Chapter Text
Match had a complicated relationship with the members of Young Justice.
His relationship with them should’ve been simple. In theory it was simple. But somehow, in action it was anything but.
On the one hand, they were his enemies. They were an impediment to the goals of the Agenda, and the Agenda’s goals were the most important thing to Match. For that reason, he fought Young Justice often. So often, in fact, that a majority of his training was devoted specifically to countering their abilities. He was only ever within their ranks when he was masquerading as Superboy, and he was only ever doing that for nefarious purposes—at least, from their perspective. As far as he was aware, they wanted him captured, imprisoned, and potentially even decommissioned. They were his enemies. That should have been the end of it.
But, on the other hand, it was also true—in a way—that they were his best friends. He couldn’t be sure if it counted. He knew that they didn’t think of him as a friend, but he wasn’t sure if that meant that he couldn't think of them as friends on his own. He didn’t see why such a thing would have to be reciprocal. So the members of Young Justice were his only friends, if they were friends at all. If they weren't, then they were the closest thing to friends that he had.
Match’s world was fairly small. He only really interacted with a few types of people in his day to day life. Mostly those people were his handlers, and they didn't count as friends. They were the ones who got him from his cell every morning, brought him his meals, took him to training or to the labs, and saw to his general daily maintenance. They were made up of a group of ever-changing, stone faced individuals who never touched him and who only spoke in brief orders. They all carried stun batons perfectly calibrated to render him temporarily immobile, and they made liberal use of them to moderate his behavior. Match didn't think friends would make such liberal use of stun batons where words would do just as well.
There were also the scientists, and they weren't his friends, either. They called him ‘it’ and never touched him without gloves on. They ran tests, performed painful procedures, and subjected him to necessary, but awful experiments, punishing him for talking back if he so much as asked a question. He was fairly certain friends weren't supposed to punish you for wanting to know when the hurting would stop.
Then there were the trainers, and they also weren't his friends. They didn't want to hear what he had to say unless it was ‘yes, sir’ or ‘understood, sir.’ They only touched him on the rare occasion that they were sparring—as opposed to having him go up against the simulator so he could use his full strength—or if his body needed repositioning when he was learning a new technique. They pushed him to his absolute limits, evaluated his abilities and combat readiness, and continued to develop his skillset by teaching him what the Agenda thought he needed to know. Once, when Match had stepped out of line with a trainer, the man had shattered a baton against the side of his head. Match was pretty sure that wasn't something a friend would do.
There were the guards, too, but the guards weren't even allowed to talk to him, and most of them seemed scared to look at him straight on, so they definitely weren't his friends. The only other types of people Match interacted with occasionally were the higher ups at the Agenda—like Amanda Waller—and they basically owned him, so they couldn't be his friends. Match knew enough to know that you didn't own your friends.
The only time Match ever experienced friendship was when he was pretending to be Kon with Young Justice. That was the only time he got to experience casual, friendly touch, or playful banter. It was the only time anyone ever wanted to hear what he had to say or how he felt. Match wished he didn't like it half as much as he did. He wished he didn't crave it.
He knew that the care and kindness that the Young Justice team extended towards him wasn't really for him, but it didn't change the fact that he received it. It didn't change the fact that he couldn't help but soak up every moment of it that he could until he was revealed and the fighting began. He knew that none of the team members viewed him as their friend. It didn't change the fact that he viewed them as his friends, in his own stupid way.
It was unfortunate that the only member of Young Justice that viewed him with any real sympathy was also the only member of Young Justice that Match didn't have a strange, secret well of fondness for. Project Thirteen. AKA, Konner. His genetic progenitor and the greatest threat to his existence. And if you believed Kon’s words on the matter, his brother. The thought of the two of them sharing such a familial relationship made Match feel sick to his stomach with disgust.
Konner was the only member of the team that Match couldn’t stand. He was well aware that part of his distaste for the hero was rooted in jealousy. After all, Match was a copy of a copy. He was never going to be more like Superman than a clone made off of the original document. The Agenda had all of the records on Project Thirteen from Cadmus. It had been easy to compile that data into a series of benchmarks to test him against as he developed, so they could make an accurate comparison of their abilities. Match always fell short.
