I couldn't help but wonder how I'd gotten myself into this situation.
I sat in the cafeteria, my tray in front of me, lunch untouched. My stomach wasn't the problem—it was the three girls sitting with me. Gwen Stacy. Liz Allen. And, of course, Lisa Lasalle.
They were talking to one another like this was the most natural thing in the world, while I sat in the middle of it, wishing I had invisibility on top of everything else.
I could feel the stares. The glances. Every whisper I wasn't supposed to hear—though of course I did.
I risked a glance at Peter and Ned, silently begging for backup, or at least a distraction. But no—they had their heads buried in their homework like their lives depended on it. Cowards.
Even a teacher walking by had paused mid-step, raising an eyebrow at the sight of me boxed in by the trio.
"So how long have you known Clark?" Lisa's voice cut through my daydreams, dragging me back to the fire pit.
"Not long," Liz said casually, shrugging. "I only met him a few weeks ago."
"Liz here was about to fail two classes," Gwen added, ignoring the sharp glare Liz shot her. "Clark and I happened to be around to help tutor her."
"Really? I didn't expect you to be a smarty-pants with arms like these." Lisa smirked at me, her eyes flicking down to my biceps.
I could feel my face heat up.
Both Gwen and Liz nodded in perfect unison, like they were agreeing with her assessment, and suddenly my ears were burning too.
I'd always made a point of wearing baggy clothes or layering up, anything to hide how built I actually was. It was easier that way, looking average. Normal.
But after the fight with Rhino, I'd been so drained I'd forgotten all about my promise to walk Lisa to school. When I opened the door, she didn't just see me—she saw me.
Ripped, toned, every line of muscle on display before I even realized what I'd done.
And somehow, after I scrambled to throw on my usual layers, Lisa had flat-out refused to let me cover up again. She'd practically dragged me into clothes she'd "somehow" found lying around.
Now here I was, sitting in a black t-shirt and jeans, boots planted firmly on the floor while the entire cafeteria looked at me like I'd gone from a six to a nine overnight.
And all I could think was 'Why do girls feel scarier than fighting literal villains?'
Lisa tilted her head, eyes glinting like she knew exactly what she was doing.
"So, Clark… do you, like, lift?"
I almost choked on air. "Uh—I mean—yeah? Sometimes? Farm stuff, you know. Buckets. Hay bales. Normal, everyday things."
"Buckets," Gwen repeated flatly, fighting a smirk. "Sure."
Liz leaned forward, chin resting in her hand. "You know, I've seen him carry three backpacks at once without even breaking a sweat. Totally unfair."
"That's not—" I started, but Lisa cut me off with a sly grin.
"Sounds like you'd be perfect for carrying my books to class."
The cafeteria went quiet. Or maybe it was just me realizing half the room was eavesdropping now. I wanted to sink through the floor.
"Clark Kent, human pack mule," Gwen said under her breath, and Liz actually giggled. Giggled!
I gave them all a look that was supposed to say help me, but judging from their faces it translated to please roast me more.
Lisa reached over and poked my arm—like I was some kind of science experiment. "Seriously though, you're, like, ridiculously strong. What do your parents feed you?"
Corn. Wheat. The occasional tractor.
Instead, I forced a weak laugh. "Uh… a lot of protein?"
"Mm-hm." She clearly didn't believe me.
Liz and Gwen exchanged a glance that screamed we're enjoying this way too much, and I knew right then that I was doomed.
---
By the time I made it back to my apartment, my brain felt like someone had wrung it out like a sponge.
Mentally exhausted didn't even begin to cover it. Between surviving the gauntlet that was high school, a study session that somehow turned into a three-hour group debate on chemistry, and walking Lisa home while pretending not to notice the very scenic detour she chose, I was done. Absolutely done.
I flopped face-first onto the couch and groaned into the cushion. The kind of groan that could scare off small animals.
It wasn't like I needed sleep. My body could probably go a week without it. But my mind? Yeah, that still clocked out like everyone else's.
I let out a deep sigh—and instantly froze the half-empty water bottle on my TV stand solid.
"...Seriously?" I mumbled, staring at the ice-coated plastic.
One quick zap of heat vision later, it was back to liquid… and slightly warped.
I tossed it in the trash and rubbed my eyes. "Gotta stop doing that."
Just as I started to think I might actually get to rest—
The sound hit me.
Dozens of voices crying for help. The sharp crack of gunfire. Explosions. The city's heartbeat spiked like a drum in my ears.
I didn't even think. One blink and I was gone—cape on, suit sealed. The window rattled behind me as I shot into the air.
New York stretched out beneath me like a wounded beast. Smoke. Flashing lights. Panic. I zoomed in with my vision, narrowing past the blur until I found it—a whole city block covered in… yellow gunk?
"What the…?"
Cars were half-buried in the sticky mess, their tires spinning uselessly. People were stuck to walls, the sidewalks, even dangling from light poles like flies in amber.
At the center of it all: a toppled armored truck, its guards glued to the side, the back doors blown off. Money everywhere.
And the thieves—half a dozen of them—armed and firing wildly.
But not at civilians.
At her.
A woman with long blond hair, moving between cover with the kind of precision that screamed training. A sleek black-and-white suit, a long metal staff that blurred as it spun, knocking bullets aside with impossible speed.
"Mockingbird…" I murmured. The name surfaced from somewhere in my memory a hero but if I remember she's associated with S.H.I.E.L.D if I remembered right.
But I but that in the back of my mind for now she was moving under fire, keeping the gunmen focased in her she had guts.
