LOL so I'm revising again... Surprise?

So this is my fic baby that I've been neglecting for over half a year. It's still my baby. And I love it.

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize blah blah blah don't sue me DC I'm not worth it.

...

Chapter 1: As the Sun Rises

The water glass rose off of the nightstand. Athalia scrunched her nose, trying to keep it as level as possible.

Higher, still. Several inches off of the wooden surface. Her mind curled around it in an intangible grip. Not effortless, but close.

Lifting a glass off of a table. It used to be a commonplace act, nothing unusual. A party trick, a side-effect of something deeper and greater. On this planet…on this planet, it was a miracle, a curse. People like her, with abilities like hers, were lauded like gods or feared as monsters.

She was neither. She wanted to be anything but a god or a monster.

She just wanted to be. Maybe she could find happiness. Odds were that wasn't going to happen, but she could dream.

You shouldn't be alive.

Her concentration shook and shattered and the glass dropped, hitting the edge of the table and cracking to pieces. She flinched at the sound.

Of course, it had to be that particular thought to grace her consciousness, disturbing her fitful peace. But, it wasn't wrong. She really shouldn't have been alive. She just wished her brain would come up with something a little more interesting and not something completely obvious.

There were over a thousand reasons why she shouldn't have been alive. And yet, she was lying in a bed, alone, alive. On a strange planet and in a strange city.

The glass on the ground was a reminder of who she was, what she was.

Foolish, foolish.

Foolish for stretching a muscle that had been ill-used for so long, not letting it be cooped up inside of her. Foolish for pretending that she didn't crave every chance she could to use it, despite the pain and nostalgia that came with it, the danger that it posed to her freedom.

Addict.

Her stomach twisted at the sudden loneliness, the still air of the little bedroom becoming a thousand times heavier, suffocating. She sat up, rolling her shoulders. Nights were cold and her apartment had no insulation, so she was used to waking up with stiff muscles and joints.

Leaving her lukewarm bed, she stood, keeping a wide berth of the glass.

She had her routine. One of the few things that she could rely on. It was a distraction, kept the ever-present hum under her skin in the back of her mind.

She washed her face, keeping her eyes away from the mirror, stripped herself of her thin sleep clothes, and put on clothes for the day. She didn't have a lot of options.

Her brain stalled a little as she stood in front of her dresser.

Black fabric was wadded up and pressed to the back of the drawer. The color of mourning.

She used to wear only black scarves around her head. But she had stopped recently, allowing herself some color.

Color. She still mourned.

You don't deserve to be alive.

That wasn't a particularly unique thought either. She knew that. She knew.

Her hand closed around a dark purple scarf and she wrapped it around her head, so only the oval of her face could be seen. She pinned it so it would take some doing to take it off.

Routine. Custom.

She filled a kettle with water and set it on the stove, laid out a mug and teabag and a bowl and packet of oatmeal.

A few minutes later, with breakfast prepared, she sat down at her rickety table, surrounded by silence and barren simplicity.

Routine. It was warm and familiar, now.

Athalia jumped as a horn blared outside, followed by two voices shouting at each other. Fearfearfear hummed and spiked under her skin and the glaze of her mug cracked.

She cursed and set the mug down. She flexed her hand, willing the pins and needles feeling away.

"By the stars, calm down," she whispered.

She took a drink when she was sure she wouldn't break the cup on accident. Or on purpose.

How many dishes had Athalia destroyed over the years out of carelessness, anger, sorrow or fear?

She might as well take her pent-up energy out on one of the walls. It could take more hits, a bigger release. Sure, her landlord would probably evict her if he found out, but if madness was the other option, she would take her chances.

The same horn blasted again, followed by the screeching of tires. She was anticipating it this time, so she didn't flinch.

Earth was a strange place. Strange and different and familiar and so very noisy.

But she wouldn't give up her low-lying spot on its soil for anything.