That was why he’d been so terrified the first time he was sent off to go engage the clone in combat. He’d been certain it was a suicide mission—intended to decomission him while also providing data on their progress towards achieving their mission to create a perfect Kryptonian tool. And maybe that was what it had been, but it hadn’t really mattered in the end because Match had won.
So while he burned with envy for the power Konner wielded in his body, that wasn’t the only, or even the main reason why he hated the idiot. No, the reason Match hated him was because—despite Project Thirteen being quantifiably stronger than him according to every conceivable metric—Match had won.
That was when Match had first realized that Konner didn’t even appreciate what he had. He squandered the very thing Match had been bleeding his entire life for. And Konner was so uncaring of this that he’d neglected his combat training to the point where Match could surpass him anyway? He could win despite their clear mismatch of power level? It made it so obvious that Project Thirteen didn’t even care about utilizing the strength he’d been gifted. Meanwhile, every part of Match’s life would be better than it was if he could measure up to even a single of Project Thirteen’s assessment scores. It was intolerably offensive.
Sometimes—usually when he was laying alone and aching on the floor of his small, cold cell after having failed at some test badly enough to have lost his mattress privileges—he hated Project Thirteen so much that he could barely breathe. Sometimes the weight of it pressed down like a heavy stone on his chest, unforgiving and crushing. Sometimes Match was absolutely certain his hatred was so enormous that this could all only end with him and Konner killing each other.
That was why he’d never expected that he’d save Project Thirteen's life. Let alone that he’d do this against the Agenda’s orders. A part of him couldn’t believe it. Fortunately, most of him was aware that it didn’t matter if he believed it or not. The presence or absence of his belief wouldn’t change the fact that he was now officially on the run from the Agenda. That he was now officially a traitor.
He was such a complete traitor that he was currently digging around in his left bicep, his fingers covered in slick blood as he tried his best to locate and remove the tracking device embedded under his skin. It was hard to get a grip on the thing with his hands shaking so badly, but he needed to get this done. There was no way the Agenda hadn't noticed that he’d gone rogue, and if he left the tracker inside, he’d get caught before the sun went down. Thankfully, despite the difficulties, after several long and painful moments, his fingernails caught on the small, pill-shaped bit of tech, enabling him to pull it out through the cut he’d made with a knife for this exact purpose.
His task completed, he slumped forward against the table he was sitting at with a sigh of relief, allowing his blood to run down his arm and make a mess of his clothes and the floor of the motel he was currently hiding out in. It would heal. Eventually.
Superboy would heal faster.
The thought sent his eyes darting over to the queen sized bed that occupied most of the space. Sprawled carelessly across the mattress lay an unconscious Project Thirteen, the clone’s chest rising and falling in the slow pattern of deep, drug induced sleep.
They needed to move again, and soon. Match needed to find a car or something to attach the tracker to so that the Agenda would hopefully be thrown off of his scent. He also needed to change out of his mission clothes. They were blood soaked and filthy, and tactical gear wasn't really the best for blending in with civilians. He also needed to figure out a less suspicious way to move Konner. Lugging around a visibly unconscious teenager in a fireman’s carry was pretty noticeable.
He leaned even further forward until he could press his head against the table, and closed his eyes tightly. He would do all of that. In ten seconds. He’d give himself ten seconds before he had to move again. Ten seconds to feel all of the exhaustion and fear and pain swirling around inside of his body.
On some level he still couldn't believe what he’d done. The Agenda had finally done what he’d always known they eventually would. They’d given him a mission to terminate Project Thirteen. To kill Konner, rather than abduct him and take his place. Match had done a lot of things in his relatively short life, but up until then he’d managed to avoid actually killing anyone.
They hadn't even commanded him to do it honorably. It would have been one thing to engage Konner in one on one combat—giving him a chance to prove his superiority or to surrender—but that wasn't what they’d wanted of him. No, instead he was meant to administer a sedative covertly with a kryptonite tipped blow dart and slit Konner’s throat while he lay defenseless on the ground. Match had gotten as far as sedating him and holding the knife to his neck with violently shaking hands, his eyes inexplicably brimming with tears as his breath came in sharp jolts and gasps.
