Mockingbird stood in the dim glow of the hidden S.H.I.E.L.D. cache a relic from another era, buried beneath a nondescript building in Hell's Kitchen. The hum of old generators filled the silence as blue light from the holographic table flickered across the metallic walls.
She leaned on the table, staring at the faint reflection of her mask in the glass.
Her thoughts weren't on her mission reports or the dozens of files scattered across the room but on him.
Superman.
He was... honest. Naive, maybe, but genuinely good.
The kind of good that made you want to believe again.
And that was dangerous.
Because the world isn't that simple, she reminded herself. It's never that black and white.
The holographic table suddenly pulsed to life, casting a bright light that cut through the shadows.
Nick Fury's image materialized all sharp edges, authority, and that unblinking single eye that seemed to see right through you.
"Agent Morse," Fury greeted, voice calm but carrying that familiar weight. "Give me your mission update."
Mockingbird straightened instantly, posture snapping to attention. Training was muscle memory especially when Fury was on the line.
"I've made contact with Superman," she reported crisply. "We both responded to a robbery downtown. Perp was the Trapster — or as the media calls him, Paste Pot Pete."
The holographic table adjusted, projecting the crime scene footage.
Frozen images of civilians covered in yellow adhesive filled the air, followed by a mugshot of Trapster and his long list of prior offenses.
Fury's eye flicked over the data before returning to her.
"And?"
"Superman handled himself well," she continued. "Strong, fast... definitely inexperienced. But his intentions seem genuine. He refused our recruitment offer — says he just wants to help people."
Fury tilted his head slightly. "And that's your professional opinion?"
Mockingbird smirked faintly, easing her stance. "Call it a woman's intuition, Director. Professionally? I'd say let him keep doing what he's doing. He'll come to us eventually. And…" she allowed herself a knowing grin, "I think I can speed that process up."
Fury's expression didn't change, but she could sense the faint amusement behind that stoic exterior. "And what makes you think that?"
She slid a small flip phone onto the holographic table. The device was instantly scanned and projected in wireframe detail above the glass.
"After our little chat, he gave me a way to contact him," she said simply.
Fury raised an eyebrow. "Any chance of tracing it?"
Mockingbird shook her head. "Not from what I can tell. But maybe the eggheads in R&D can pull something from it."
Fury nodded once, his hologram flickering faintly.
"Good work, Agent Morse. Continue to monitor him for now. Let's see if the Boy Scout plays ball."
The feed crackled and went dark, leaving her alone again in the dim light.
Mockingbird exhaled slowly, eyes drifting back to the phone still resting on the table.
"So just keep doing what you're doing, huh?" she murmured to herself with a faint smile. "Let's see just how long you can stay out of the grey, Superman."
---
Deep beneath the industrial sprawl of the city, in a lab that didn't officially exist, Dr. Otto Octavius watched the flickering screen with rapt attention.
The footage replayed in slow motion Superman tearing through the Trapster's ambush, the yellow adhesive exploding across the street like molten honey.
Octavius adjusted his glasses, studying every frame.
Trapster — real name Peter Petruski — had once been a brilliant chemical engineer. Once.
Now he was just another wasted mind playing at villainy.
"A tragedy," Otto muttered under his breath. "Such potential, squandered."
A door hissed open behind him, the sound crisp against the hum of the machinery.
Norman Osborn entered with his usual quiet authority, emerald eyes sweeping across the lab measuring everything, everyone, like stock values on a ledger.
"I assume you've seen the reports," Norman said, voice cool, even.
"I have, Mr. Osborn," Otto replied, straightening instinctively. "But no new data on the subject was recovered."
Norman gave a slow shake of his head, not disappointed simply thoughtful.
"What about the woman?"
Octavius hesitated, then tapped a command into the console. Holographic images appeared above the workstation stills of Mockingbird mid-combat, vaulting over enemy fire, staff in hand.
"The woman is human," Otto said finally. "Exceptional conditioning, but no metahuman markers. Still… highly trained."
Osborn rubbed his chin, studying the images. Then, slowly, a thin smile crept onto his face.
"So… S.H.I.E.L.D. has decided to make a move on my asset."
Otto glanced up, puzzled. "You know her?"
"I know of her," Norman said smoothly. "Barbara Morse. One of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s elite field agents."
That drew genuine surprise from Octavius. "How—? Even their internal roster is sealed. No one outside—"
Norman waved a dismissive hand. "Doctor, please. I have contacts in every organization worth mentioning. Governments. Corporations. Even S.H.I.E.L.D. leaks if you know which stones to turn."
