I should make a move before some other girl steals him away and I miss out on my only chance. So, he'd gone on social media. Easy place to check, right? Except, Wally and Linda weren't friends on social media, and that was where Wally had pulled onto the highway that led to the danger zone. He'd tried to search for her, but it was a pretty common name, and they didn't exactly run with the same sort of crowds. Luckily she'd liked the school's social media page, but because of some frankly terrible website design, you could see the avatars of people who'd liked the school page, but not actually click through to their profiles. Fortunately Wally was smart, and before his better judgement had a chance to even blink, he'd deciphered the URL for the thumbnail and traced it back to her profile page; which, naturally, did not list her birthday because of course it didn't. Maybe a sane person would have stopped there, but Wally's mind was already running, and before he knew what was happening he'd chased email addresses and usernames back to a newspaper from the town where she'd grown up that included a birthday message to a Linda Park of approximately the right age in the classifieds. Along the way he'd learned too much. Hobbies. Names of friends. Places she'd lived. Sports teams she'd been part of, and trophies they'd won. All things that could springboard him into future conversations with her; but at the same time, all things he couldn't possibly admit to knowing without seeming creepy. He'd poisoned himself, constructed a burden of knowledge that he couldn't trust himself not to reveal. He'd wished her a happy birthday that year; but he and Linda hadn't spoken since.

It wasn't just her, either, although Wally actively fought to resist it as best he could. His mind's current victim - or at least, the innocent bystander whose usual schedule his mind had decided to record - was Megan Morse, one of the other new transfers who'd joined Brentwood for their senior year. She was, in a word, mesmerising. Or maybe captivating was better. She was the kind of person where all you wanted to do was sigh, and smile, and just bask on the awesomeness of everything that she said and did. Beautiful, obviously; but smart, and funny, and kind, and talented - basically perfect. But Wally knew what that meant. He'd learned from that mistake, and saw the danger looming in the distance. Which presented a problem. A challenge. He needed to get close to her, fast. Not close close, but like, Hey beautiful, since we're such good friends and stuff, I know I can trust you with my secret identity type close. He needed them to be friends, needed them to bond, and needed it to happen quickly enough so that he could admit what was going on before he ended up learning too much and ruining everything again.

He could already feel himself getting close. He hadn't meant to, but he'd accidentally memorised her routine. He'd realised, about a minute and a half before opening the doors, that Megan would be here this morning, same as she always was, using the library as a zone of safety to avoid the bickering and bitching of the herd of boarding girls that oozed their way around campus at this time of morning. It was a smart plan, one that Wally had begun to echo; but not in an obvious way, more of a carefully calculated way, so that the times he arrived and the days that he wasn't there seemed completely random and accidental, as opposed to the meticulously crafted strategy that had a colour-coded flow chart and everything.

It hadn't been his intention to introduce Connor to Megan, not yet. Obviously he would have done that later, the new kids had to stick together and all of that; but that was part of the lunch strategy, and now was not the lunch strategy. But the situation had changed, and realisation slowly dawned that an opportunity had presented itself. Wally contemplated that new opportunity extensively over the few seconds it took to lead Connor up the stairs towards the balcony above, muttering something about the view being better up there. And boy oh boy, it sure was. There she was, all cosy in her little reading nook, isolated just enough from anyone down in the main library to have privacy, but still close enough that she wasn't alone. A perfect place to hang out; of course perfect her would do something perfect like that. Wally caught himself sighing, but it was too late to stop it.

As Wally led Connor in a few uncharacteristically slow strides along the library's balcony upper level, he tried to think how best to leverage Connor's presence to his advantage. Wally was showing a new student around, which clearly was going to score him some points as far as being compassionate and charitable went; and he was pretty sure he could put a good spin on the idea that us new students need to stick together, using Connor's newness for extra leverage to move his and Megan's orbits a little closer together.

It wasn't the words part that was tricky, that he could handle on the fly; it was something more fundamental than that. How to act. How to stand. Should he lean? Walk up with his hands in his pockets all cool and casual? Try to seem professional? Apologise for disturbing her? Scenarios zoomed across Wally's consciousness; were he alone, he'd probably have taken a few supersped moments to try a few of them out, see which stance and expression and tone of voice felt best. Sadly, he wasn't alone; and so he went for a best guess.

Elbow positioned awkwardly between the spines of a few books, about an inch and a half higher up than felt entirely comfortable - apparently this bookshelf had been constructed by giant Connor-sized people, rather than ordinary Wally-sized people - he adjusted his features into the cool and charming expression that he had practised extensively in the mirror for at least a solid thirteen seconds; pretty much an eternity for a speedster. His voice came out a little deeper than normal, soft, casual, respectful of the silent atmosphere of the library.

"Well now. Hello, Megan."

He felt his head moving in a strange upward reverse nod tilt sort of motion. It felt right. A few more degrees of charm was applied, cranking a lopsided smile into the corner of his mouth. He let silence drag out for just a moment longer.

"S'up?"

[Megan Morse]

There was an intricate portion of stained glass art at the top of the two-story library windows, casting a veritable rainbow of light across the surface of the small table before her. She took a moment to appreciate the bounty of color as it fell across one of her hands, shifting the skin of her fingers to match it for the briefest moment. A soft sigh passed through her lips as she folded her hands together in her lap, resisting the urge to repeat the delicate gesture.

It wouldn’t do to be discovered after only a month of living in Gotham, after all. Her uncle would be decidedly disappointed in her lack of control, after all her assurances and promises to the contrary. It had been difficult enough to persuade him to allow her to attend a real school for her final year before university. To be a real teenager, to make friends, to attend classes…to exist outside of the warmly comfortable bubble she’d known for as long as she could remember.

It was a good life, a wonderful life, even. Megan wanted for nothing, save perhaps a little companionship and freedom. She loved her uncle a great deal, and he had taught her much about how the world actually worked, and what it meant to be an alien with abilities like hers. It had taken a number of months before she’d succeeded at persuading him to allow her to attend a school with her peers in lieu of her private tutoring and lessons.