He’d eventually thrown the knife to the side, acting more on impulse than any sort of thought-out plan when he activated his communicator microphone to dishonestly report that the mission was a success and that Superboy was dead. He’d heard himself reply to his handler’s command to return to Mission Control with a respectful affirmative and knew that he wouldn't be doing as he’d been told to. Instead, he’d taken Konner’s limp, unresponsive body with him, and he’d run. That had been about two hours ago. He’d broken into this motel room around ten minutes ago to regroup, get the tracker out, and figure out what his actual plan was.
Fuck, did he need a plan.
He needed to get Konner to the Justice League, that much was obvious. He’d be safe from the Agenda with them— especially if Match could somehow leave information with him about the Agenda’s plans. The only problem was that Match also couldn't let himself be caught by the Justice League. Not unless he wanted to be thrown into a deep, dark hole, to never see the light of day again. Assuming they didn't just terminate him outright.
He figured the best possible outcome for him if he ended up with the Justice Leage was that they’d reveal that they had some sort of secret Suicide Squad type team that handled their dirty work and offer him a spot on it in exchange for letting him live. But as far as Match was aware, dirty work usually involved killing. Match was already deserting thanks to orders to kill. He didn't want to trade the frying pan for the fire.
So he had to somehow ensure Kon ended up with the League, and then he needed to disappear. Unfortunately, the sort of skills required to do so had been intentionally kept from him in order to make it easier to retrieve him in exactly this sort of scenario. Match was trying his hardest not to feel like it was hopeless.
It was starting to seem a little hopeless, though.
He ended up sitting with his head down at the table for far longer than his originally planned ten seconds. This proved to be a serious mistake when his idiotic, pathetic little self-pity party was interrupted by the sound of approaching booted feet and a voice he recognized. Superman. Match had been hoping the white noise device in his gear would keep him hidden, but apparently he’d been found anyway.
He tried not to panic. This wasn't terrible. This actually solved one of his problems. All Match had to do was leave Konner here to be found and escape himself.
The footsteps were coming from the front, so Match leapt up and darted towards the bathroom—which thankfully had a window that opened to the back of the building. It was the only exit that wouldn't put him in Superman’s path.
He threw open the door, only to immediately stumble backwards on skidding feet when he was greeted by the sight of Batman swinging in through the very same window Match had planned on using. He hadn't even heard the man coming. How had he not heard him coming? This was terrible. Batman always had kryptonite.
It left Match with only one option. He turned towards the entrance of the little motel room, sprinting for the window opposite him as fast as he could, leaping over the bed just as the front door exploded inwards, revealing the Man of Steel himself.
Match made it just close enough to the window for his fingers to touch the glass before he was being thrown down onto the ground hard enough that he couldn't help the strangled cry of pain upon impact. His face slammed against the carpet and blood burst from his nose as his arms were wrestled behind his back and Superman held him fast in a brutal pin. Match didn't bother wasting energy with trying to fight back against the hold. He knew when he’d been beaten.
“Batman,” Superman called out above him, his voice strangled and tight with emotion. “What’s his status?”
Match heard Batman reply from the other side of the bed. “He’s alive. He’s only unconscious.”
Superman’s weight collapsed onto Match’s back for just a moment as the Kryptonian released a shuddering sigh. “Thank god.” Match bit his tongue to keep quiet when the hands holding his unresisting form down squeezed tighter. “What did you do to him? Why did you report to the Agenda that he was dead?”
Match knew he wasn't supposed to talk if he was captured. He’d been trained in keeping silent through torture. A little rough handedness in a grapple wasn't going to be enough to break him. But he was a traitor to the Agenda now, so what was good for the Agenda wasn't necessarily good for him. How was he supposed to know if it was a good idea to answer or not?
Superman must've taken his silence for resistance, because his arm was bent back another few centimeters, sending pain streaking through the joint. Match had to hold his breath to stay silent. Superman asked him again, his voice a growl, “Why is Superboy unconscious, Match? What did you do to him?”
