Chapter 10 : The Martian
February 2016 — DEO Desert Facility — Director's Office
The door was already open when I arrived.
That should have been my first warning. Henshaw—J'onn, I reminded myself, though I still didn't have proof—never left his office accessible. The man guarded his personal space like it contained nuclear launch codes.
"Come in, Mr. Schott. Close the door behind you."
I stepped inside. The office was spartan: metal desk, two chairs, a wall of monitors showing feeds from across National City. No personal effects. No photographs. Nothing that said human being works here.
Henshaw sat behind his desk, hands folded, watching me with those unsettling eyes.
"You wanted to see me, sir?"
"I want to have an honest conversation." He gestured to the chair across from him. "Sit."
I sat. The chair was uncomfortable—deliberately, probably.
"You've been hiding something since the day you walked into this facility." His voice was calm, measured. "I've watched you predict enemy movements before they happen. I've seen you survive situations that should have killed you. And three days ago, you deflected a Kryptonian's punch with your bare hands."
The cover story. It didn't hold.
"The experimental armor—"
"There is no experimental armor." Henshaw leaned forward. "Agent Danvers confirmed it. She also confirmed that she's been helping you train for weeks. Training abilities that shouldn't exist."
My throat tightened. Alex had talked. Or J'onn had figured it out himself. Either way—
"I'm not here to punish you, Winn." The use of my first name was jarring. "I'm here because I understand what it's like to be different. To hide what you are from everyone around you."
He stood. Walked around the desk. And then—
His form shifted.
The transformation was silent, seamless. One moment Director Hank Henshaw stood before me. The next, something else entirely occupied that space. Taller, broader, with green skin and a face that was humanoid but distinctly other. Red eyes that held centuries of pain.
"My name is J'onn J'onzz," the being said. "I am the last son of Mars."
I should have been shocked. Should have stammered or stumbled or done any of the things a normal person would do when confronted with alien shapeshifters.
Instead, I felt my electromagnetic sense singing.
"That's why your signature never made sense." The words came out before I could stop them. "Henshaw's readings were always wrong. The interference patterns, the way the air felt different around you. I thought it was equipment malfunction."
J'onn tilted his head. "You could sense my true nature?"
"Not the details. Just that something was... off." I studied his Martian form, cataloging details my brain wanted to analyze. "How long have you known about me?"
"Since the armory incident. Agent Danvers believes she's been subtle, but telepaths notice when thoughts are being carefully guarded." He shifted back to Henshaw's appearance, the transition unsettlingly smooth. "I've also been monitoring your development since then. The vector manipulation, the electrical absorption. You're growing faster than I expected."
"Growing toward what?"
"That's what I want to help you discover."
J'onn J'onzz
The human was more perceptive than J'onn had anticipated.
Most beings, confronted with a Martian's true form, reacted with fear or disgust. The primal terror of the other, hardwired into nearly every species he'd encountered. But Winn Schott's primary response had been curiosity. Scientific analysis rather than emotional rejection.
He thinks in patterns, J'onn realized. Sees the world as systems to be understood rather than mysteries to fear.
That kind of mind could be invaluable. Or incredibly dangerous.
"I'm offering you mentorship," J'onn said, settling back into his chair. "Formal training, guided development, wisdom from someone who understands what it means to be more than human."
"Why?"
"Because you remind me of someone." The words cost more than they should have. "My son. Before Mars fell."
Winn went very still.
"He had your curiosity. Your determination to understand rather than simply react." J'onn let the memory surface, painful but necessary. "When I lost him—when I lost everyone—I swore I would never allow another young person with gifts to stumble alone. Not if I could help."
"I'm not your son."
"No. You're not." J'onn met his gaze directly. "But you need guidance, and I need purpose. Perhaps we can help each other."
Winn Schott
The meditation chamber was buried three levels below the main facility.
I hadn't known it existed until J'onn led me here—a circular room lined with sound-dampening panels, floor covered in something that felt like sand but absorbed light instead of reflecting it. The only illumination came from bioluminescent strips along the walls, casting everything in soft blue-green.
"Martian meditation is not like human contemplation," J'onn explained, settling into a cross-legged position. "We do not empty the mind. We focus it. Sharpen thoughts until they become tools."
I sat across from him, mimicking his posture. "And this will help with my calculations?"
"Your powers require split-second mathematical processing. Currently, you're doing that consciously—forcing your brain to solve equations faster than it was designed to operate." He tapped his temple. "This creates strain. Nosebleeds. Headaches. But if you can train your subconscious to handle the calculations..."
"I free up conscious processing for tactics and awareness."
"Exactly."
The first exercise was deceptively simple: count backwards from one thousand while simultaneously reciting the alphabet forward. Then add a third task—visualizing a rotating cube. Then a fourth—tracking the sound of J'onn's heartbeat.
Within ten minutes, my head was pounding.
"You're forcing it." J'onn's voice cut through the pain. "Stop trying to consciously manage each thread. Let them run in parallel."
"I don't know how."
"Then learn."
We worked for two hours. By the end, I could handle three simultaneous threads without conscious strain. Four was still beyond me, but J'onn seemed satisfied.
"Progress," he said, helping me to my feet. "More than I expected for a first session."
"My father would be proud." The words came out bitter. Automatic.
J'onn's expression shifted. "The Toyman."
"Yeah."
"You fear becoming him."
It wasn't a question. J'onn was a telepath—he'd probably plucked the anxiety directly from my surface thoughts.
"Every day," I admitted. "Every time I discover something new about what I can do. He was a genius too, you know. Built incredible things. And then he used them to murder people."
"But you are not him."
"How do you know?"
J'onn placed a hand on my shoulder. The contact was surprisingly warm.
"Because murderers don't ask that question." His voice was gentle, paternal. "You fear the darkness because you recognize it. That recognition is what keeps you in the light."
Two orphans finding kinship. The thought surfaced unbidden. J'onn without his family. Me without... well. Without everything I'd been before.
"Thank you," I said. "For this."
"Thank me by becoming who you're meant to be." He stepped back, gesturing toward the door. "Same time tomorrow. We have much work to do."
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