Her first month at Brentwood had been…even more than she’d envisioned. There was little in the television shows and movies she had devoured that could have prepared her for the social strata and the ramifications of every word she uttered and movement she made. Megan quickly adopted the quiet and polite social mask that seemed to attract the least attention from those such as her roommate, Polly.

Slender, bright eyed, and possessed of every social grace imaginable, Megan had thought at first that she’d found her first friend. But it hadn’t taken more than a week before she realized the level of wicked pettiness that was hiding behind the flawless façade. Since then, there had been a cool politeness at best between them, and it gave her the excuse to spend as much time as possible in the library tending to her studies, and in the practice rooms of the music area.

At some point, she mused, maybe she’d find someone she could trust with her secret. It would…be amazing to not have to always hide, even though she understood the reasons it was necessary.

Some day.

The fingers of her right hand rested on the tabletop, faintly tapping out what would have been a random rhythm to anyone who couldn’t hear the sonata playing in her mind. Her left hand gently turned the page of the large volume, her dark gaze coursing over the glossy pictures of elaborate replica garb from the seventeenth century. It had been a topic in a recent lecture in her Textiles & Templates class. What was supposed to be basically about fashion was an in-depth study of both fashion and its history. As Ms. Mode was often fond of saying, “…you cannot understand what fashion is if you do not understand from whence it came, darlings…”

Wally’s voice interrupted her reverie, and she smiled softly as she shifted in her seat to glance up at him. “Good morning, Wally…not too much up yet today. How are things with you?” she asked with quiet warmth in her voice, her gaze shifting over to his companion, standing just beyond him, and remaining silent. She blinked, catching herself before her gaze could be termed a stare, certainly not lingering on his shoulders, and returned her attention to Wally.

“Who’s your friend? I haven’t seen him here at Brentwood before…”

[Wally West]

It was like something Shakespeare might have written about. A knife to the heart, or maybe an arrow. The pleasantries had barely left her mouth, obligated by social conventions to do so, before she'd abandoned any pretense of interest in Wally and his wellbeing in favour of focusing her attention on Connor. Sure, he was new, and that was interesting and stuff. Sure, it was all part of an elaborate game of hard-to-get that she was playing, and damn if she didn't play Wally like a fiddle every time - or maybe something cooler than a fiddle, like an electric guitar or something; or perhaps even something that didn't mix the metaphors so badly. But how long? How long. Megan? How long could she deny the chemistry, and mutual attraction, and the constant urgings of fate that craved for them to be together?

Or maybe this was something else. Maybe there was more to Megan Morse than Wally already knew. A secret past. A secret life. A secret love. Was that it? A love that dare not be spoken, for fear of who might learn of it? Suddenly it was all so obvious. Suddenly everything made sense. Missing parents. An uncle who works for the government, with no other details provided. Her parents were spies, or maybe she was, or maybe this was witness protection, or something else. And if that was the case, then who knew who might be watching? Any one of these books could be bugged, or concealing a hidden camera. Anyone could be part of a surveillance team.

Wally's eyes widened for a moment, processing Megan's potentially coded words. Who's your friend? Reluctance to speak of their secret love around a person that she didn't recognise. I've never seen him at Brentwood before.

Immediately, Wally bundled up every emotion and thought that he had, and crammed it deep inside himself, like civilian clothes stashed in a backpack when you switched into an old school super-suit. He wouldn't let anything show. Wouldn't let his thoughts or suspicions leak onto his features. He wouldn't even let them register in his conscious mind, lest there be telepaths in play. Who knew how deep this conspiracy went? Who knew what resources they might have at their disposal?

Play the part, Wally.

He turned, gesturing to his "friend".

"This is Connor Kent," he explained, in the closest approximation of normal that he could deliberately attain without any sort of prior rehersal time. "He's new here. Wayne Scholarship, like us. And Connor?"

He turned back to Megan, and couldn't fight the small smitten smile.

"This exquisite example of human beauty is Megan Morse. She's in the same boat as us, and I figure us newbie scholarship kids need to stick together, or something."

[Connor Kent]

While Wallace and Megan spoke, Connor buried his hands in his pockets, and found something innocuous to stare at - Megan's book. It was no light read, which made sense he supposed, considering her status as a scholarship student. There were pictures of funny old clothes, though. Maybe she studied history; maybe they were in the same class. He glanced up, then. Wallace was still doing his confident thing, being all relevant and flattering with his words. If Megan was anything like him, this was going to be a difficult conversation to follow. There was that sinking feeling again. What part of quiet was difficult to understand? Now he had to not make an ass out of himself in front of another stranger.

"Hi, Megan," he said, snuffing out the ubiquitous uh before it had a chance to surface. That part was easy enough. When he met her gaze, however, something strange happened. For just a second, he was under the impression he and Megan were at opposite ends of a very long tunnel, and he was falling towards her. Of course, his feet were rooted to the spot, and he was in no danger of going anywhere. But that feeling... what was that? With a sideways glance, he noticed Wallace, and remembered where he was. With a shrug, the daze lifted, and he fired a curious glance at the open book.

"Cool book," his eyebrow climbed a hopeful fraction, "History student?"

[Martin Stein]

"Aren't we all, Master Kent?"

In truth, Martin Stein had been waiting on the limits of earshot, arms folded and a wistful smile on his lips, for quite some time. It was a talent that he had acquired during his younger days as a research scientist: to avoid troublesome social entanglements by avoiding notice entirely, moving quietly and covertly until such a time that he chose to be noticed. These days, such skills were dedicated less to introversion, and more to the ambush of unsuspecting teenagers loitering around the halls of Brentwood Academy. Most often, it allowed him to catch them in the act of something irregular or untoward, allowing him to make the benevolent gesture of subjecting them to his polite disapproval, rather than the full weight of discipline that they might receive from other tutors, but on rare occasions it allowed him moments like this: the opportunity to insert himself into a conversation with a profound yet graceful interjection.

