Nikita drew herself to her full height. Which still was barely 5'10. She looked the prisoner in the eyes. Or rather just above them. “May Tex Kolar Daxam.”
“You honor me.” The woman replied, likewise drawing herself to her full height. “Even if you don't really mean it.”
“No I didn't. And if you were who you claimed to be you'd never have accepted it.”
“I don't understand.” Mon-El of Daxam said from a few feet to Nikita's left.
Nikita kept her attention squarely on the woman on the other side of the door. “You're not Daxamite. Much less the queen of it. Who the hell are you?”
The human-looking woman and sea blue dress faded away to reveal an individual with thick muscles, rough skin, deep-set eyes and monstrous teeth.
“How did you know?” Mon-El asked his friend.
“I gave a Kryptonian slur against your people, standing straight as if it were some kind of salute and se responded as if it were her national anthem or something. She knows the races, but not how you feel about each-other.”
“You're smarter than I gave credit for.” The woman begrudgingly admitted.
“I have to admit, while not intentionally cheating, I had an advantage.”
“If you were a telepath I would have known.”
“I am an empath. But that's not what I was referring to.”
“What are you Xavallen or something?” The prisoner snorted derisively.
“Yes, I am.” Nikita turned to her compatriot, who by now was letting his confusion show openly. “If Director Henshaw isn't already on the way down here, will you page him please?” Henshaw walked through the door moments later.
“So who do we have here?”
“A White Martian. I have yet to ask her name.” Nikita reported.
“A White Martian.” Mon-El echoed.
“How did you know?” Hank Henshaw asked of Nikita.
“You remember how I reacted to the Infernian in Brooks Square? White Martians are the other race of whom my physiology is so completely sensitive. It is something that is EXTRELELY UNIQUE to my people.” Nikita smiled wryly. “Also I've met one before. It doesn't feel quite the same as when I'm around an Infernian but it's pretty unmistakable.”
“And did he make you cry?” The Martian in the cell taunted.
“He took control of my mind and made me beat a four-legged farm animal to death. He restored my self-awareness just in time for me to see my hand end that creatures life. As an empath I felt every blow I gave that creature and THAT made me cry.”
Nikita addressed herself to the entire room. “My people are...well we tend to offer a loaf of bread sooner than we'd offer either an olive branch or a sword. We do not know how to fight, not compared to a lot of other races out there. We are pretty damn good at fighting with our words not our fists. Something people like Bre-vaak's and the planet of weapons manufacturers that is Thrombus consider a sign of weakness.”
“Your race is as pathetic as I always heard.”
“Is there something wrong with not wanting an eye for an eye to leave the whole world blind? More than any other race my people have learned not to answer a threat with another threat. Something by the way that humans are no where near advanced enough to understand. The difference between our peoples is they have more to overcome. They try harder than we ever had to.”
Hank and Mon-El looked This was the most open-book Hank had heard her when not talking about Jeremiah. The most open book Mon-El had ever heard.
“I don't suppose you've ever bothered to learn another species language.” Nikita said, her gaze fixed on the White Martian. “But listen to this. Mian soreth, nolet forseth. Breq-torec noreth. Elesaar Mian. Estarra Forseth.” Nikita's eyebrows raised and her gaze lowered. “Thank you, for that.” She said in a wavering voice. She turned and walked away from the cell.
“Nikita, what just happened?”
“The...the words were of memory and remembrance. I was using them differently. It's usually more like a benediction for those at peace than 'remember remember the time of the fires'. Mon-El, what's today's date?”
“April 18th.”
“Hank, you and I have a glass of whiskey to pour when evening falls.”
“I'll be there. Meantime I'd like you back in the control room.”
Mon-El followed Nikita to the central cortex. Nikita walked up the the main view screen and began typing into the controls, doing her best to ignore her compatriot.
“I use English accurately but without the conventions Americans learn. I would not say 'a bottle of whiskey' unless I intended to drink the entire bottle with him. Which I don't. We will pour each-other a glass...to remember a friend of ours who is no longer with us.”
