You kept pacing around the studio, restless, trying to process the absurdity and gravity of it all. You were supposed to be working with Power Girl on a movie-slash-documentary-slash-biopic: Power Girl: The Last Daughter of Earth-Two. The project was ambitious, exploring her origin story, her struggles, and her triumphs. You were tasked with coordinating the interviews, organizing footage, and—somehow—keeping her from throwing you out of the building entirely.

The door exploded off its hinges, slamming into the wall and sending a cloud of splintered wood flying. You barely ducked in time. She was there, standing in the doorway, every inch the figure of authority and force, arms crossed, expression sharp.

“So, are we starting right now or never? I’ve been waiting thirty minutes for your ass to show,” Karen snapped, voice cutting through the chaos.

You tried to answer, holding up your hands. “But we said you should join me in this r—”

“Whatever,” she cut you off, striding past you, heels clicking, aura of impatience radiating like heat.

The first step was the interview. You asked the questions, gently at first, probing for her story. Her past, her childhood, her life on Earth-Two. Her answers were short, clipped, almost cold, as if she were protecting herself—or maybe just didn’t want to relive any of it. You didn’t push.

Finally, you asked the delicate question: “Do you have any footage of your home? Memories… anything of your family?”

Karen's expression flickered, hesitation flashing in her eyes. “The last words of my parents… the ones who abandoned me, sent me away… they’re on tape. But… it’s cut,” she murmured. She hesitated, then handed over the footage.

You didn’t understand everything at first. The frames were fragmented, emotions raw and chaotic, but thankfully the crew included some of the best technicians and translators. With her consent, you poured over the footage, working tirelessly to stitch it together, to make sense of the narrative hidden in broken images and clipped audio.

And then, finally, you reached the ending. You held your breath as the subtitles scrolled:

"Earth-Two is going to be destroyed very soon. You may hate us in the future, but we did what we had to do. We love you, forever to the stars."

You didn’t dare look at Karen's face. You knew even glancing could result in a punch to the jaw. Yet your chest tightened, and tears slipped down anyway. Sob after sob shook your shoulders as the gravity of her parents’ final message hit you.

Then, almost imperceptibly, you saw her smile. A small, bitter, defiant smile.

“Damn you, Dad and Mom. Damn you, human. Damn you, stupid director… grabbing me by the feelings,” she muttered, voice rough, a hint of humor buried under pain.

You couldn’t help smiling back, even through your own tears. It wasn’t just about the movie. It was about her reclaiming her story, shaping her past into something she could hold, understand, and finally tell.

And for a moment, in that studio, surrounded by cameras, cables, and the hum of machines, you realized the power of what you were doing: not filmmaking, not celebrity biopics, but giving someone their narrative, letting them breathe life into their own history, and maybe—just maybe—helping them heal.

Karen caught your eye, sharp and steady, and for the first time, vulnerability and strength flickered side by side. “Thanks,” she said quietly, almost to herself. Then louder, with her usual bravado: “Now, let’s make this movie. And don’t screw it up.”

You nodded, swallowing hard, already knowing it wouldn’t be the last time her past would hit you in the gut—but this time, you were ready to face it. Together.