Match hadn't figured out if he should answer yet, so he stayed quiet, listening to Superman’s ragged breathing and the sound of Batman darting around the room. It only took a few seconds for Batman's search to come up fruitful. “Kryptonite tipped darts, filled with a powerful and fast-acting sedative,” the man called out, obviously having opened the case containing the handful of extra darts Match had left. “He should be up soon.”
Match nodded, the confirmation flowing from him almost automatically despite his earlier inability to speak. “About twenty minutes if nobody jabs him again.” That's what he’d been planning on doing when it got closer to wake up time. Just to make sure Konner couldn't wake up and cause issues.
Superman sighed testily, but Batman continued on before he could say whatever it was that was on his mind. “I've got some sort of subdermal tracking device here on the table—”
Superman interrupted the man’s sentence by lifting Match up just to slam him back down onto the ground as he snarled at the back of his now throbbing head. “You were going to put a tracker in him?” Match wanted to shake his head no, or tell Superman that he was misunderstanding, but he suddenly couldn't figure out how to make his mouth work properly. It seemed impossible to manage with the man’s rage like a burning sun on top of him, sending him toppling over into panic.
Thankfully, Batman answered for him. “No, Superman,” he corrected. “It's covered in blood. This was only recently removed from a body.”
Match could feel the moment Superman realized that there was blood dripping down his pinned arm from where the cut he’d made was still healing. The man’s hands shifted so he could more closely inspect the wound. “You did this to yourself?” he demanded. “Why?”
Match once again stayed silent, and Superman scoffed above him, one hand disappearing from Match’s arms before returning with a pair of meta-proof cuffs. Match could probably get out of them. Maybe. But probably not quickly. Definitely not while under Superman’s watchful eye. His chances of escaping and finding freedom were slipping through his fingers and there was nothing he could do about it. If he were weaker, he’d have cried about that. As it was, he kept his face still like stone while his arms were bound behind his back.
Once he was secured, Superman hauled him roughly to his feet and spun him around in his ironclad grip so they were face to face. “Why did you take Kon?” the man demanded. “Why did you lie and say he was dead? Does the Agenda know we have that line bugged?”
The barrage of questions were forceful enough that—when paired with the threat of a full blooded Kryptonian’s hands holding him immobile—his inconsistent and wavering resolve to stay quiet shattered almost instantly. “My report line was bugged?” Match asked, dumbstruck. He’d had no idea. How much had they heard? “For how long?”
Batman stepped into his view and swiftly interjected. “We’re asking the questions here. Why did you say he was dead?” He was staring at Match through those haunting white out lenses, and it was more frightening than it had any right to be.
“Because the Agenda ordered me to kill him,” he answered robotically, staring straight ahead rather than meeting the man’s covered eyes.
This time it was Superman who addressed him. “Why didn't you?”
Match didn't have a good answer for that, and he knew better than to make guesses he wasn't sure about. That was a good way to get himself hurt. Not answering at all could also get him hurt, but usually not anywhere near as bad as throwing out incorrect guesses did. Match didn't want to give Superman any more excuses to hurt him, so he just tilted his head down and remained silent.
Superman sighed and shook his head with a furious scowl. “Let's move this to the Watchtower,” he commanded.
“Roger,” Batman replied, followed by the sound of what had to be the man hauling Project Thirteen’s limp, unconscious body up off of the mattress and over his shoulder, though Match didn't bother looking back to confirm.
As they exited the motel, Superman kept a firm grip on the cuffs binding Match’s hands together behind him, with his other hand wrapped tight and oppressive around the back of his neck—controlling his movement and reminding him that any misbehavior could be punished by Superman crushing his spine to dust. Match kept his eyes sweeping back and forth across the motel parking lot, knowing it was probably useless but unable to stop himself from looking for a way out.
He didn't find one.
He didn't find any as he was manhandled into the back of a waiting van, Superman never taking his hands off of him as he came to sit beside him. He didn't find any on the long drive. He didn't find any as he was hustled into a large building, or when he was dragged into a strange looking tube, and he definitely didn't find a way out when he blinked and the world bent underneath him, giving him just a moment to think that something was wrong before he was suddenly in space.