"From Galileo to Gagarin, Amadeus Mozart to Ariana Grande, Socrates to Stephenie Meyer - are we not all students of history, in one form or another? Is our knowledge, our work, our contribution to society not irrevocably built upon the shoulders of all those who have come before, and would we not be remiss in failing to study and acknowledge and learn from their wisdom and example?"

With a flicker of a smile, and a small whisper of a chuckle, he watched his words wash across the three students, acknowledged and contemplated and met with confusion to varying degrees. While he might have preferred to be regarded for his contributions to science and understanding, among the students of Brentwood Academy he was most renowned for his commitment to the verbose. It was both deliberate and incidental, the result both of practice, history, and a delight at the intricate complexity of the English language and its expensive lexicon. The students of Brentwood, often the offspring of the wealthy and respected, went to great lengths in their private lives to embrace the cutting edge of fashion and technology. Professor Stein felt the same way about the language that tumbled from his lips, his words as carefully and consciously chosen as the thousand-dollar accessories that wealthy pupils used to flaunt their affluence in circumvention of the Academy's uniform regulations. Why be angry, while one could be irked, insensed, or vexed? Why simply state or explain, while one could regale, convey, disport, or enthral?

"With luck, I have the opportunity to be the first member of the faculty to welcome you to Brentwood Academy. I am Professor Martin Stein; and timetable permitting, I will be your guide for an insight into the intricate wonders of the cosmos." His gaze shifted momentarily from Connor to his nominated tour guide. "I trust Wallace is doing an adequate job of helping you acclimate to this fine institution?"

[Connor Kent]

It was the second time in the space of 15 minutes he had been identified by a perfect stranger. As someone who had historically taken refuge inside anonymity, Connor was uncomfortable being at such an immediate disadvantage, even if his name had tumbled from the lips of a genial old man. He got the feeling it was something he was going to have to get used to, here at Brentwood. With deliberate effort, he relaxed, allowing the stiff hostility to bleed from his back, shoulders, and arms. The old man continued to speak, sparing him the daunting task of answering such a vague and open-ended question. Some of the names he mentioned - Galileo, Socrates, Mozart - they were familiar to him, but lacked resonance, like something he'd once known long ago. Then, somehow, he managed to transform his long meandering statement into yet another question. The inquisitive lift in his voice had been the tell, not that it left Connor any the wiser as to what precisely was being asked of him. He gave Wally a glance, and found him looking patiently attentive, but in no position to offer an answer.

The old man continued, revealing himself, unsurprisingly, to be one of the resident teachers of Brentwood. Professor Martin Stein. Much to his annoyance, when Connor moved to offer a greeting, he discovered he'd slipped into his bad habit of burying his hands in his pockets. The time for handshakes sped by, and the professor was already waxing lyrical about the intricate wonders of the cosmos. Was it ill manners to shake hands with a teacher? Perhaps there was an unspoken agreement between members of the faculty and students, to assert authority and to keep the balance of power in the right place. Somehow, this Martin Stein didn't seem the sort to care very much about the balance of power. And, finally, he presented him with a question he could answer.

"Yes, Professor Stein," Connor said, and, glad to have something to do with his lamely hanging limbs, he gave Wally a clumsy clap on the arm, "Very adequate."

Then, returning his magpie attention to Professor Stein, he plucked from his introduction the most sparkly nugget of information, and said:

"You teach science, professor?" His eyebrows climbed in interest, "Like alien words and sh- such?"

[Martin Stein]

"Alien worlds more than alien words," Stein corrected, rewarding young Master Kent's engagement and interest with a warm uptick of a smile, willfully overlooking the barely aborted profanity.

"Alas, the subtleties of linguistics fall beyond the scope of my purview. Rather, my unenviable challenge is to strive towards a definition of that which defies language, to simplify the vast complexity of the infinite into concepts comprehensible to our limited human minds."

Delight twinkled in the Professor's eyes, a wistful sigh escaping him between words.

"My expertise is physics, Master Kent. From the Ancient Greek physiké, the study of nature - or, more accurately, the nature of the universe. From the infinite to the infinitesimal; cosmos to quanta; the forces of nature and the nature of forces; time, gravity, motion, energy -"

He trailed off, smiling into his own sentiment like an old man fondly recalling a lost love.

"Reality is layered. Worlds upon worlds: not just worlds like that upon which we stand, or those that share gravitational dependence upon our sun, but also the world of electrons, of molecules, of the microscopic, and macroscopic. Each one different and unique. Each obeying their own structures and patterns. Each one alien. Each one fascinating, intricate, and beautiful."

[Connor Kent]

"Right."

From the look on Professor Stein's face, Connor assumed he was happy, which at least made one of them. For the more the professor spoke, the more dejected he became. At first, it rose up like a wall of bewilderment, a barrier to make any comprehension of the professor's words an impossible feat; not that there weren't some of his words that translated, of course, but the way in which he wove them in a convoluted ponderous web that didn't seem to serve any purpose other than to tie the new student up in knots and bind him to the spot. What was he supposed to say to that?

And, as it went on, the confusion became misery, which then transformed into annoyance. Connor couldn't tell if this Professor Stein was testing him or if he was just showing off? Either way, his thoughts took a long walk, down the path from the school, back to the road and Raisa's waiting car, where he could finally declare "I told you so."

If they all spoke like that, it was going to be a very very long day. And, more than ever, the rigid grip of his Brentwood uniform felt like a poor disguise. Defiant, he held the professor's gaze a moment longer, before turning his attention to Wally, again.

"Come on, Wallace. I don't want to be late for class."

[Wally West]

Wally was so captivated by the melodious dance of knowledge and linguistics that Professor Stein led them through that he almost didn't notice Connor's words. Dropping the Wallace bomb was enough to carve through his attention, however, like a searing hot knife buried deep in Wally's chest. He allowed himself a few microseconds of self-reassurance that he wasn't in trouble, and to feel relieved that no one here was armed with his middle name as well. It was too early in the morning to feel as if he was in that sort of trouble.

