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It had been Winn’s idea, back in the beginning. The original idea had been much grander. A place where people could contact Supergirl, where the hero could share good news and keep an eye on the public opinion. Of course, the DEO hadn’t been on board. At all. But she’d ended up creating the account anyway, promising to adhere to the DEO’s confidentiality guidelines, and using their untraceable equipment, and giving their IT experts (and Winn) access. It ended up being easier like that, letting her worry about her content only.

It wasn’t like Kara wasn’t used to managing identities, or social media.

 

Supergirl’s Instagram was mostly composed of aerial view of National City, night skies, and other landscapes; because everything was classified and not fun at all. She couldn’t even post anything about her favorite food places, because it would be more endorsing than she should do, and because the world was tracking her every online move; so she shouldn’t broadcast her personal tastes. Kara’s photography skills did improve noticeably, thanks to James, but there was only so much she could do on a cellphone camera.

She did occasionally post pictures with and of the police officers, firefighters, paramedics and park rangers she worked with. She helped with the aftermath when she could (a lesson she’d learned early on), especially since she could cause quite a bit of damage herself.

It wasn’t a bad Instagram. It just… wasn’t very exciting. No pictures of aliens (privacy and safety concerns), no great personal insights, no news or plans (because CatCo. technically managed her public appearances)…

 

It was a simple post. The image was striking enough, but nothing one’d need to be a designer to make. On the bold red background, yellow letters spelt out «Cadmus stole National Alien Registry». Bellow, four line of smaller text concisely delineated the abductions, the methods they were probably using, and a couple of tips to hide. The caption only said: Please, take care.

It went viral in thirty seconds.

 

National City (and a good portion of the internet) was on the edge of their seats by the time Supergirl posted again. There had been reports of something rising in the atmosphere, and telescopes pointed at the sky, and there was police parked in front of L-Corp because somebody had tried to kill the CEO again, but nobody actually knew what was happening.

It was a video.

 

It’s so high up that the sky has turned into stars and the Earth curves gently below, dark clouds and mountains and sea against the sun, brilliant and barely there over the sweeping horizon. The blue glow of the edge of the atmosphere suffuses everything. The view is reflected on the glass and metal of a hull at the edge of the screen. The camera pans, shaking, showing a fraction of the spacecraft’s sheer size, and the camerawoman herself. Supergirl slumps against the ship’s viewport (who’s that blurred outline behind the glass?), holding the phone with one arm. She’s pallid and drawn, shallow breaths displaying the taut tendons and muscles of her neck, eyes watery but she’s smiling. She mouths something (we did it), breath freezing in front of her, and lets her head fall back. She looks at the camera one last time, ice crystals on her eyelashes, and pushes the phone away.

Slowly, it falls, floating back, revealing the ship behind her before its rotation brings it out of view and the stars consume the screen. The stars, unobscured by light; the sun, peeking over a soft horizon; the Earth, made of darkness and nets of artificial lights; a spaceship, suspended above the planet, getting smaller and smaller.

Over and over again as frost creeps up the lens.