That was when Match knew that it was over. He’d leapt from the frying pan and into the fire, and now there was nothing he could do about it.
____
The Justice League wasted no time when it came to getting Match set up in an interrogation room. He was sitting in an incredibly uncomfortable metal chair with his hands chained to the table in front of him and his feet chained to the floor in a matter of minutes after his arrival.
Match hadn't made much progress on determining his best course of action yet.
He was a relatively simple creature. He’d been informed by the scientists studying him that he was far less intelligent than they’d hoped he’d be, and his testing scores verified his dimwitted nature when they were compared to what Project Thirteen’s had been with Cadmus. He wasn't capable of the kind of strategy and comprehension required to make a good plan in a situation as complex as this one, so his difficulty with doing so made a lot of sense.
Match knew he wasn't all the way there when it came to brain stuff. The scientists like to say that he was more a system of inputs and outputs than a real, intelligent being. He was capable of recognizing things that felt bad and things that felt good, and all he’d ever really managed to do was behave in ways that he hoped would minimize the bad things and maximize the good things in the short term. He was starting to resign himself to simply doing the same thing here as he did with The Agenda. Giving anyone who asked whatever they wanted, to the best of his ability, in the hopes that what came next wouldn't hurt quite as badly as it might’ve.
When Superman and Batman entered the interrogation room, Match still hadn't come up with any better course of action, so it was back to the familiar. Obedience. Match was usually pretty good at that these days.
“What are your orders from the Agenda?” Batman demanded, staying on his feet as he leaned over the metal table to loom menacingly.
Match hadn't ever been in a real interrogation. He'd always assumed he wouldn't tell anyone anything, but then, he’d also always assumed he’d be operating as an agent of the Agenda. Strange, how these sort of things worked out.
He was mildly relieved to have been given such an easy question to answer though. He’d memorized his mission orders to the letter, and listing them was simple. “Follow standard infiltration protocol to reach the planned location for the ambush. Conceal myself until Project Thirteen arrives at the location. Utilize the provided darts and sedative to incapacitate him, then terminate him. Lastly, follow standard exfiltration protocol to clear the area and return to Mission Control.”
He paused for a moment as he realized that wasn't actually all of his orders, but he wasn't sure if Batman really wanted an exhaustive list of everything or not. “That's all of the mission specific or non-standard orders,” he clarified. “Standard orders excluded from my report as per standard reporting protocols.”
Superman kicked off of where he’d been leaning on the wall to step closer. Match got the impression that Superman was usually the nice cop in these situations, but based on his icy expression he clearly wasn't trying very hard to fit the role. “No, that’s not good enough,” the man reprimanded him. Match had to lock his muscles in place to keep from flinching. “We’re going to need you to give us all of your orders, Match.” Batman nodded in agreement.
Match clenched his jaw as he tried to imagine where he should even start. He could list them by the time of day they were usually most applicable, starting with his orders to rise at four thirty every morning. He could also list them alphabetically and start with all of the orders that began with the word ‘always,’ like 'always obey the scientists’ or ‘always maintain proper posture and demeanor when around your superiors.’ He could list them in the order he’d received them and start with the fact that he was ‘never to raise a hand to an agent of The Agenda, or to act in any way against The Agenda’s goals,’ though he’d obviously failed at the latter half of that.
“Any day now,” Batman prompted him with a gruff growl, cementing Match’s theory that he was usually the ‘bad cop.’
When Match hastily opened his mouth to answer—well aware of the consequences for dragging his feet—he still wasn’t sure what sorting method he was going to use when recounting everything. That’s why it was such a shock when he heard himself begin his list of orders with all of the ones he was breaking right now. “Do not communicate with the Justice League if captured. Do not remove or tamper with your tracking chip. Do not cooperate with the Justice League if captured. Do not reveal any information pertaining to The Agenda’s goals, plans, or members to anyone at any time without explicit instructions to do so—”
He faltered slightly when he realized how bad he was making himself look right now. They were going to think that he couldn’t follow even simple instructions, and that he was too uncontrollable and dangerous to be kept around. He was practically begging to be decommissioned. He scrambled to come up with orders that he was still obeying to try to offset the damage he’d done. “Always wear the provided garments. Always speak to superiors with respect. Do not damage the Agenda’s property. Do not speak to the guards. Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not—”
“Alright, we get it,” Batman snapped, cutting him off harshly. “You’ll write them for us later. Why didn't you kill Superboy?”
