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True to his word, Allen has diagnostic exams ready for the taking. A stack of personal screens from the media lab sits next to his work table in the Engineering department, all programmed with tests. Long ones, since they're diagnostic, not cumulative.

One of them is, in fact, programmed with Superboy's name on it. Because Allen is a smartass like that.

"You know Stace, it would be nice if I could have a sign for the door. 'Open Call for Students-slash-Teachers,' something like that," he says, as he roots through the engineering department, looking for just such a thing to make a sign with.

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"I did tell ya," Allen says, with a wave of his hand. "Just answer until you can't go any further."

He practically breezes through the elementary school, junior high, and freshman and sophomore year stuff. Answer answer answer answer. All glory to the implanted knowledge and all.

But once he hits Junior year, boy does it get iffy.

For one...

"Your history stuff is kinda off."

"Alternate universes. Just use the comment boxes to put in anything you think I ought to know about how the histories differ."

There's a protracted sigh. More work? Come on.

Eventually he gets through most sections, which get all blah blah blah after a while, and he decides at those points the questions are getting too hard or boring and he stops there and moves onto the next section. It's during this time that the fidgeting comes. This kid cannot sit still. It's like he's got ferrets twitching around in his muscles or something. He sits up. Kicks back. Sits up. Taps the table with his fingertips.

He is very obviously one of those kids that stares at the window, pretty much DYING of boredom until class is over, and absolutely cannot stand when he has to actually pay attention to something like a test.

Attention span--he's got none. (At least when it comes to stuff he finds boring).

Of course, in the long run, it means he takes even longer to finish. Then of course there's the fact that he spends more time considering each question. Part of his problem seems to be the classic "overthinking" of things thing. He'll go with his gut instinct for a correct answer, then second-guess himself, switch it--then go back and switch it again. He knows he's clever, and it's pretty obvious just from talking to the kid that he's clever, but anything past 10th grade and he doubts his own smarts.

"Aw, there's essays?" he complains, when he gets to that part.

Edited 2009-06-29 05:05 (UTC)

"Yes, there's essays."

Allen doesn't turn around from his project as he waits for Kon to finish. Co-head of Engineering - he has a lot of work to do. Or at least plenty of stuff to occupy his time. "The faster you do them, the faster you can go bug Robin."

There's another protracted sigh. The analytical essay is just about torture. There are a ton of vaguely whiny sighs and fidgeting from his direction as he writes that one. It's mostly bullshitting.

The more creative ones, however...they're a little easier.

"Write about a time in your life when you helped someone achieve a goal or overcome a problem of their own. If you have never done either of these, you are a twat."

First of all, you're giving out essays to little kids that have the world 'twat' on them, and if you're allowed to do that, I should be allowed to curse like a sailor as much as I want without getting "Mr. Kon" from someone.

But okay, whatever, here's my essay:

A time in my life I helped someone achieve a goal or overcome a problem of their own is my entire life. (Duh). Pretty much from the moment I popped out of my containment tube and said "hello, word," I had it clanging around in the ol' brainpan that I was a superhero, so I went out and started fighting bad guys in Metropolis as Superman (at least I thought I was Superman). Then he came back and I started fighting bad guys as Superboy. The fighting bad guys part has pretty much stayed the same for my whole life, and I've saved like a kajillion and one babies in runaway carriages, stopped buildings from falling on people, caught crashing planes, and punched big brawny guys in the face so they didn't hurt people or take things that weren't theirs, because they seem to have trouble with that whole not hurting people, "no, that doesn't belong to you" thing. I bet when most supervillains were little, they didn't share their toys in the sandbox.

Anyway, that's what being a superhero is, and that's especially what being a Superboy is, because what it means to wear the 'S' is you're never off the clock. You're always trying to find ways to help people, because you can, and it's the right thing to do. (Also, duh).

So it's hard for me to answer this question because I do it all the time. Instead, I'm writing about one of the rare few times I didn't help someone.

One of the times I didn't help someone was back around the beginning when I tried to be famous on top of the superheroing, and tried to cash in whenever I could, and I was like Panther Beat Magazine's Hottest Hottie of the Year. I thought it was okay to cash in because I was still helping people a lot, and everyone seemed to love me anyway. One time, my manager, Rex, hired a lookalike to go to an appearance I was scheduled at, a mall opening, so I could do a talk show at the same time, to pimp my latest product or cartoon or whatever (I don't even remember what it was for, at this point, that's how stupid it all was).

Except a gang I'd pissed off by messing up their weapons-smuggling operations, the Dragons, did a drive-by and shot the impersonator, thinking it was me.

His name was Luka Warlaw and he was 18 years old. He wanted to be an actor, and just needed some cash, so that's why he took the job from Rex. He wanted to go to Hollywood someday, and be in the movies.

I knew it'd happened, but I didn't think it was a big deal at all that he got hired. I didn't think about how someone might hurt him thinking he was me, about the fact that he had no powers or anything to defend himself if it did. I didn't think it was a big deal. I didn't think about a lot of things back then, because I was generally really stupid. I know a lot of people seem to think I'm an idiot sometimes and careless, but back then, I was really stupid.

