Title: Never Chose This Way
Author: scy
Feedback: scynneh@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: Not mine
Fandom: Supreme Power
Pairing: Mark/Stan
Spoilers: Up through issue #15, some possible for #17.
Rating: PG
Summary: Decisions are made and concerns raised.
Author's Notes: Written over the course of a weekend while I reread the first couple volumes.
July 2007

Stan thought about taking Mark home with him sometimes. His mother was always interested in the work he did, and she asked after anyone she knew he spent time with. She had seen the news reports about Mark 'Hyperion' Milton, and had followed the world's reaction to him ever since. Her stake was personal of course; public opinion could change over night, and when it did and Mark was deemed a threat to the United States, Stan's mother pulled him close.

Stan and his mother never had a lot, but they'd gotten by together. Mark, it seemed, had a family took, but he didn't act like he knew what to do with the rest of the world; he watched people as if he'd gotten off a boat and forgotten his guidebook back home.

Abby Stewart hadn't raised her son to make a first impression of someone and stick to that without good reason, but when he saw Mark that day on the neighbor's television, he had been nervous. Looking back on it, he thought it had been fear; he wanted to be noticed, at the same time he knew it might be a really bad idea, so he ran. After he'd been sponsored by every sports-related manufacturer, he got more chances to talk to Mark, one of which he took, after what the world learned about Mark's origins.

They met at a fence somewhere in the Midwest; Mark had showed that even if he didn't have a cell phone, he could be gotten a hold of, and since Richmond's ad space was still paid for, he took advantage of it and placed another message.

"Why bother?" Richmond asked, his expression condescending and as he refused to be distracted from his piles of investment reports and plans to remake the world as he thought it should be.

"Someone needs to keep in touch with him," Stan said, and didn't stay long, otherwise he was going to have to say something honest and rip the room apart just to keep under some kind of control.

Mark was waiting for him, staring at the cows grazing as if he was sure he'd get something out of the experience that would help him, and he looked up as Stan came to a stop, smiling through the dust that rose up to engulf them.

"Good to see you, Stan," Mark said.

"You too," Stan said.

"Are you doing okay?"

Mark smiled as he thought about the question for more time than anyone should need." I think so. There was a time there when I wasn't sure, but things are becoming clearer and I've worked a lot of it out."

"Worked what out?" Stan asked. To him, it sounded like Mark was talking about stretching to loosen up his muscles before he went to the gym, but that didn't seem like part of Mark's routine. His moves were a lot more earth-shaking when he wanted to be felt.

"My feelings, certain impulses I hadn't let myself act on," Mark said.

"Like what?" Stan asked. He might regret the question, but he liked the guy, whether or not he was, to the public, a government asset and nothing more.

"In your position, there are a lot of opportunities for social interaction," Mark said.

"Yeah, I guess so; I've been to more charity auctions and sports events than I knew existed," Stan said.

"Not that kind of interaction," Mark said. "I'm well-versed in public relations, what I'm talking about are personal connections."

"Like making friends?" Stan asked.

"Yes, for a start."

Stan watched Mark sit motionlessly, not fidgeting, but waiting for Stan's answer as if he could take as long as he needed.

Mark acted human mostly, an educated, polite, and isolated example of American upbringing, but right now, he wasn't letting that get in the way of his questions, and so Stan tried to give him the most honest answer possible.

"I don't really get to know the people who want my autograph or my picture; they want something from me, and don't care what I do when I'm not in costume. You know what I mean?" Stan asked.

"I do," Mark said, and he probably did, he'd been raised to be a soldier, had been going on missions and taking orders while Stan was still running around the South when his mama's back was turned.

"You said that your parents; the people who raised you were just about the only ones you had to talk to, but what about later, when you went public?" Stan asked.

"The man who said he was my father talked to me; the generals and support staff gave me mission parameters, but there wasn't anyone else," Mark said.

"What about high school or something?"

"I attended school for one day outside my house, and after what happened, I didn't want to go back," Mark said.

"Why?" Stan asked.

"The other students had been told that I was dangerous, so they kept away while they stared, and speculated about what was the matter with me," Mark said. His hands were running up and down the boards of the fence, and Stan could see dust rising out of the friction.

"That's messed up," Stan said.