As Wally's eyes shifted to Connor, he found himself frowning at the new student's body language and tone of voice. He seemed disinterested. Wally blinked. How was that even possible? Listening to Martin Stein was like having a live-action Sagan or Feynman documentary play out in front of you. Intelligence and wonder dripped from every word. How could anyone not be captivated, fascinated, and entranced by that?

Oh no.

He regarded Connor Kent in a new light, a strange sinking feeling beginning to form in the pit of his stomach.

Is he a sports person?

A covert analysis of Connor's physique and mannerisms flooded Wally's brain, challenging his concerned theory and scrutinising the new student for evidence. His hair was subtly, slightly ruffled, as if he'd been wearing a baseball cap and hadn't quite smoothed away all the signs of it. He stood and moved like someone who had muscles and knew how to use them. He didn't quite have the kind of swagger that Wally had learned to expect from jocks back at Central High; perhaps not football, then. Not basketball either: he wasn't light enough on his feet, wasn't slender and agile the way Wally himself was. Not a swimmer's build, either. Lacrosse, maybe? Or one of those European sports - soccer? Rugby?

He wasn't an academic, that was for sure. The evidence had been right there staring Wally in the face this whole time, and he'd been too swept up in being a tour guide to notice him. They'd walked into the school library - gorgeous, striking, practically orgasmic for anyone who had even the slightest fondness for reading - and he'd barely even reacted; the quiet was what he cared about, not the books. A Ravenclaw, Connor Kent clearly was not. Wally uttered a silent prayer to the universe in hopes that he was dealing with a Weasley, or a Longbottom, or some sort of other dull-witted Gryffindor, and not a full-blown Slytherin Crabbe and Goyle situation.

"Uh, sure," Wally offered eventually, glad that his lightning-fast synapses allowed his awkward contemplative silences to pass in the blink of an eye, and thus go unnoticed by almost everyone. A confused and apologetic glance was offered to their shunned and disrespected tutor. "See you after lunch I guess, Professor."


* * *

[Hank Hall]

There was a question that people liked to ask. Where do you see yourself in five years? It was a question built on the premise that moving forward was the only correct way to live your life, and that people needed a plan, a destination, to know which direction forward was. Even without knowing it, society forced you into living your life that way. Kindergarten, Elementary, High School, College. Subject choices. Choosing your major. Employment. Career advancement. Each rung on the ladder merely bought another within reach, then another, and another, an endless climb upwards, towards - what? What was the end? What was the goal? You could look to others, but they had no answers. Some climbed faster than others. Some had a longer reach and longer strides. Some started higher up the ladder than others. Yet everyone climbed, up and up, until you reached a point of contentment to stop and go no further, or simply became too old or too tired to ascend any more.

If you had asked Hank Hall the question five years ago, never in a million years might he have guessed you would find him in a school, back in the kind of institution he had spent half his life trying to flunk out of. Contrary to opinion, Hank was not lazy; nor was he disengaged, or angry at the world, or any of the other summations that so many people had tried to hang around his neck like a noose. He'd simply reached that point far sooner than others, where the drive to climb higher had faded, and he was content with the altitude he had reached. Yet, he had continued to ascend, driven on by others rather than his own will and desires. A father who had dragged him upwards like a dog on a leash. One brother who refused to climb his own ladder unless the two of them were side by side; another who shouted down from above about his superior view. A mother whose shadow blanketed everything, her name and her will invoked every time Hank tried to find a way to remain where he was.

One by one, from best to worst, Hank's climbing companions had been stripped away: his mother lost, his brothers stolen, his father locked away and out of reach. Hank had felt his drive return then, but backwards, urging him downwards, not up. He longed to climb down to simpler times, to lower heights that had felt less alone, to altitudes where the view was familiar enough to recognise the world and how it worked. He supposed that was what had brought him back here: to school, to sports, to the safety of familiarity and understanding. He knew this rung; or at least, he'd known one likes it, and there was comfort in that.

Hank barely acknowledged the horde of students waiting for him as he strode into the classroom, fixating on the binder held open in his hands. It was a coping mechanism, a subtle distraction to help him cope with the notion that he was striding out in front of a classroom. In the gym, and on the sports fields, he felt as if he belonged. Coach Hall was who he had become, and it was the kind of person he was comfortable being. Here in homeroom, forced to be the man in command of a classroom, things felt different. He felt fraudulent, counterfeit, on the brink of being exposed for his ineligibility to impart anything of use in these surroundings. To stand here and teach, to act as if he was an authority, as if he understood the world any better than the high schoolers seated in front of him, would have been hypocrisy, plain and simple. So, he clutched the binder a little tighter, a cheat sheet of names and announcements to guide him through the next few minutes. He didn't need to know better than his class, provided that he was the one holding the map.

"Seats," he commanded, loud enough to be well heard over the ambient conversations, and perhaps enough to be considered a bark, but without any of the aggression or bite that would have come along with it if he intended to actually be stern. It was a nudge, the green bulb at a stop light, signalling his students to proceed with a routine that they already all knew how to follow. He crossed the room, reaching the desk, but shifted off a conventional course at the last minute, opting to lean himself against the desk's front edge, rather than occupying the waiting chair. His eyes scanned the announcements once again, nodding subtly to himself as he committed them to memory. A breath was drawn. The binder was closed, and set aside on the desk beside him. The breath was released. His eyes climbed to the class.

"New kid. On your feet."

[Connor Kent]

The walk back from the library was made lively by Wallace and his unrelenting pace of conversation; he asked, amongst other things, about his favourite classes. Connor stumbled at first, in anticipation of the inevitable follow-up questions, so he answered history and English. He had enough of an understanding of American, European, and world history to be able to babble his way through any probing questions and, well, he spoke English, so how hard could it be? Fortunately, Wallace kept the tone light and accommodating, and kept his line of questioning on the amicable side of interrogation. Plus it helped him forgot about the awkwardness with Professor Stein.

