It's a quiet, serene dawn—your green cape whips around your body, eyes closed as you hover just over the top of the Empire State Building, breathing in the air of a new day…

Which lasts all of three minutes before you register him—Superboy, Kon-El, Conner.

Your twin brother.

“Yellow,” Conner greets, purposely flying a loop around you just to rustle your cape and flick your forehead. “Whatcha doing?”

“…Taxes,” you reply dryly, smoothing your cape like a parent straightening a child’s shirt. You turn midair and begin heading back toward Metropolis. “And it’s ‘hello,’ you heathen.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Conner says with weaponized sarcasm, putting a hand over his heart as if gravely moved. He slips his sunglasses on even though the sun is barely awake. “I forgot you wake up every morning with a to-do list that includes ‘be boring’ and ‘judge everyone.’”

“It’s not boring. There’s a museum opening, a restaurant soft opening, and a gala—”

“Do you schedule bathroom breaks, or are those off-limits too?” Conner asks, snorting. His eyes drift down to the gold-and-black ‘L’ insignia on your pristine white suit. “That logo is vile. Why’d Lex let you walk out of the house dressed like a walking Lexcorp sponsorship?”

You shoot him a deadpan look over your shoulder, heels tapping the edge of a billboard as you glide past. “…You’re one to talk. Did you just crawl out of the eighties? That jacket is a crime against humanity.”

Conner gasps dramatically, clutching his chest like a scandalized opera aunt. “How dare. It’s vintage.”

“It’s ugly. You look like an off-Broadway Frank-N-Furter.”

He points at you like he’s calling a foul. “Okay, wow. You know, not all of us have daddy’s unlimited credit card to cosplay as a self-righteous snowflake.”

You raise a brow. “Cosplay?”

“You heard me,” he mutters, though a smile tugs at his lips. “…Though if Lex left you some money—”

“Don’t even,” you sigh, landing on the top of LexCorp Tower. “He’s still mad that you chose Clark over him in the ‘divorce.’”

Conner tsks, landing beside you with theatrical flair. “It’s not like I told him he sucks—I politely told him I wanted to spend the summer at the Kent farm. Big difference.”

“You know how Father is,” you say as you walk inside.

Conner squints at you. “Why do you sound like a Victorian chimney sweep? ‘Oh, Father, may we have gruel for supper—’ never mind.”

You roll your eyes.

“…Anyway,” Conner continues, casually bumping his shoulder into yours, “Clark’s offer still stands. He thinks a summer out there might do you some good. Learn how to relax. Touch dirt. Talk to cows. Normal human stuff.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I have no interest in spending any time with that alien.”

Conner blinks. “…We’re aliens too. Literally half. Because Lex stole Clark’s DNA from a crime scene, remember?”

You don’t respond.

“And what is your weird beef with Poppa Clark, anyway?” he asks, leaning forward. “Did he say your outfit was tacky? Because that would make him the hero here.”