When she first arrived, shaking from hunger and terror, she had feared that she would stick out horribly. She had feared that she would be captured immediately. And then imprisoned or sent back to the hell that was her former home.

She didn't anticipate how easy it was to blend in, how easy it was to disappear into a crowd.

Humans looked a lot like her, some almost identical to her. But they were not like her.

They were disconnected from each other, mentally. There were no telepathic links, no networks of thoughts and emotions shared among friends and loved ones. Those were the things that were so integral to her being. Now, there was an aching void inside of Athalia, pent-up energy without an outlet.

She poked at her oatmeal, watching the steam rise in wisps. Flavorless. The cheapest they offered at the nearby grocery store.

As she moved across Earth, the first thing she did was change her name. It was a horrible, heartbreaking thing for her to do. She was proud of her family and proud of her name. But fear, fear that her name would bring the demons to her doorstep, kept those words close to her heart.

Athalia, daughter of Yana and Feivel.

Her parents were now treasured memories, faces scratched into her sketchpad. She couldn't remember the last time her real name was said aloud. She never said it to herself, not even in the silence of her apartment. It was practically a foreign word to her now.

Now, she was named Rosa, a name she heard shouted when she was wandering the streets of Earth. A nondescript name, she assumed, so she could further immerse herself, further hide. It worked so far. No police came, breaking down her door, carting her off to who knows where because she was on their soil illegally.

She adapted, assimilated quickly, learning the native language and the basic customs so no one would be the wiser that she was anything but human. The primary language spoken in this city—Metropolis—was essentially the same as her native language.

The written word, however, was drastically different. But everyone around her assumed that she was a foreigner, so she could get away with not knowing how to read or write well in 'English'. She obtained a functional understanding, not anywhere close to fluency. She needed it. Without it, she would have starved within a month or forced to make money doing things that didn't require reading.

She lived, survived. And no one came to take her away. Not that she had incriminating evidence that they could use against her. Only the blood in her veins and a lot of memories.

Faces blackened and bloated in death. The smell, the awful smell of rotting flesh.

And then there were the marks on her skin, carved out of her flesh.

For a beat, a fraction of an instant, everything hurt. Phantom pain, muscle memory, her own psyche deciding it was a good time to torment her by making her muscles seize in pain. Athalia was glad that she was sitting down or she probably would have collapsed. As soon as the pain came, it left.

Her spoon hit the side of the bowl with a muted clink, one shaking hand coming up to press against the side of her face. While the purple cloth did its job, she knew what lay just underneath it.

And that was what really mattered, wasn't it? She couldn't forget about it. Every time she saw herself, she knew. She remembered. All of the fabric in the universe wouldn't be able to cover and erase that.

Her appetite was gone. She glared at her breakfast like it personally offended her, but she forced herself to eat every bite of lumpy oatmeal and drink every drop of tea.

She had survived for months, years, on less, but she refused—refused—to go back to those days. She had food and drink and she'd be damned if she didn't take advantage of what little she had.

She collected her things: a rickety easel, pad of paper, box of pencils, two little fold-up chairs.

The constant buzz of activity outside was slowly turning into a roar as people began to move and go about their daily business. It would have been a comforting sound if it didn't make her feel so nostalgic.

"I really need to learn how to stop thinking."

She also needed to stop being so tired all the time.

Athalia started as she stepped out of the apartment, almost running into her elderly neighbor.

"Morning, Rosa," Marie greeted.

Of all the people Athalia had met in her near three years on Earth, she loved Marie the most. The woman was kind to her, welcomed Athalia with warm food when she first moved into the apartment a few doors away. She never pried, settled for pleasant chit-chat when they had tea and watched television together.

Athalia nodded with a smile, quickly realizing that she was staring at Marie with a blank expression.

"Good morning, Marie. How are you?"

Marie's dark eyes crinkled in a smile.

"Oh, I'm just fine, dear. Is that a new scarf?"