When they turned into one of the many rooms down one of the many corridors, Connor knew at once he'd be asking for directions before the day was up. He found himself in a smart classroom furnished with rows of individual wooden desks and chairs, ornate panelled walls, and a large mahogany teacher's desk; a flat screen TV was fixed to the wall beside a whiteboard and a computer; old world style meets modern convenience. There was a buzz about the place, whether it was the routine clatter of student lockers, the thunder of oversized books on tables, or the animated drone of morning chatter. His arrival drew a glance or two, that he noticed, at least. It was to be expected when there was a new face. Allowing the looks to roll off him like rain, he followed Wallace to their seats on the third row, and sat with a groan of strained wood.

Fortunately, they were one of the last to arrive, so he didn't have to endure the noise for too long before who their homeroom tutor arrived. At least, that's who Connor assumed he was. He was big for a teacher. In fact, he looked more like a professional football player, a football player who had wrestled himself into his shirt and trousers that morning to make him seem more like a teacher. Sure, he wore a tie, but his top button was undone, and instead of a stuffy rigid blazer, he wore a nice loose varsity jacket. While Connor felt the pinch of envy (or was that his collar?), his inner Raisa was not impressed. Then, with a single word, he sent every student to their desks. The screech of seats was ear-splitting. Eyes down, he winced through the pain, and when all was silence, he heard the teacher speak again.

Connor looked up. The silence was heavy now, like a weight upon his shoulders. He glanced to the left, then to the right, before finally meeting the man's gaze across from him. It was interesting how he'd elected not to sit behind his desk, but afford himself a better view of the class by leaning against it. The expectation was there in his eyes; there could be no doubt who this new kid was. He stood, reluctantly. In the time he'd been free, Connor had made a point of avoiding making himself the centre of attention, of any attention, and he did not like having to break with tradition now. He gave a shrug.

"Yeah?"

[Hank Hall]

Hank hadn't known what to expect from this Kent, Connor kid that was joining his class. Some people might have drawn conclusions from the scant information that had been provided: a Wayne Foundation scholarship, a transfer from Middleton High in Colorado, no subject selections as yet; a person could infer all kinds of things from details like that. They might have been surprised by the sight of the student that those details apparently belonged to, seeming so at odds from what one might have been led to expect. Fortunately for Hank, he wasn't the sort of person to read into anything. People were who they were. Best to see that for yourself than waste time and energy trying to predict the future. Life was chaos and entropy, and no matter how smart you were - or thought you were - predictions were just guesses, but with an added side of pretentious.

"This is Connor Kent."

His voice rang out, quiet but clear, the kind of firm words that commanded a hushed tone from those around them. The kids called it his timeout voice, the tone he adopted whenever he needed to get real with his teams. It worked for them, and Hank saw no reason to consider his homeroom class as anything different from just another team. True, there was nothing athletic about this classroom, but there was nothing academic here, either. This was an arbitrary collective, but it was one to which these students belonged; and part of his responsibility, to his mind at least, was to ensure that they all felt that, and understood that. There were a few hundred other acres of school ground upon which these teens could make each other feel like excluded outsiders; in his classroom, and on his courts and sports fields, that wouldn't be allowed.

"Connor is new, to this school and to this city. He just transferred here on a Wayne scholarship from Colorado. Change is scary. Different is scary. I know that. You know that. He knows that."

Hank's vision shifted, sweeping in arcs across his class, avoiding the urge to fixate on Connor directly.

"What Mr Kent doesn't know is that he is one of us now. He doesn't know what that means."

Pushing himself forward, the Coach began to pace slowly across the front of the class, hands clasped behind him like a Captain surveying a parade of troops. The words tumbled out of him, not quite a practiced speech, but definitely a practiced sentiment.

"If he struggles, we help him. If he gets lost, we point the way. If he stumbles, we pull him back up. We are assholes, but we are not entitled assholes. We always pay it forward, and we always pay it back. We are a team. We win together, and we lose together. We are in this together. Are you all on this page with me?"

A few mutters and murmurs followed. Hank added a little extra bass to his words.

"Are you all on this page with me?"

It wasn't quite the Yes Coach! or oorah! he would have hoped for, but the nods and responses were a little less noncommittal the second time. It would have to do. Hank let his strides continue until he returned to his desk, perching against the side once again. His voice softened a little, his attention finding the new student exclusively this time.

"Tell us a little about yourself, Connor. Where are you from? What's your thing?"

[Connor Kent]

From the moment the teacher said his name, every head turned to stare. He could feel the gaze of the students behind him, too, prickling the back of his head and neck. Connor remained resolutely eyes-forward. Wallace had mentioned a Mr. Hall in connection to homeroom, so he could only assume this was him. He was nothing like what he'd expected, certainly not after the unusual exchange with Professor Stein, only moments ago. But there was something in the way he was speaking that put him marginally at ease, despite being outside of his comfort zone. Mr. Hall spoke plainly, and loud enough for all to hear, which was important because, rather than zero in his attention, and consequently the entire classroom's attention on him, he was addressing the class at large. He somehow made it about everyone, going as far as to call everyone an asshole, but in a way that sounded strangely decent.

So it was another curve ball, courtesy of Brentwood Academy. The difference, this time, was that Connor understood what was being said, and what was being asked of him. He didn't like it, of course, but he prepared for this moment. Prepared because he had to, because he couldn't really tell anyone where he was from or what his thing was, because the sound of sirens would follow. And, in a weird way, not being able to tell anyone the truth totally sucked. Sure, they would call him dangerous, and call him a freak, but at least it would be the truth - his own truth. It was as much a part of him as the blood in his veins. Instead, he had to regurgitate some fabricated story about a place he'd never been to, and people he'd never met. Keep it brief, keep it simple, and, where possible, tell the truth. A complicated lie was only going to trip him up, Oliver said. It was a point he conceded, because he was a terrible liar. So, he took a breath, and began:

"I'm from a place in San Juan County, Colorado. A small town called Middleton. It was quiet, nothing like Gotham. Just me and my aunt, uh... Oprah. I like rock music, hitting the gym with friends, and I recently started boxing."

The logic was that if Middleton was as small and boring as he'd been told it was, no-one would want to know about it. And, while he'd never hit the gym in his life, he looked like he did. The boxing thing was a stretch, but not untrue, and he did like rock music. Shame he messed up his aunt's name, whatever it was. Olga? Priscilla? Whatever.

