Cannot be understated how stubborn brown rice is, so nothing Clark is doing is very urgent. He shakes some cherry tomatoes onto a cutting board, lazily goes about halving them with all the idle focus of presiding over a longform chess game. It can be quiet, like this. That had been the nice thing about space, and also the terrible thing.
He looks over at the normal thing Bruce says, but doesn't seem confused by it. (Someone should tell Perry that even Supermen deserve mental health days, right after they convince him that mental health days can apply in an office full of hypercompetitive A-type journalists. Good luck.)
"Is it still going?" he asks, turning his focus back down on tomatoes, trying not to squish them before they slice. An exercise in dexterity even if you don't have superstrength to regulate.
He looks over at the normal thing Bruce says, but doesn't seem confused by it. (Someone should tell Perry that even Supermen deserve mental health days, right after they convince him that mental health days can apply in an office full of hypercompetitive A-type journalists. Good luck.)
"Is it still going?" he asks, turning his focus back down on tomatoes, trying not to squish them before they slice. An exercise in dexterity even if you don't have superstrength to regulate.
"Usually," agreeably, dry.
Warm, too, affection for a nice memory manifest in an errant dimple. What a strange thing to have happened, so strange that meditating on its strangeness feels as meaningless as commenting that dense woodland sure has a lot of trees, and so the strangeness has to come from the fact that they found peace, sometimes, fragile but simple. Dino dates. No souvenirs, this time.
Tomato halves are carefully scooped up, emptied into a bowl. Cutting board and knife washed, hands too.
"Wouldn't mind a trip up there on purpose sometime," he says, over the sound of running water. "Maybe not soon."
Warm, too, affection for a nice memory manifest in an errant dimple. What a strange thing to have happened, so strange that meditating on its strangeness feels as meaningless as commenting that dense woodland sure has a lot of trees, and so the strangeness has to come from the fact that they found peace, sometimes, fragile but simple. Dino dates. No souvenirs, this time.
Tomato halves are carefully scooped up, emptied into a bowl. Cutting board and knife washed, hands too.
"Wouldn't mind a trip up there on purpose sometime," he says, over the sound of running water. "Maybe not soon."
There's a weird object out here that Clark wants to take a closer look at, so he does. Disembarking from the craft out here is kind of a pain in the ass, he knows, and he doesn't do it for no good reason—but when he finds a good reason, it's an opportunity he politely requests to take.
And so he suits up, leaves, the painful sting of deeply cold vacuum doing nothing but prickling his senses, some, freezing traces of moisture at the corners of his mouth, his eyes, blinked away. It is odd to fly out here, not as fun as atmospheric flight, but odd doesn't mean bad. He is more conscious of the way he kind of spatially clips himself around with his own self-possessed centre of gravity, different to Diana's leaps, glides, wind-riding, but still assumes a sort of reflexively aerodynamic stance as he drifts closer to the thing they found.
The thing is a shell, a piece of a shell, drifting, slowly turning. Clark lets it spin like so, cautious, but they hadn't picked up on anything radioactive, so he eventually stops its movement by gripping onto a jagged metal edge.
"Space craft," he confirms, over comms. "A piece of it. Definitely Kryptonian."
And so he suits up, leaves, the painful sting of deeply cold vacuum doing nothing but prickling his senses, some, freezing traces of moisture at the corners of his mouth, his eyes, blinked away. It is odd to fly out here, not as fun as atmospheric flight, but odd doesn't mean bad. He is more conscious of the way he kind of spatially clips himself around with his own self-possessed centre of gravity, different to Diana's leaps, glides, wind-riding, but still assumes a sort of reflexively aerodynamic stance as he drifts closer to the thing they found.
The thing is a shell, a piece of a shell, drifting, slowly turning. Clark lets it spin like so, cautious, but they hadn't picked up on anything radioactive, so he eventually stops its movement by gripping onto a jagged metal edge.
"Space craft," he confirms, over comms. "A piece of it. Definitely Kryptonian."
It is a better question, better chances at getting a better answer, because at first, it's a gut feeling. Clark moves to place his feet upon what he interprets as the floor, scanning around himself, at some of the old debris that still hangs here, suspended. "I recognise the alloy," after a few moments of thought. "And it just..."
Because as much as it has to be space craft, it also reminds Clark of giant, fossilised animal. Roaming a Kryptonian vessel feels a lot like taking the Magic School Bus through some colossal creature's arteries, or oddly empty chambers within an exoskeleton. They curve and wind, plant-like and efficient only in the way biological things are, not constructed. Probably because, like so many things on Krypton, it was grown, not built.
"Just looks like it," he settles on. "I can't tell how big it was, though. Or what it was for."
Maybe he's standing in a single-chambered boarding vessel, or a room from one of their bigger arks. He pushes off without redirecting that force into the debris, flying around it, looking back towards where he can see Bruce as a slightly distorted vision of heat, life. "Can we do anything with its trajectory? I altered it a little," apologetic, but hopefully they already got what they needed.
Because as much as it has to be space craft, it also reminds Clark of giant, fossilised animal. Roaming a Kryptonian vessel feels a lot like taking the Magic School Bus through some colossal creature's arteries, or oddly empty chambers within an exoskeleton. They curve and wind, plant-like and efficient only in the way biological things are, not constructed. Probably because, like so many things on Krypton, it was grown, not built.
"Just looks like it," he settles on. "I can't tell how big it was, though. Or what it was for."