Whatever question Mon-El had on his lips died on his lips. “I'll go see if Winn needs any help down in processing.”
Nikita smile faintly. Mon-El had been working at the D.E.O. as a volunteer for almost 2 years now and still referred to the computer lab as 'processing' or 'the processing center'. She had to admit given the processing power of computers as well as the inherent fact that the computers were a core component in keeping things proceeding, the name made as much sense as anything.
Everyone gave her space for the rest of her shift. Not because she was hostile or worked up but because she carried herself with sadness. It almost rested on her. Some who knew her, like Winn Schott perceived something incredibly personal must have happened recently. They were only half-right. The man who freed her from the D.E.O. and saved Henshaw's life had died 4 years and one day ago.
Nikita sat on her bed waiting for Hank Henshaw. Her thoughts were full of memories she had of Jeremiah. It was part of her commemoration to honor the man's life on the anniversary of his death. Rather than simply 'a life lived, a life ended'. The problem was, she didn't have very many memories of the man. The most important memory she had of him was the last time she ever saw him. She heard a tap on the door frame. “Come in.” Hank Henshaw quickly stepped inside. Nikita motioned for him to take a seat at the breakfast table. They sat facing each-other, against the north wall.
“I can't believe it's been four years already.”
Nikita smiled as she poured two glasses of whiskey. “Not one for beating around the bush. You know I kind of admire you for that.”
“Occupational hazard I guess.”
“Hank, may I call you Hank?”
“When we're off duty yes.” The man replied
“Hank, something I've been wondering since I met this new you. Aside from stuff with me, did the two of you get along? Or did he constantly fight your decisions?”
“We got along fine. He would often object, try to offer alternatives. But he would never really fight me. We were working together for a cause and left it at that. He never let anything compromise his dedication to his values. I admired him for that.”
“Did he get in trouble? When he helped me escape. Did you punish him.” She couldn't bring herself to say the words, but her face finished the question.
“I had to put in his file that he did not do everything possible to prevent your escape. I didn't say anything else about it. He acted according to his convictions. I couldn't punish him for that. I can respect a man who stands behind his true beliefs. Besides, he was right."
"Hank, I hope you know – he wouldn't have regretted it."
"How can you know that for sure?"
"You're amazed and in shock that he was as loyal to you and the D.E.O. as he was. It follows that he wouldn't have regretted honoring that loyalty. He thought you were worth it. He thought I deserved to be free and you deserved to live. It seems to me he died how he lived: With honor."
“I keep having to remind myself you knew him better than I did.”
“You would be reminding yourself of a fallacy.”
“I don't understand.”
“Hank, you served with him. You saw him more often than I did and presumably 'in the thick of it'. I didn't know him that well. That is, I never got the chance to know him personally. I just... low-level empath remember'. I read him better.”
“Which means you knew him better than I did.”
“Hank let's face it, neither one of us really knew him, until he was already gone.”
“Promise me that you will keep her safe. Protect her from pain. Promise you will not send me against others___and I am your slave. Keep me as your own, do as you will to me. Only please, leave him alone.”
“Superman no, you don't understand.” Mitchell cried. Superman quieted him with a hand on his shoulder.
Lex Luthor took a cautious step forward. “On your knees. Say it on your knees.”
Superman dropped to one knee, hands at his sides. “Yes I know what I'm offering to become. Anderson can't believe it; he doesn't know me.”
“That's two for two.” General Anderson muttered under his breath.
“But you do.” Superman continued. “You win, alright? But you don't need anyone else. Any-thing else for that matter. So please le____let him go.”
“Clark this is insane.” General Anderson insisted. He smiled softly. “But it's what I've come to expect from you.”
“Why are you like that?” Superman asked suddenly. Anderson looked up sharply. “Why are you like that with me you never said.”
“Nikita never told you?”
“I think she figured whatever was going on was EXTREMELY your business. But come to that...how do you even know my name?”
Anderson sighed deeply. “I'm from another Earth.”
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