Edited 2009-06-29 05:55 (UTC)

See, because it was a big deal. Because I was out trying to have my stupid face on the TV, to sell Superboy Shiny White Brand toothpaste or something, and put him in that spot, he died. He was only 18, which is sort of kind of close to how old I am in my head now. Now I think a lot about the fact that I might die, because people on the ship from the future say that's what happens, and I wonder if in those few seconds before he was shot, if Luka was thinking the same things, about how much he still wanted to do, but would never get the chance to.

What it taught me was that you should never play around with people's lives and always put other people first, instead of yourself. If I'd been thinking more about protecting people and less about myself and getting famous, Luka wouldn't have died.

To me, the time I've helped other people with their problems haven't really taught me anything to write about, other than the people I've fought for those goals with are some of the most amazing people I've ever met. The times I didn't help other people are the times that taught me things--they taught me that I just couldn't do that. That you can't go through life just thinking about yourself, or other people can get hurt. You still need time to yourself, and certain parts of yourself that are just yours, but otherwise, all the rest of your life should be for other people, if you have that much of yourself to give in the first place.

And I do. A time in my life I helped someone achieve a goal or overcome a problem of their own--I've tried to make that my entire life. I always try to help people, and I always try to solve people's problems (like if their problem is a bad guy threw their bus off a bridge, that kinda needs solving in the form of someone catching it and all). In the end, if we can't change things, my death might be for that to.

But to be honest, I wouldn't want it any other way. I don't want there to ever be any more Lukas in the world.

"We have different faces we show to different kinds of people in our lives. Write about these many faces you wear. Who are you around your parents? Your friends? Your teachers? When you're alone?"

I don't have multiple faces because I have only one head, and I don't wear a mask (ha ha). But I do have a secret identity. I'm not really telling many people on the ship that, because it's a Rule not to, but I do live something of a double life, except instead of like when you're a spy, where both lives are probably kinda cool somehow, the one life is lame and the other isn't.

My civilian ID, which I will call, uh, C. is super boring. C is the result of me faking being everything I'm not--weak, kinda boring, completely lame, and a wuss. C is the giantest nerd ever, and stands in the corner at school dances and never busts a move, even when I can completely serve just about anybody I want breakdancing. C goes to barn dances and never makes friends at them and pretends he likes listening to Kenny Chesney singing "She thinks my tractor's sexy" a million times without wanting to shoot himself in the head with a green bullet. C can't climb a rope all the way to the top during gym class, and claims it's his asthma, but people think he's making it up to look less lame. People pick on C all the time and towel-whip him in the bathroom, even though he could probably turn the school into a parking lot in five minutes (and I think about it on a regular basis, believe me). C also can't throw a football to save his life, when in reality, he can throw it into the stratosphere. C is the epitome of Nerd, but I have to pretend to be C because a pair of glasses only gets you so far as a disguise.

I cannot express in words how much I hate pretending to be C. I like the name, because of who gave it to me, but I hate the act.

At home, I go by C, still, but it's a different C. At home, C = Kon-el = Superboy, because the people who raise me (kind of. I sort of came to them already ~~barely~~ raised and they're not my parents, but they take care of me) know who and what I really am, and I think they maybe like me, so I can be myself and benchpress cows for exercise when I'm bored. They also sometimes need me to help lifting the tractor to fix it. Being C at home is different because I don't have to pretend C is a nerdy alter ego. Although I still have to be good and not cuss or be crude because it upsets them, but I don't mind doing that because the people who raise me are really nice.

Around my friends and my team, the Titans, I get to be someone else entirely. I get to be Superboy. Kon-El. Pure and simple. Sometimes, they call me C, but they know it's all one person. The Titans don't mind if stick straws in my nose and do a walrus impression when we hit Pizza Shack, and I can be as stupid around them as I want without them thinking less of me.

Then there's Cassie, my girlfriend, and Robin, my best friend (and Bart, sometimes, but he's a speedster and he gets a little Speed Force ADD sometimes). I can pretty much be myself around the both of them and tell them both everything going on in my head. Sometimes when I'm pissed off or upset, I don't even tell the Titans, but I'll tell one or both of them (depending on what it is) and I know it's okay. They keep my secrets.

For me, it's not masks, mostly. C is a mask at school, but he has to be. Mostly it's degrees. Ma says that I let people in by inches, and I'm not that different than Kal, my mentor and "cousin," and who I was cloned from, by being that way. Rather than getting different faces, certain people just get more inches, and some, like Rob and Cassie--they get almost every inch I've got, because they've earned it.

Annnnnd, that's it. He doesn't double-check a thing, just declares:

"Done!"

Then he flings the pad at Allen, when he's sure he's looking.

"Don't care what I got! Later."

He's out the door that fast.

School. He's allergic, y'know.

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