Athalia's hand went up to touch the fabric, a wistful expression crossing her face. "I suppose it is. Bought it a few days ago."

"Very beautiful, like its wearer!"

Athalia blushed at the compliment, tears burning at the back of her eyes.

"Beautiful. No one has called me beautiful in a long time."

Athalia pushed down the knot in her throat, suddenly feeling heavy and weighed-down. Her voice almost wavered as she stammered out a thank you.

Marie waved her off, not noticing or politely ignoring Athalia's sudden change in mood. "Not at all, not at all. Now, you need to come over more often, dear. I don't remember the last time you came to visit me. I'll make tea and those cookies you love."

Yes, Marie was good. She was a good friend. Athalia was lucky to have her in her life as one of the few humans who treated her with genuine kindness and not pity or condescension or outright disgust.

Marie was good, better than what Athalia deserved.

"When are you free?" Athalia asked.

…

A plan for tea and a dodging of city crowds later, Athalia was seated outside. There was a corner in the center of the city, at the intersection of a large park, a popular coffee shop and several department stores, which was always bustling with people. It was an ideal place to make money off of tourists and businesspeople on their coffee breaks.

Athalia had worked in the same place every day for almost three years. She would set up the two chairs facing each other and the easel facing out with example artwork clipped to the wood. There were other craftspeople who came and went in the same area, setting up tents and elaborate tables of their work.

She wasn't close to any of them, not even those who were there daily. Some would stick around for a few months and then leave, never to be seen again.

There had been a couple, Laila and Reese, jeweler and knitter, who had worked there when Athalia first started. They were kind to her, helped her set up on the days when it was clear she was struggling. The two women even offered to buy her food from time to time. But eventually they moved on to start a family. Athalia had to stamp out an ugly nostalgic bitterness when they gushed over a picture of the little girl they were going to adopt.

That had been about a year ago. Those who took their place were not as kind, not as friendly. Athalia didn't bother reaching out to them, or anyone else. She could only offer strained smiles and greetings that couldn't be mistaken for enthusiastic.

But she wasn't there to make friends. She was there to make money and survive.

On a good day, she could make at least 60 dollars on the portraits. Sometimes, a customer was so impressed they paid her twice the asking price. She would get donations every once in a while, a few dollars out of pity for her seemingly pitiful situation.

Once upon a time, she would have felt insulted. Now, she prayed to the stars that more would come her way.

A semblance of normalcy, a shadow of what she used to do in her old life. The city was filled with life. Though she couldn't truly connect with anyone, it was some kind of replacement. Not true loneliness.

Time passed. Athalia doodled in her book, a tiny Metropolis skyline slowly taking shape. It was calming, but she kept part of her attention to her display.

After an hour of nothing, only vaguely-sorry glances and glazed-over eyes, a young woman, fair-skinned, blonde hair, and wearing a smart suit, stopped in front of her, squinting at the examples Athalia had put up to entice customers.

Athalia didn't want to look over-eager at the idea of a customer, but she smiled at the woman, trying not to give off an 'I'm poor and desperate, please give me money' kind of vibe.

"Very nice," the woman said.

The compliment startled a smile onto Athalia's face. "Thanks! Are you interested in a portrait? Only ten dollars."

That got her a look of contemplation, a beat of hesitation. Athalia's heart clenched in equal measures of anticipation and dread. She needed the money if she wanted to stay in her little apartment.

Finally, the woman nodded, grinning. "Sounds like a bargain. Alright."

Athalia smiled softly and gestured to the seat across from the little easel.

"All I need for you is to sit there, sit up straight, and smile. It will only take a few minutes."

She obeyed, following her instructions to sit tall and still.

"What's your name?" she asked as Athalia began to draw.

Ah, small talk. Athalia could do small talk. Not looking up from her work, she responded, "I'm Rosa. And yours?"

"Kaitlyn."

Athalia smiled to herself.

"Kaitlyn. Nice to meet you, Kaitlyn."