He looked at Mr. Hall, and his eyebrows climbed in question, before the words fell from his lips:

"That okay?"

[Hank Hall]

Hank wondered how many mirrors it had been practised in front of, how long Connor Kent had spent preparing himself to be put on the spot and introduce himself like that. Perhaps it was cruel, Hank wasn't sure. Some people thrived in situations like that, others didn't. For some, it was the most terrifying prospect their lives had confronted them with thus far. Connor muddled his way through it just fine. Not a shining beacon of charisma and confidence, but not a frightened pillbug either.

If you spent enough time thinking about a person's words, you could conclude all kinds of things. Sometimes, some of those conclusions might even be correct. Hanks wasn't that sort of person. It wasn't even that he didn't care, more that he couldn't be bothered. Sure, you could figure things out about a person if you put the effort in, but what was the point? Things that needed to be known had a habit of revealing themselves eventually anyway, more often than not. There was no point dwelling on Connor's words, on how threadbare and thin that list of interests seemed, or how lonely an existence just me and my aunt or the prospect of having been torn away from the gym friends that seemed to constitute the only social activity worth mentioning.

Hank offered a nod in response to Connor's question, and with a subtle gesture invited Connor to return to his seat. "Well, we don't have a gym," he responded, injecting a little warmth and joviality into his voice. "Most of the students here either have a personal trainer, or don't have the arm strength to lift anything heavier than a silver spoon, so there hasn't been all that much demand for one."

A flicker of a thoughtful frown tugged at this brow.

"Boxing, though? I've been known to go a few rounds in my time. I know a place in Midtown; nothing fancy, but I know the owner, if you need someone to help hook you up."

[Connor Kent]

"Wildcats?" He said at once, loosing the question like a ring buoy onto a turbulent sea. When he saw the light of recognition in Mr. Hall's eyes, he couldn't help but smile, "Yeah, I was there a few weeks ago. Cool place."

Something came over him, for a second, a strange rush like electricity that left him feeling giddy and light. At first, Connor couldn't quite place it, why he felt this way. He supposed it was just nice to finally have something in common with someone, a connection, no matter how tenuous. If there was a list of people out there, who could relate to being the test subjects of dubious scientific experiments, he imagined it was a short one. Same thing went for being a metahuman; sure, he'd met a small handful of strangely dressed Batman-wannabes prowling the Narrows at night, but none who were different. Not in the way he was different. And something told him that the likelihood of one of his fellow students sharing a history with one of Gotham's gangs was slim.

Wildcats it was, then. And even though he'd only ever been there once, he could talk about the place in enough detail to hold a conversation; the sights, the sounds, the distinctive smell; it was as Mr. Hall said, nothing fancy, but it was a place where he had not been made to feel unwelcome, despite everything that had happened there. For once, he had a story to tell that would not be a lie. And, ignoring every instinct telling him to hold his tongue, to show some restraint, and to respect the man that had already given him so much for so little, he perked up. There was a part of him that had all but forgotten the other students in the room, but at the same time, there was a small bright irreverent part of him that was eager for them to hear what he next had to say.

"In fact, while I was there, I happened to met Oliver Queen." He paused, half hesitation, half relishing the rare opportunity to show off. A smug grin crept to the surface as he concluded, "And I kinda... rearranged his nose."

[Hank Hall]

Hank's eyebrows climbed slightly. Not that Hank had any particular expectations of the new student, but Oliver Queen was not the kind of name that Hank might have expected to hear tumbling out of his mouth, especially not in such an obscure context.

He knew that Oliver Queen was in Gotham, of course: no one with a television, radio, or eyeballs could miss the constant mentions and headlines and speculation about that name. It detracted from the constant coverage of Bruce Wayne for a few seconds, he supposed, and that should have been a pleasant reprieve. Should have been. If Hank were to think about it - something he tried not to - he wasn't sure which of the two trust fund heirs irked his sensibilities more.

Who am I kidding? It's definitely Queen.

A faint tug of a smile pulled at the corners of Hank's mouth, not a result of considering Queen himself, but at the imagined visuals of the situation that Connor Kent painted for him.

"You broke Oliver Queen's nose?"

Hank let the pause that followed drag out for a few seconds.

"West, I'm going to need you to high five Kent for me."

[Connor Kent]

Connor had to think fast, for no sooner had the words left Mr. Hall's mouth, from out of the corner of his eye he saw that Wallace was already on the move. Instinct told him to raise his hand - he'd seen it done before - and, with a satisfying smack, their hands connected. His first high five. Wallace's enthusiasm was palpable in his tingling palm. When a broad grin broke through his defences, he lowered his head in sheepish uncertainty. What was it about him breaking Oliver Queen's nose that had resonated so strongly with Mr. Hall that is justified such a response? There had been nothing duplicitous or patronising about it, that was for sure. It was just an honest reaction to a stupid story. And it felt good.

"It's not like I meant to do it, of course," he surfaced, having wrestled his grin into something more reserved, but no less self-satisfied, "But at least he can afford the medical bill."

Riding the burst of confidence, he considered the man in front of him, and his attire, and asked the obvious question, "You teach sports, Mr. Hall?"

[Jason Bromorton]

"What gave it away, Kent?"

The voice chimed in from the back of the room, cloistered comfortably in a corner where an antique cabinet could serve as a backstop for his reclined seat. Like everyone else in the room, Jason Bromorton was dressed in the requisite Brentwood Academy uniform, the dark navy blazer with red trim and matching tie, but Bromorton had found ways to subtly meander within the confines of the room to grant himself a little extra flair and style. A slightly more tailored cut to the jacket here, a technically not prohibited pocket square there, cufflinks, a tie pin, an expensive watch; every opportunity to flaunt wealth and prestige was exploited, right up to the very threshold of what would be allowed. He wore it all, and carried himself, with the air of someone who knew exactly how much he could get away with, and exactly how much leeway the Bromorton name bought him.