Match still didn't know why he hadn't killed Superboy, and he remembered what happened the last time he gave ‘I don't know’ as an answer far too well to even think about letting the words cross his tongue. But he also knew better than to start lying, so all he could do was sit there quietly, staring at the table and bracing to be struck for the disrespect.
But instead of a physical blow, he was simply dealt another question. “Why did you report that he was dead?” Superman demanded, sounding like he’d been personally offended by Match’s lie. Had he wanted Superboy dead? Maybe he hated clones. Match shifted nervously in his seat as he tried to ignore how easily within grabbing range he was of both men before realizing what he was doing and stopping immediately.
“So that the Agenda would think that he was dead,” he replied. He felt like that should have been obvious, but he supposed it wasn’t his place to judge the questions they decided to ask. He should probably just be grateful that he’d been given an easy question.
“Did you previously have any knowledge of the Justice League having tapped The Agenda’s communication lines?” Batman continued swiftly, not giving Match any time to think between questions.
“No,” he answered easily. He’d never known about anything like that.
Superman also didn’t leave him any time to breathe before he was pushing forward with another demand for information. “Why did you take out your tracker?”
It was another ludicrously easy to answer question. So much so that it felt like a trap. “So that the Agenda wouldn’t be able to use it to know where I was…” He trailed off uncertainly, tense and sure that he was saying the wrong thing but unable to think of anything else he could say. His nervousness only increased when Superman scoffed and rolled his eyes, visibly frustrated by the reply. Nothing about this was good or safe for Match.
“And why wouldn’t you want them to know how to find you?” Superman asked, a thread of exasperation in his voice as he leaned forward to rest his palms on the table.
That question was so stupid that Match wasn’t able to keep the incredulity off of his face. “Because then they’d find Project Thirteen and kill him.” He enunciated the last words more clearly than he really needed to, but he couldn’t understand what it was that they weren’t understanding about this.
“His name is Konner!” Superman snarled, slamming a hand against the table with a loud bang. Match flinched back into the chair, his breath hitching in his chest and his hands pulled back towards his chest as far as he could get them with the chains connecting them to the table.
“Yes, sir,” he answered automatically, his eyes cast down towards nothing and his face as lax and neutral as he could make it. Devoid of emotion or thought that could be punished. “Sorry, sir.” No apologies without correction. “They’d find K-Konner and kill him.” That was another of the Agenda’s rules broken. Always refer to projects by their proper designation unless actively infiltrating. His own full designation was Project Match. The members of Young Justice had been the first people to mistakenly use ‘Match’ like it was a name.
“And you don’t want the Agenda killing Konner?” Batman asserted, the question obvious in his tone.
That was something that Match did know the answer to. “No. I don’t want the Agenda killing Konner.” He still had no idea why the thought of that made him so upset, but he obviously didn’t want it if he’d taken so many steps to stopping it.
“You expect us to—” Superman snapped angrily, only to be interrupted by Batman raising his hand.
“Did you disobey your orders?” Batman asked, slowly lowering himself into the seat across from him.
“Yes,” Match admitted, his jaw tensing as he grit his teeth, his terror only growing if he spent too long thinking about what he’d done.
“And you’ve defected from the Agenda?” Batman phrased it like a question, but Match was sure the man knew what his answer would be. He didn’t know why they were engaging in this charade, but it wasn’t like he could do anything but play along.
“Yes. I disobeyed my orders and fled from my handlers.” Admitting his disobedience so explicitly had his stomach in his throat. Nobody had use for a disobedient tool. Even if the League were pleased with his actions, they would never really trust or tolerate him now that they knew that he was capable of this level of betrayal. He didn’t want to hope for assignment to some kind of Suicide Squad type of team, but if it was that or decommissioning, he wasn’t sure what he’d do.