"Okay," I said under my breath, adjusting course. "You handle the bad guys. I'll handle the sticky stuff."
And with that, I dove.
The second my boots hit the ground, everything slows.
Not just slow like a traffic jam—slow like time itself forgot how to move.
Dust and dirt hung in the air like glass beads. Smoke curls in lazy spirals that don't rise, just twist and linger. Gunfire sounds like distant thunder, deep and sluggish.
And people—people were frozen mid-action, faces stretched with fear.
I take a deep breath. Okay, let's see what we're dealing with.
To me, it's like walking through a photograph. I move between cars, checking pulse after pulse. Everyone's alive. Shaken. Some stuck waist-deep in that weird yellow goop, but no one fatally hurt.
The stuff itself… I crouch beside a splattered sedan and run a finger through it. Sticky. Elastic. Smells faintly like glue and… burnt sugar? "What in the world—"
I tug, and it stretches like melted caramel. "Yep. Someone weaponized glue or some kind of adhesive. Because why not?"
A ripple catches my eye. I glance up—and there she is.
Mockingbird. In motion even in slow motion. Every move deliberate, graceful. She's vaulting over the hood of a police car, staff spinning as a dozen bullets crawl toward her like lazy fireflies.
She's good. Really good.
But good doesn't mean safe.
I step forward, and in the stillness it feels like I'm walking across a stage between frozen actors. One by one, I disarm the robbers, snapping gun barrels, plucking magazines from midair. A tap to the shoulder here, a gentle nudge there. Their weapons fall like dominoes that won't land for another five seconds.
Then I notice one of them is different.
A backpack. A reinforced hose running to a cannon-like gun that glows faintly yellow. Recognition flickers. I know this tech—or at least, I've heard of it. But the name won't come.
The guy's finger is mid-squeeze on the trigger.
"Not today," I mutter, grinning.
I crouch, grab the hose, and—because sometimes I can't help myself—tie it into a perfect little knot. A neat bow, actually. Pa would've been proud.
Then I step back, take one last look at the frozen chaos around me, and blink.
The world snaps back into motion.
Sound slams into me like a wave shouts, gunfire, and then...
BOOM!
The man's backpack erupts in a spectacular explosion of yellow foam, splattering his whole crew from head to toe.
I throw my cape around myself and Mockingbird, shielding us both as the sticky mess rains down.
When the last glob finally hits the pavement, I peek out from under the cape. The robbers look like overgrown marshmallows glued to the street.
Mockingbird blinks rapidly her mind carching up with what just happened then looks up at me.
"So you must be new yorks superman" she said casually but I knew she was analyzing me and our surroundings.
I nod smiling warmly and offer my hand "the one and only and who might you be?" I asked.
"Names Mockingbird and id like to have a conversation with you big blue... mask to mask" she said adjusting her mask and I nodded.
"Lead the way," I said calmly.
---
After a few minutes me and Mockingbird stood on the edge of a building looking over the scene.
Mockingbird strands of blond hair flowed like a field of golden wheat in the wind reminding me of Smallville "...You tied his hose in a knot?"
I shrug. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."
Her expression says she's not sure whether to thank me or hit me with her staff.
I couldn't blame her the man with the backpack was called Peter Petruski or "the Trapster" a theif, mercenary, bank robber, and we renowned chemical scientist.
The Trapsters multi-polymer adhesive is notoriously difficult to clean let alone get ride of after incidents hes involved in.
How ever hes also well known for his lack of civilian casualties thanks to his preferred weapon his so called "paste-gun."
"Well, what's done is done," Mockingbird said, turning toward me. Her tone was casual, but her eyes were sharp — evaluating. "So, what's your story, Big Blue?"
I raised an eyebrow. Did she really expect me to hand over my secret identity just like that?
She must've seen the look on my face, because she laughed softly. "Relax, I'm not asking who's under the mask," she said, that sly SHIELD confidence in her voice. "I'm asking why you wear it. People don't tend to do the right thing in a cape anymore."
I paused, thinking about that.
This world used to have legends real ones. The Justice Society, the Invaders, the Blackhawks. People who stood for something when the world was breaking apart.
But after the wars, the masks started to disappear. Some retired. Most didn't make it that far.
"I wear it," I said quietly, "because doing the right thing is always worth doing. No matter the cost."
Mockingbird smiled faintly. "That's a dangerous philosophy these days, Mr. Goody Two-Shoes," she said, circling me. "You mean well, but making that kind of splash gets attention the bad kind. And from what I've seen..." she tapped her staff against my shoulder, "you're an amateur."
Before I could reply, she moved. A blur of motion her staff swept low and took my legs right out from under me. I hit a knee before instinct could catch up. In a blink, the tip of her staff hovered a breath from my throat.
"Good reflexes," she said calmly. "But raw power only gets you so far. You've been training yourself, right?"
She lowered the staff and offered me a hand. "I'm part of an organization that can help with that. We train people like you to last to make a difference."
I took her hand and stood.
Of course, her strike hadn't hurt couldn't hurt, but I respected the intent. No point letting her break her arm trying to prove something.
I smiled. "Tempting offer, but I'm not really looking for a long-term relationship right now."
Reaching into my belt, I pulled out a small flip phone and handed it to her. "But if you ever need a Superman... give me a call."
Mockingbird blinked, then let out a small laugh. "You're cocky, you know that?"
"Occupational hazard," I said, smirking beneath the mask.
And before she could come up with a comeback, I launched into the sky — cape snapping, the city lights rolling out beneath me.
Below, Mockingbird stood at the edge of the rooftop, her hair catching the wind like sunlight on gold, watching until I was gone.