The lights in the Bugle studio were hot, brighter than a small sun. They reflected off the golden strands of Jacob's—no, Gamma Jack's—hair, casting him as if he were carved from light. Opposite him, J. Jonah Jameson leaned forward across his desk, mustache twitching, eyes narrowed like a lion watching prey refuse to flinch.
For thirty minutes, Jonah had thrown every accusation he could muster. Mutant. Alien. Corporate experiment gone wrong. Dangerous weapon disguised in a cape. And for thirty minutes, Jack had danced around each one with a casual smile and an easy southern drawl.
"Had these powers most my life," Jack said once, leaning back in his chair with effortless charm. A half-truth, but one that sat well enough in both Jacob's and Jack's mouths. "Doesn't mean I go throwing cars just to show off."
Jonah's eyebrow twitched. Again.
"And how do you expect people to trust you?" Jonah snapped at one point. "What if you lose control? What if you snap? Are we looking at New York: Chernobyl 2.0?"
The studio went quiet, every microphone tuned to the tension.
Jack's smile softened, just a little. He leaned forward now, elbows resting on his knees, green eyes glowing under the lights.
"Heroes are people too, Mr. Jameson," he said evenly. "And people? We've got feelings. Morals. Hope. Regret. All bundled up into one suit, or cape if you like."
Jonah squinted, sensing the dodge, but Jack kept going, his tone dipping serious.
"But I've learned something. All it takes is one bad day." He raised a single finger. "One. That's all it takes for even the nicest guy in the world—even Spider-Man—to fall. To shift into an absolute menace."
Jonah blinked. He wasn't expecting Spider-Man's name on national air.
Jack's smile returned, faint but steady. "Let's just hope that never happens. A tyrant Superman?" He shook his head. "Sounds like a nightmare I'd rather not see. So let's focus on the present. Oh, would you look at the time…"
He turned to the clock. The red light above the camera blinked. The interview time was, miraculously, up.
Jonah's face pinched as realization hit. He'd been played. The golden-haired southerner had drawn him into his own rhythm, eaten the minutes, and left him with nothing but half-answers and haunting implications.
The feed cut. The audience applauded. Jack stood, bowed slightly, and left Jonah stewing in his chair, mustache bristling like a storm cloud.
The morning after tasted of eggs and burnt toast.
Jacob sat in the Titans' cafeteria, a plate before him, Stark's phone in his hand. Across the table, Wally and Beast Boy wrestled over a pancake stack, shouting "Dibs!" and "Dude, you're cheating!" loud enough to echo.
Starfire was absent, though Jacob knew exactly where. Down in her personal chamber, or what the Titans had dubbed her "alien plant cave," surrounded by glowing Tamaranian flora. It was her little haven.
Jacob scrolled through the headlines, his fork moving automatically.
DAILY PLANET: "Gamma Jack Speaks—Heroes Are Human Too."
DAILY BUGLE: "Superior Superman? Or Menace-in-the-Making?"
CNN: "One Bad Day—Gamma Jack's Warning."
The world had listened. For once, they weren't just cheering. They were thinking. People debated online and in coffee shops. Was he right? Were heroes just a heartbeat away from breaking? If Superman had a bad day, what would happen?
And yet, despite the unease, support for Jack skyrocketed. Because unlike most heroes, he'd admitted it. He'd said out loud what others wouldn't dare: that even heroes could fall. And somehow, that made him more human, more trustworthy.
Jacob sighed, setting the phone down. "Guess I did my job."
Beast Boy yelped as Wally shoved him into a chair, pancake stolen. "Bro, that's cheating!"
Jacob smirked. "Yeah, that's people for you."
Across the city, another hero was not smiling.
Peter Parker slumped on his bed, mask tossed aside, eyes glued to his laptop screen. Jonah Jameson's rant filled the air—except this time, it wasn't about Spider-Man.
It was about Gamma Jack.
Peter rubbed his face, torn between relief and irritation. "So that's it? Years of me being called menace-of-the-week, and one shiny golden boy shows up and suddenly Jonah forgets I exist?"
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Relief, sure. But a new frustration coiled in his gut. Because while Jonah's obsession had shifted, the pressure hadn't disappeared. It had just found a new target.
And Peter knew, deep down, that obsessions like Jonah's always ended badly for somebody.
High above Earth, the Watchtower hummed with quiet tension.
Inside the council chamber, screens lit the faces of the League. Superman. Wonder Woman. Batman. Hal Jordan. Martian Manhunter. Nick Fury patched in from Earth, arms crossed, eye narrowed.
On the screen behind them: footage of Gamma Jack's debut, his effortless fight, his dazzling interview quotes.
"Public opinion is shifting fast," Wonder Woman said calmly. "They see him as honest. Grounded. Human."
"Human?" Fury barked. "He's a gamma reactor in a cape. Today he's charming, tomorrow he glows green and drops a city."
Hal Jordan raised a hand. "To be fair, the kid does have a point. Heroes are people. And people mess up."
Batman cut in, voice low. "That's exactly why he's dangerous. He already knows too much. Prometheus or otherwise. And now he has the public on his side."
Superman's gaze softened. "Or maybe he understands something we've all forgotten. That admitting weakness doesn't make you a threat. It makes you relatable."
The debate swirled, sharp and unyielding. Some saw Jacob as a symbol of transparency, a hero who dared to say what others wouldn't. Others saw a ticking bomb, one bad day away from proving his own warning.
Finally, Fury's voice cut through. "Young Justice was supposed to be training, not public relations. You've got a walking PR nightmare on your hands. Decide quick—before the world decides for you."
The chamber fell silent, the weight of decision heavy in the air.
Later, far from the noise, Tony Stark stood by the Watchtower's observation deck. Earth spun below, blue and green, fragile and perfect. Stars stretched endlessly beyond.
His glass of scotch hung limply in his hand, forgotten.
He thought of Jacob. Of the way the kid had stared him down in the cafeteria, eyes blazing, words sharp. You're not my dad.
But that wasn't what haunted him.
What haunted him was the truth he carried—the truth about Jacob's parents, his mother, the pieces of a past the boy deserved to know.
Tony's gaze fixed on the stars, the silence pressing around him.
"Maybe I should," he whispered.
The words echoed back, unanswered.