"I've come to agree," Mark said.

"Then try another way," Stan said. "You don't have to do everything they tell you, especially if it's not right."

"They've told me to do things that some people would consider inhuman," Mark said, laying so much emphasis on the last word that Stan felt it.

"And that's not what you'd call it?" Stan asked.

"Some of it was necessary from a tactical standpoint," Mark said. "But I wonder, if they had to choose another way, would they have done everything with such decisiveness."

Stan could tell that Mark had been thinking a lot about this part of his work, and it didn't sound like he'd come to an answer he could stand. "Don't obsess. It doesn't do any good and we've seen what happens when people make that their entire life."

"Vigilantism has its uses," Mark said.

"Not when it goes too far," Stan said. Or, he thought to himself, is limited to just one group of people. He didn't know how to explain these things to Mark. When he'd asked his mama, she told him that sometimes it didn't matter what good you did, there were those who would never stop looking at your skin first. It was basic unfairness going back as long as history was recorded, and Stan wasn't sure of how to tell Mark that being different trumped heroism.

"I've been raised to believe in this country, this nation," Mark said. "But one thing I cannot forgive is lying, and they, the men in power who used me for twenty years, never thought that I needed to truly be a part of what I was protecting."

"They took care of you," Stan said, just to try and offer the other side, even if he thought they were going to be dealing with a disgruntled ex-secret agent with the power to make himself noticeable.

"First behind a fence, and then in an apartment, where people went wherever they wanted and took notes on my life. It's not enough that I was loyal and true; they wanted to know I didn't have any secrets."

"They went through your stuff?"

"Yes. They were very careful, but I could tell they'd been there; a couple wore very pungent cologne, and traces lingered after their departure," Mark said. He was quiet for a couple seconds and then looked directly at Stan. "I don't think that's a particularly friendly thing to do, am I right?"

"Yeah," Stan said.

"You wouldn't do that," Mark said. "From what I've seen, you're a good person, Stan, and that's not the way you treat others." Mark gave Stan an earnest look, and it wasn't scary on the surface, but Stan felt like the guy didn't know how to show sincerity and hold back his hunger to know the answers, so it came off way more intense than he was used to.

"Not unless you were keeping something dangerous a secret," Stan said. Then, in spite of all the good manners he'd been taught, he supposed there was a point where a person had to know the truth, and then whatever consequences came down on them were their own fault.

"And were you hiding anything?" Stan asked. He had a box under his bed that his mama knew was there, but she never looked inside; she let him keep something things from her because she already knew everything important. To not even have a small place to store what was private was another way that the government showed its policies were crazy when it came to Hyperion.

"I learned a long time ago that if you want to keep a secret, best not even hint that you have any. I've been the obedient son for such a long time that when I found out what they'd been keeping from me, I had to make them understand what they were inviting," Mark said.

Stan could tell that Mark was understating events, probably so he didn't sound scarier than he did already, but he needed to know what had been going on. At times Mark might question his training, but Stan had yet to see him screw up because he felt like seeing what would happen. Everything he did was by the book; if he'd gone off the page, there'd been a reason.

"You think that they're still going to try and make you do what they want?" Stan asked.

"They have no other choice; they've invested too much in me to simply discard a weapon," Mark said.

"What are you going to do?" Stan asked.

"I'll have to see how far they want to take this," Mark said. "From there I will adjust my strategy accordingly."

He sounded cold, calculating, and the kind of guy who wouldn't hesitate to strike back hard when he thought that he was being treated unfairly. The board he'd been smoothing out with his palms gave way with a small crack, and Stan didn't let himself flinch as it fell to the ground.

"Just, be careful, you hear?" Stan asked.

"Of course," Mark said. "Thank you for listening, Stan." He clapped Stan on the shoulder, not coming closer, but leaning in like he wanted to try something like a hug and just didn't know how.

Stan smiled and playfully pushed at Mark, not with anything near actual effort, just playfully, and then Mark rose into the air and flew off.

As he watched Mark disappear from sight, Stan was uneasy. He had a bad feeling about what Mark was doing; skating on the line between what was right and what could be done for the good of everyone was a scary place to be. Stan didn't know, in the end, where he was going to stand, but he didn't want that line to divide friends.

-end