A ludicrously expensive pen was twirled idly in Bromorton's fingers, an obvious proxy for an absent cigarette that Jason smoked only for style, and hadn't quite learned to inhale properly yet. With a smug half smirk, he turned his attention not to Connor, but to the audience of other students whose attention he craved. Despite the jovial slant of his expression however, he couldn't quite keep the undertones of contempt and judgement towards yet another Wayne Foundation charity case from creeping into his voice.

At least the school had done a public service by hitching him to Wallace West so early on: it seemed good practise to train the hopeless and wealthless to cluster together for the sake of their social betters.

"Was it the sports jacket? Or is that just how teachers dress back where you're from?"

[Wally West]

"Good one, Jace," Wally fired back, eyes not deviating from the notebook page in front of him.

Jason Bromorton was an ass. For starters, his name had Bro in it, and he was the kind of person who lived up to that. Worse, he insisted that everyone call him Jace, as if that extra syllable at the end of his name was some sort of insurmountable burden that he was trying to spare people from. Jason was a name with gravitas, linked to mythology, to Power Rangers, to Isaacs and Stathams and Donovans. Jace was a Magic the Gathering card, and was up there with the likes of Chad and Todd on the scale of douchey dudebro names.

Go lift some weights, Bro.

That was the retort that Wally wanted to offer, the kneejerk bitterness that turned into bile at the back of his throat every time The Bro sullied his ears with that obnoxious voice of his. Fortunately, the more sophisticated parts of his brain were more eloquent than that, weaving a more scathing rebuke with almost no effort at all. So little effort in fact, that his eyes and hands continued to focus on the task in front of him, a quick scribbled sketch of the classroom tables, annotated with who was seated where, based on the split-second glance that Wallace had paid the room when he entered. Once finished, complete with his own internal nicknames for the various antagonists distributed about the room, the page was torn free and slid casually across the table to Connor.

Only then did Wally turn, still only a second or so after his initial remark, flashing The Bro a tight and ingenuine smile.

"Did you come up with that yourself, or did you get your butler to write it for you, like your history paper last week?"

[Hank Hall]

"Hey."

Hank's voice was equal parts stern and exasperated, though it was more for effect than anything genuine. He had learned, both from playing sports and coaching them, that a healthy level of competition between teammates was essential. Sometimes that expressed itself in the desire to outdo one another. Other times, it was banter, and bating, and butting heads. Sports were about ego, and aspiring to personal excellence, and sometimes that needed a little competitive fuel. Academia was much the same, though people were less willing to admit it: everyone was graded against an average, academic performance being judged as much on how well you did relative to your peers as it was on the criteria for whatever GPA or college entry requirements a particular student strove towards.

Yet, as valuable as that atmosphere could be, in moderation, now was not the moment for it. Without a foundation of comfort and belonging, that banter could easily become bullying. The new kid didn't have that yet, and Coach Hall needed his words to carry weight and validity, not ring hollow and be instantly disproven.

"What did I just say?"

A moment of silence, and an almost restrained sigh passed, before Hank focused himself on Connor Kent once more.

"Yeah, I teach sports," he confirmed, with a slow nod. "In fact, I'm the Sports Director, which honestly is just a fancy way of saying I teach Phys Ed, but without all the adults feeling like they need to talk down to me at parent-teacher evenings."

"I specifically coach basketball, and also the lacrosse team," he added, glancing up at the other students again, "Where Mr Bromorton will be giving me an extra ten laps tomorrow afternoon for being an ass. Mr West and I will figure out his penance for being a smartass later."

Those words hung in the air for a moment, before he spoke to Connor again.

"All of that is why you'll hear most of the kids calling me Coach Hall, not Mr Hall; which is what I prefer, for the record. We have separate coaches for the soccer and volleyball teams, and a few others who come in for swimming, tennis, fencing, boat stuff -"

He trailed off, a faint shrug manifesting itself beneath his jacket.

"If it is a sport that doesn't involve people getting repeatedly hit in the head, we've probably got at least a few students who play it."

Hank's brow tugged into a slight frown.

"You play any sports back in Colorado, Kent?"

[Connor Kent]

For the most part, Connor kept his head down and his eyes low. The scene played out behind him, around him, with all of the subtlety of a traffic collision. A verbal pile-up of noise and ugliness with him, the new guy, at its epicentre. This was exactly the kind of attention he wanted to avoid. He closed up, sealing his thoughts, words, and feelings inside tense muscles and clenched fists. He'd come so close, he realised, the moment the resident asshole decided to open his mouth, he'd come so close to retaliating. What that would have looked like, he couldn't say, for his heart was racing far away from the implications. When he'd opened his mouth to speak, however, it had been Wallace's voice to come out.

No. Come on. Don't do that. Fuck.

By the time Connor had turned to address the newbie who'd elected to fight his corner for him, he'd found himself presented with... a map? There, on the page, every table in the room and every student that occupied them, named, and in some cases complete with Wallace's own colourful alternative aliases. To his despair, Wallace was talking again; he'd turned in his seat now, all confident smiles, as he challenged the asshole - designated The Bro on his handy map - and made reference to his butler. Wait, he had a butler? That was... Connor frowned in annoyance. 'Back where you're from.' He stiffened in his seat, overcome with a sudden and inexplicable sense of pride in his humble hometown of Middleton, Colorado.

That was when Mr. Hall intervened; the simplest of interjections to diffuse the tension. Connor was grateful for it, for if his inside were to coil up any tighter, he would have tied himself into a knot. He listened intently to Mr- no, Coach Hall, as he talked about the various sports on offer at the school. At 6'2, he could play basketball. He'd be great at basketball. Hell, he could clear the entire court in a single bound. And lacrosse. Well, he didn't know what that was, but he could be great at that, too. He was stronger, faster, tougher than a whole team of Bromortons. His imagination took flight at the possibilities. He could come first place, win games, be the MPV in rowing, running, swimming... well, how hard could it be to learn to swim? All you had to do was float, right? It was just a shame, as Coach Hall confirmed, there was no sport for being hit in the head, because if anyone was going to win that, it was him. Soon, he found the smile starting to creep back onto his face. That was until the question came along.