Her pencil skimmed over the paper, forming the curve of the ear, strands of hair.

It was natural, like breathing. Athalia only needed to glance at Kaitlyn a few times to know how to draw her.

When her world had collapsed, she wasn't sure she would be able to do this again.

When they came to her home, the cowards without a doubt had torched her studio. Years' worth of work, gone.

Custom, tradition, the entirety of her culture, was wiped out, burned up and replaced by that of the race of people who apparently hated her people so much that they would enslave and eradicate them.

There was the buzzing again, reaching a pitch that threatened to snap the pencil between her fingers. Athalia caught the tremble that shook up her arm before it could shake her hand and mess up the line.

She collected that anger and the buzzing, balled it up, and threw it as far away as she could, pushing it down far into her subconscious. It couldn't interfere with her life like this. One mistake, and everything would crumble.

Something breakable was getting broken when she got home.

"Get a hold of yourself," Athalia berated herself.

"Excuse me?"

Athalia looked up, eyes wide.

"Did you say something?" Kaitlyn continued, expression clearly confused.

Athalia smiled sheepishly, internally kicking herself for saying anything aloud. "Oh, I sometimes mutter to myself when I am drawing. I am almost finished."

She erased a few stray lines and signed the bottom: her first initial in her native tongue. Of all the things she kept hidden, she allowed herself that much. Not a grandiose expression of her heritage, but enough for her to feel like she was at home for a small instant.

Gently tearing the page off the easel, she revealed the contents.

"Here we are! One portrait!"

Kaitlyn's eyes roamed over the work, something like happiness floating in her expression.

"Absolutely lovely. Thank you."

Athalia wanted to cheer as they exchanged: money for the portrait.

Athalia found herself holding fifteen dollars. When she went to thank her customer, Kaitlyn was already turning away.

"Keep the change," Kaitlyn said offhandedly as she began to walk.

"Thank you and have a good day," Athalia called out to her back.

…

The sun crawled high into the sky, but a breeze lessened its heat. Three more people stopped by, each paying the advertised ten dollars for a portrait.

Feeling the wad of cash in her pant pocket steadily grow brought a sense of pride and happiness. She was doing something right. She was working.

When noontime finally arrived, Athalia began to pack up her things. It was break time.

It gave her an hour to go home, drop off her art supplies, change, have a meager lunch and make her way to the diner several blocks down the street where she worked as a waitress. A seriously underpaid waitress.

She just needed to make at least thirty dollars a day on portraits on top of her waitress salary to keep her head above water. And she made forty-five dollars. A victory.

It was a good day. Even better, she was actually in the mood to eat.

"Maybe I'll treat myself to some real food," she murmured to nobody in particular.

She managed to walk a few steps before the ear-shattering sound of an explosion almost sent her to the ground in shock.

One of the perils of living in a big city on Earth, Athalia had realized early on, was that there was a significant amount of crime. Particularly by people of what was regarded as unnatural ability. Metropolis was a haven for them, apparently.

She only heard of the incidents, seen the headlines or watched on the televisions in the diner. Walked past the aftermath, even seen heroes and villains fly overhead.

Athalia thought that maybe she could go back to her apartment and ignore it. The Justice League, the heroes, the ones who saved the world when hostile beings fell from the sky, could handle it. Maybe even the police could handle it.

Then she heard the screaming: screams of fear and pain. And her world tilted on its axis, the ever-present buzzing under her skin returning at a fever-pitch.

Executed in the streets, blood running red on the ground.

Her feet should have been taking her away from the noise, but they were carrying her towards it. The bag carrying her art supplies fell to the ground from limp fingers.

The dazed stumbling developed into a full-blown run, following the sounds of sirens and the plume of smoke that drifted off a building a few blocks away. Her hands curled into fists, rage heating the hollow of her throat.

No one helped. Nobody stood up to save your people.