Batman leaned back in his chair, looking Match up and down with an evaluating glare. Superman paced behind him, visibly agitated and clearly only being held back from releasing a barrage of questions by Batman’s earlier silencing of him. “Alright,” Batman acknowledged, a strange edge to his tone. “You’ve approached the Justice League under false pretenses before. Why should we believe that this is anything other than another infiltration attempt?”
Match barely managed to restrain his flinch. He probably should have expected that question, but it somehow hadn’t occurred to him. But why would they believe him? Why should they? He was dangerous and a known liar. Confinement or decommissioning was obviously the safest way to handle him. Match scrambled to come up with a reason they should trust that this wasn’t a set up, but he was failing badly. They already thought he’d known about the tapped comms line. They probably viewed that as evidence that his defection was a ruse. A performance. He tried to come up with anything he could say to convince them otherwise, and he was coming up completely empty.
He felt tears trying to well up in his eyes, and he forced the impulse away with practiced ease. “I have no evidence to present in my defense,” he admitted, keeping his voice flat and unemotive. Nobody needed a tool that couldn’t control itself. “Considering our history and your current frame of reference you would be well within your rights to confine or decommission me.”
He heard Superman suck in a strangely wavering breath, repeating the word in a breathy whisper. “Decomission?”
Match didn’t want to be decommissioned, and he hadn’t been commanded to silence yet, so he continued speaking as though he hadn’t heard anything. “If you choose to keep my project active I can provide you with information on the Agenda operations I have been briefed on, as well as usual policies and procedures. You could verify some random portion of the intel I provide to gain evidence of my credibility. I would be compliant and informative if you would choose to confine me rather than decommission me.” It felt awful putting all of his cards on the table so soon, hearing the desperation leaking into his voice as he all but begged not to be deactivated permanently, but there was no point in trying to hide something so obvious.
He didn’t want to be confined, either, but it was the better of the options he could see laid out before him. He briefly mourned the time he’d wasted in that motel room and the future he’d imagined for himself. He wasn’t sure what exactly he’d have even done on the run by himself, but he had a few things he’d wanted to try to do before the inevitable end. He wanted to try ice cream. He wanted a real hug, like the ones he’d seen parents give their recently rescued children when he was pretending to be Superboy long enough to get to do some heroing. His least attainable desire—considering that ice cream was cheap and prostitutes would probably be willing to take money in exchange for a hug—was one that had been engendered by Wally’s excited raving about a new rollercoaster in Star City. He’d made it sound magical, and while Match could quite literally fly, he wanted to try it anyway. For a minute in the motel room he’d dreamed that he could.
He met the white out lenses of Batman’s cowl and watched the dream evaporate into mist. The man’s face was so stoic that Match couldn’t get any kind of read on him, which usually meant something bad in his experience. Batman’s next question didn’t make him feel any better. “Do you know why you didn’t kill Konner?”
Match felt his breathing stutter slightly. There was one exception to his rule that he wasn’t to guess or admit to not knowing the answer. If he was explicitly asked about his apparent ignorance, voicing the truth was the only option. Anything else would lead to regrettable consequences. But admitting his ignorance always resulted in only slightly less regrettable consequences, so he couldn’t help the way terror pooled in his gut.
Thankfully his voice was as even and measured as ever when he replied, “No, I don’t know why I disobeyed my orders.” He wondered what punishment from the League looked like.
Batman nodded at his answer before standing up from the table and turning towards Superman. “Why don’t we step outside for a moment,” he suggested, turning back towards Match without waiting for an answer. “We’ll be back shortly.”
“Yes, sir,” Match acknowledged automatically, watching with steadily mounting fear as Batman disappeared from the interrogation chamber, followed by a confused and irritated Superman. He knew without a doubt that wherever they were, they could absolutely still be observing him if they wanted to, so he maintained his rigid posture and his strict hold over his composure even as he was left more alone than he’d been in quite some time.
He wasn’t sure why the hero pair had gone, but he was sure that they would be returning with punishment, so he counted his breaths, keeping his fear at arms length as his mind compulsively tried to find a way to escape the upcoming pain despite knowing the futility of such efforts.
There was never really an escape, and he’d been a fool to have every thought otherwise.