Connor hesitated, painfully aware that he was in the presence of a man who had made a career out of sports. He guarded his answer for as long as he dared, from the coach, from his classmates, until at last:

"No, Coach Hall. There wasn't much to..."

He stopped himself from saying it, the lie the was as true as it was false. Granted, at Cadmus, there were no sports halls or playing fields - at least, none that he could remember seeing as he ran for his life. So there was some truth to his, as yet, unuttered claim that there wasn't much to do back home. But then he remembered The Bro, and the things he had to say about back home. He couldn't do it. He couldn't feed the asshole with more ammunition. He couldn't bring himself to let the rest of his classmates believe that Middleton sucked. It was somehow important to him. So the lie was to be rewritten:

"Uh... back home we didn't have... I mean, we had a football team." Fuck it. Commit to the fantasy, "A great football team, actually. There was basketball, baseball, uh, ice hockey. Yeah. And they were great. Huge stadiums, massive crowds. Sport is a big deal in Middleton. I just, uh..."

He gave a shrug.

"I was dedicated to my studies, Coach."

[Wally West]

Dedicated to my studies.

Wally's heart skipped a beat. In truth, his enthusiasm had begun to subtly wane with each passing minute spend exposed to Connor Kent. He was of course still elated at the prospect of meeting someone new, and overjoyed at having been made responsible for their introduction to Brentwood Academy, but minute by minute the apparent common ground between them began to shrink. In one statement, those flood waters were parted like the Red Sea, and hope formed like a land bridge between them once more. A rejection of sports? A dedication to academia? Connor's eligibility as a new friend was restored.

But what studies, Wallace began to wonder. Not the physical sciences, it seemed; or at least, not the applied sciences of which Wally himself was so fond. No one with an interest in such things could possibly listen to Professor Stein speak and not be utterly enraptured. Hell, anyone who knew anything about that branch of science wouldn't be able to hear Martin Stein's name without feeling a little bit weak at the knees, given all the papers and theorems that name was attached to. But what, then? If Connor Kent had dedicated himself to something, what field of learning could that possibly be?

"What's your favourite subject, then?"

The words blurted out of Wally's mouth before he even realised he was speaking, and it took all the self-control he could muster not to clap his hands to his mouth in abject horror. At least they were excited and intrigued, rather than accusatory, but still. It was one thing to indulge his personal curiosity, another thing entirely to throw Connor back under the bus of public scrutiny in the process. Fighting the rush of crimson that tried to surge its way to his ears, Wally stared at the desk in front of him, and hoped that no one had heard.

[Connor Kent]

"History," he said at once.

It was a question he had prepared for, and anticipated, to the point that the moment Wallace blurted it out, his response came like a reflex. Too sudden, too... unnatural. So he stalled, dislodging the stiffness of his demeanour with a shrug.

"I like to know about everything that came before me. Like the way politics can shape a nation, or how war impacts global relations; how scientific discoveries can change society, and how the course of history itself can be altered by just one person. Like, uh... Rosa Parks."

The words were practised, but true. He'd given it some thought; weighed up where his intellectual strengths lay, and, in the process, discovered he had an above average comprehension of American history, European history, the details of significant wars over the last few centuries, the struggle for power, be it political, economical, commercial, or military, and that he could recall, with surprising ease, the dates of many major historical events. Where exactly this knowledge had come from was anyone's guess, but he liked it.

He shrugged again, but this time there was a levity that hadn't been there before, "Guess I just got a good head for dates."

[Eleanor Snow]

"Do you hear that, Kippy?"

From her corner seat - that is the corner opposite to Bromorton, of course - Eleanor Snow spoke out. Clearly, leisurely, and in a tone that at once both imposed itself upon her fellow students and excluded them at the same time, she addressed the nerd at the neighbouring desk. Kip Kettering, her favourite toy. And about the only person in the room worthy of a lazy half-glance. Still, she spared him, electing instead to remain adamantly focused on the same square inch of wall that had held her attention since the new kid started to inflict his personality upon them. Or lack, thereof. How could anyone be so... vanilla? But there he was: the vacant slobbering bloodhound to Walter West's tedious eager-to-please chihuahua.

She sat with elegant poise, legs crossed, statuesque, and at just the right angle to afford Hank a glimpse of bare thigh. Now she considered the angular profile of the boy beside her, and rolled the words over her lips with relish:

"Good head for dates," Her sculpted eyebrow arched as she learned forward, resting her chin on the tips of her fingers, "Shall I ask for his number?"

[Kip Kettering]

"Poor, Eleanor. Even by your own wanting standards."

Kipling Kettering was halfway down the 86th page of his third favourite notebook when Eleanor interrupted him. It was a Montblanc: hardback, Italian calfskin leather with Saffiano print; acid-free fine grain 100gsm ink-proof paper. He liked the scratching sound it made when he wanted people to know he wasn't paying attention to what they had to say. Namely, the peanut gallery. Plebs like Wallace West and his dullard new accessory, Kent; Bromorton was an ape, of course, but at least he had charisma, and a dash of style, which was more than could be said for tragic Hank Hall, the veritable poster boy of overachieving trailer park trash. He called him Coach Charity, and was in the middle of another scathing critique of his daily attempts to socialise with human beings. But Eleanor Snow had other ideas.

Of all the students at Brentwood Academy, he found her the least intolerable. It was not that she was a shining beacon of wit in this gloomy wasteland of unutterable bores, but rather a curiosity, more than a mere distraction, but nothing half as engaging as an equal. Not at all. She had a sharp tongue, laced with venom, and he liked to watch her lash out with indiscriminate abandon, and see her victims flail from the poison. He called her the Black Widow, deadly and over-sexed in equal measure. She seemed to like that appraisal, and was intent on living up to it, even if it meant firing glancing shots in his direction from time to time.

"The only number you should be asking for," he surfaced at last, and studied her bare thigh with distaste, "Is the number of teeth in his head. I don't imagine you will be needing your abacus, darling."