People were running in the opposite direction, bodies slamming into her despite her best attempts to weave around them.

They were helpless against the villains likely attacking. What could they do but run? Turning the corner, Athalia realized why people were panicking.

She immediately recognized the three villains fighting with police and causing general chaos: Sinestro, Tsukuri, and Solomon Grundy. Teams were particularly feared, the damage they could potentially cause increasing hundredfold.

How could she help?

She ducked behind a parked car, trying to figure out a plan.

Should she stay in the background or take a more direct approach? Should she wait until the situation escalates to the point where her help was needed or wait until the League arrives?

The decision was made for her when Grundy picked up a station wagon and flung it into the street, towards a man cowering near where she was hiding.

She popped up from her hiding spot and threw her hand out, energy crackling under her fingertips.

He was flung away, hit by an invisible force, by her. He yelped, falling to the ground. The car impacted where he was standing a moment earlier, metal crunching against metal.

She ducked down behind the car again, the rush of it quickening her breath. This was different, exhilarating and it felt so natural.

She did it. She saved someone. And she wanted to laugh aloud at the feeling. And the act seemed to go unnoticed, to her relief.

Not enough though. She knew that saving one man wouldn't be enough. She could save more people.

But that would require going on the offensive. She knew that it would be an idiot move, but she was being an idiot for getting involved in the first place. Might as well make a legitimate difference. Besides, she was doing fine so far.

She looked out to see Sinestro floating stationary in the air, yellow light writhing around his hands.

"Aim for his arm."

Out of his line of sight, she struck, hoping that her aim was good enough to hit his limb at that distance. She felt it connect as much as she saw it, his arm being shoved just before he attacked.

The sound of concrete being smashed—not flesh—told her that she succeeded. It was a cheap shot, but it worked. Sinestro whipped around, looking for the source, as Athalia ducked back, hoping that he didn't catch a glance of her.

He was distracted, if for a moment. It would be enough for the police officers to regroup a little.

Athalia didn't move from where she was huddled, not making a sound.

One beat, two beats passed.

The roof of the car exploded in a flash of yellow light and a screech of grinding metal and shattering glass. Athalia swallowed a cry of fear, the damage only a few feet from her head.

"Stars. Stars! He knows where I am!"

Boom!

The car rocked and tilted, threatening to tip over on top of Athalia. She scrambled forward, blindly.

Only to find that she had run out of cover.

"Would you look at that? A newcomer!" Sinestro shouted over the ringing of Athalia's ears.

She swore under her breath. She was out in the open, exposed.

Athalia straightened, turning fully to face the enemy. Now, her instincts were telling her to run and her hands were twitching by her sides, ready to strike in self-defense. She was not afraid of them, she was not afraid of them, she was not afraid.

"Tsukuri, deal with her," Sinestro crowed as he continued to wreak havoc on the police force.

The swordswoman advanced on her swiftly, leaving Athalia little time to figure out a plan. Her sword glinted in the noon sun, the edge already stained copper.

Athalia's breathing hitched in fear, despite the calm façade she forced on her face.

This was definitely not what she had signed up for when she decided that she wanted to help. Save and protect people, yes. Not battle with anyone. And Athalia couldn't hide from her or outrun her. She would get a blade to the back if she tried.

Tsukuri got within a few yards of her when Athalia stepped back and struck out. The invisible force struck the woman dead-on, sending her flying into a nearby car. Tsukuri's body hit with a harsh sound, her head smacking against metal, and she crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Athalia felt a rush of victory, coupled by an unsettling sense of familiarity and almost pity for Tsukuri.

She didn't like hurting people. She really didn't.

"The kitten has claws." Sinestro exclaimed, regaining Athalia's attention. His eyebrows almost to his hairline in surprise that Tsukuri was taken down so easily.

While Athalia outwardly bristled at his mocking words, she was inwardly panicking. She had made herself a threat to them. And they would fight her with strength to match hers, if not more.