Maybe he's standing in a single-chambered boarding vessel, or a room from one of their bigger arks. He pushes off without redirecting that force into the debris, flying around it, looking back towards where he can see Bruce as a slightly distorted vision of heat, life. "Can we do anything with its trajectory? I altered it a little," apologetic, but hopefully they already got what they needed.
The patient detective might be sounding it out, might also anticipate Clark's desire to follow a trail, one that's as cold as it gets. No argument from Superman, though, capitulating from his unspoken suggestion to turn his focus back to this drifting piece of archaeology. No scrapes from extra debris, which is promising as far asteroid ricochet possibilities go (save for the fact that it's very much already a broken off chunk of a whole), but then again, Kryptonian material is built to last the ages.
Batrocket computers already have the basics locked in: the unit's dimension slot neatly into a forty by forty by forty cube of space, represented by one big piece with a drift cloud of debris which expands a further one hundred foot radius at the furthest point. Much of it can be clocked on the scanners as exploded metal fragments and little else.
This, though, benefits from a close up view. (Or, if Bruce is simply letting Clark participate, he appreciates that just as well.)
"This part's a door," he reports, drifting closer. "Might be some hardware I can pull out." A beat, and he adds, "No power sources, or they're fully dormant. I think this was part of a larger chamber. This wall's internal, but the floor is lower decks. Was."
Batrocket computers already have the basics locked in: the unit's dimension slot neatly into a forty by forty by forty cube of space, represented by one big piece with a drift cloud of debris which expands a further one hundred foot radius at the furthest point. Much of it can be clocked on the scanners as exploded metal fragments and little else.
This, though, benefits from a close up view. (Or, if Bruce is simply letting Clark participate, he appreciates that just as well.)
"This part's a door," he reports, drifting closer. "Might be some hardware I can pull out." A beat, and he adds, "No power sources, or they're fully dormant. I think this was part of a larger chamber. This wall's internal, but the floor is lower decks. Was."
Clark holds off on salvage for now, oh so gently placing a hand on excruciatingly cold metal. Both out of sentiment, logging to himself the tactile sensation of space-worn alloy, like feeling the weathered edges of an ancient grave, but also to see if there's any response. Listening, sensing, seeing for any indication of nanotech churning towards whatever possible signature his hand might convey.
Nothing immediately. He presses his mouth into a line.
"Yeah," he confirms. "So, a bigger craft. Most of them are, I guess."
Carefully, he sets his fingernails into the seam where the door slides closed, and he really only needs a fraction of a millimetre of leverage to apply his strength and start to force it open. He's been making good use of the space-age sunbed on the shuttle, and so in spite of Kryptonian sturdier make, the metal is forced apart until he can look through.
Less dense metal layering over his ability to see through it makes for a cleaner scan as he looks around a chamber. Not a whole chamber, cracked open like an egg with visible space showing through jagged gaps, but he moves inside of it anyway.
Momentarily, out of visual range of the shuttle. And then, over comms, "Think I found something."
Nothing immediately. He presses his mouth into a line.
"Yeah," he confirms. "So, a bigger craft. Most of them are, I guess."
Carefully, he sets his fingernails into the seam where the door slides closed, and he really only needs a fraction of a millimetre of leverage to apply his strength and start to force it open. He's been making good use of the space-age sunbed on the shuttle, and so in spite of Kryptonian sturdier make, the metal is forced apart until he can look through.
Less dense metal layering over his ability to see through it makes for a cleaner scan as he looks around a chamber. Not a whole chamber, cracked open like an egg with visible space showing through jagged gaps, but he moves inside of it anyway.
Momentarily, out of visual range of the shuttle. And then, over comms, "Think I found something."
A few pieces of debris connect, spin off in changed directions, but nothing fast enough to worry about as Clark slowly pivots the whole thing. Once angled where Bruce had indicated, he grips onto it to slow its momentum completely, a fixed point in space under his hand until he's able to let go.
The chamber has more panels, and several protrusions that look a little like the pods that housed Kryptonian armor (and Kryptonians), only smaller. Clark touches one of them, reluctant to brute force it open, and instead scans through the outer shell.
It only takes a moment before he reports, with a hint of wonder, "Android."
The chamber has more panels, and several protrusions that look a little like the pods that housed Kryptonian armor (and Kryptonians), only smaller. Clark touches one of them, reluctant to brute force it open, and instead scans through the outer shell.
It only takes a moment before he reports, with a hint of wonder, "Android."
"Well, I can't tell how sassy it is yet."
Now, Clark goes about extracting it, peeling back metal with watchful care that he isn't damaging anything important as he does so. Revealing the textured, hooded eye of the robot make, near identical to the one on board his ship back home. It doesn't activate in his presence, no ripple of life, but perhaps there's something they can do with it.
If not bring it online, then take whatever information it might be storing. He takes a little time in disconnecting it from its pod, making sure that anything he breaks or snaps is not actually an intrinsic part of the android.
"There you go," he says, as he pulls it free. Then, "Should I bring it in?"
Now, Clark goes about extracting it, peeling back metal with watchful care that he isn't damaging anything important as he does so. Revealing the textured, hooded eye of the robot make, near identical to the one on board his ship back home. It doesn't activate in his presence, no ripple of life, but perhaps there's something they can do with it.
If not bring it online, then take whatever information it might be storing. He takes a little time in disconnecting it from its pod, making sure that anything he breaks or snaps is not actually an intrinsic part of the android.
"There you go," he says, as he pulls it free. Then, "Should I bring it in?"
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