"Is that the best you got?" Athalia yelled. It was less of an attempt to intimidate Sinestro and more of a morale booster for herself. If her voice shook, she couldn't tell.

"I will deal with you myself!" he growled, giving a condescending look in Tsukuri's direction.

Athalia stepped back as Sinestro flew closer, fear making her hands shake.

Where was the Justice League? They should be fighting these villains, not her.

Sinestro collected his signature yellow energy in his hands, face twisting in rage, and fired directly at Athalia.

She held up her hands, energy solidifying to something like a shield a few inches from her fingertips. She could deflect it, maybe, if her abilities were at least equal to his. If not, he would hit her, likely fatally.

The beam connected and glanced off, blowing a hole into a nearby police car. The force of the impact travelled up her arm to her head, making her wince in pain.

He sent another, this time with more force. Athalia scrambled out of the way, the beam frying the air where she had been standing moments before.

She needed to buy herself more time or find a way out of this that didn't include her getting wounded or killed.

Turning to the offensive, she struck out as hard as she could. Sinestro dove down, her attack passing harmlessly over his head. The psychic blast struck the building behind him, sending shards of window exploding onto the street.

Athalia doubled back, power buzzing in her hands, up her arms and curled around the base of her skull. Sinestro bellowed in anger, trying to keep from being cut by the glass. He regarded her with pure contempt, lashing out as she did the same.

Two forces connected with a thunderous boom.

Athalia staggered as she released the burst of energy, leaning against a car hood. That didn't feel good. Not at all. The buzzing in her hands was turning into a burning, now. Her head pounded, ears ringing.

"Not gonna last too long like this."

"Not so tough, are you, you little brat?" Sinestro yelled, sounding only slightly winded.

He opened his mouth, probably to spit more vitriol, when something behind Athalia caught his attention, making something, maybe fear, cross his face.

Athalia didn't dare turn around, but a bright green light whizzing over her head answered her unasked question.

The Justice League was here.

Green Lantern and Hawkgirl flew into view, connecting with Sinestro and Solomon Grundy. Athalia took in a breath of relief, a strange sound amongst the renewed sound of battle and violence.

She felt strung out and dizzy, an aching heaviness cloaking her.

"The battle is over for me. They can take over," she thought victoriously.

Then the hairs on the back of her neck rose up. Something was wrong.

Athalia whipped around, eyes wide, ready to defend herself.

The large frame of the Martian Manhunter loomed over her. His arm was outstretched, like he just caught something. In his hand was a throwing knife, one of Tsukuri's. The sharp end was pointed at her back, only a few inches from her skin.

Athalia paled, staring up at her unlikely savior. He saved her. She had been vulnerable to the attack. She wouldn't have known about it until the knife was sticking out of her back.

He let the knife fall to the ground with a metallic clatter, red eyes unreadable.

His eyes glowed and her heart skipped a beat.

She didn't know what to say. Panic and adrenaline took any words of thanks and strangled them before they could leave her mouth.

He just stared at her, some strange pressure between them. He wasn't looking into her mind. She would know if he was trying. Then, what was he—

He looked away, shooting into the air to join his comrades.

Her shoulders sagged as she watched the Martian enter the fray. Then her eyes fell to the knife on the ground.

"She must have thrown it at my back when I wasn't paying attention. I could have been killed," Athalia thought.

"Why did I think this was a good idea?" she reprimanded herself.

Her head pounded as she wiped the back of her hand under her nose, skin coming back with a bloody streak.

"Run."

Ducking and weaving among debris, she made it to clear streets.

And she did what she did best: she ran. She ran as fast as she could.

...

Ta da?

Okay, so I'm gonna try to keep a weekly revised-chapter-update schedule. In theory. Yell at me (gently) over PM if I fall behind.

Any and all feedback is much appreciated.

Thanks to Purveyor of Words for beta-ing this and just being a cool person in general!

Cheers!

~Tiara of Sapphires