He smirked faintly. "Let's just say one such contact warned me that a high-level agent was en route to New York. Now we know why."
Otto folded his arms, unease crossing his face. "If she's here for Superman, then we may have a serious problem."
"Agreed," Osborn said. His tone hardened, the businessman giving way to something colder. "We'll need to accelerate our timetable. The next data retrieval must yield results."
"You mean a sample," Otto said flatly. "Sir, with respect all data so far indicates Superman is virtually indestructible. We haven't even managed to make him bleed."
Norman turned toward him then calm, confident, and utterly certain.
"True," he admitted. "But there are many methods of retrieval, Doctor."
He smiled a small, knowing curve of his lips that made Octavius's stomach tighten.
"After all," Norman added softly, "every god bleeds… eventually."
The hum of the lab filled the silence as both men turned back to the glowing screen Superman frozen mid-flight.
---
The news was abuzz across in America with one single burning question.
"Who is Superman?"
That question blared across every major news network, talk show, and social feed for the past forty-eight hours.
The footage of the yellow-gunk robbery had gone viral. A blur of red and blue, a cape cutting through smoke, Mockingbird ducking behind an overturned van and then, in a heartbeat, the chaos ended. Civilians unharmed. Property damage minimal. The criminals webbed up in their own adhesive.
It was the kind of scene that would've looked staged if not for the dozens of eyewitnesses and smartphone recordings flooding the internet.
"Reporting live from Midtown, where residents are still buzzing about New York's newest mystery hero!"
The reporter smiled into the camera, microphone in hand as the lens panned over a small crowd.
An elderly man stepped forward first, voice trembling but proud.
"That boy saved my wife," he said, pointing to the nearby deli. "That truck was gonna crush her—he just—" the man made a vague swooping gesture, "—caught it. Like it weighed nothing. Didn't even stick around for thanks."
A teenager grinned wide for the camera next.
"He's awesome! Like, real-life Justice League awesome! My friend caught him on video he flew, man!"
Then the tone shifted.
A woman in a sharp business suit frowned, arms crossed.
"I don't care what he calls himself. If he's flying around with powers like that, he's a mutant. And we've all seen what happens when mutants decide what's best for the rest of us."
A few murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd.
Another man a cop, still in uniform shook his head.
"Look, I'm not sayin' the guy's bad, but he's doin' our job. If something goes wrong, if someone gets hurt, who's responsible? You can't book a cape and mask for collateral damage when he can break the cuffs and fly away."
Then came the conspiracy theorists.
One woman held up a homemade sign reading WHO MADE SUPERMAN?
"Think about it!" she said to the camera, eyes wide. "Nobody can do what he does unless someone somewhere engineered them to! Maybe it's a government project, or Stark tech, or—" she lowered her voice, "—aliens."
The reporter smiled politely, nodding.
"Thank you for your input, ma'am."
The next shot was of a crowd of people one man infront shouting out anti-mutant propaganda some held up signs asking questions like:
Is Superman a mutant?
Is Superman even a man?
The shot shifted to the bustling newsroom of The Daily Bugle, papers flying as reporters argued.
J. Jonah Jameson slammed his fist onto his desk.
"I want answers! Who is this cape, where did he come from, and why the hell is he flying over my city?!"
"Uh, Mr. Jameson," one of the interns said timidly, "so far witnesses describe him as, uh, polite. Helpful. Kind of—"
"Polite?! That's what we're calling vigilantes now? Polite?" Jameson barked. "I want facts! He's an unregistered superhuman operating without S.H.I.E.L.D. oversight, and that makes him a threat! Write it!"
A headline template flashed on the screen behind him:
"SUPERMAN: SAVIOR OR SCIENCE EXPERIMENT GONE WRONG?"
"Some people are calling him a guardian angel," the reporter continued. "Others say he's a ticking time bomb. But no matter who you ask, everyone's wondering the same thing—"
A young girl tugged her mother's sleeve, smiling shyly at the camera.
"He helped my cat," she said softly. "He was nice."
The mother smiled faintly. "Whoever he is… If hes listening I just want to say thank you and hope you stays safe."
Live in a crowded theater a night show was being broadcast to all of America.
"Joining us tonight are Dr. Leonard Samson, your a Government consultant on enhanced individuals what do you make of new yorks superman?"
Leonard Samson leaned forward, fingers steepled.
"I've reviewed the footage. Whatever he is, his physiology defies known limits on enhanced individuals. Flight, strength, invulnerability… If he's a mutant, he's an evolutionary miracle. If he's not—"
He paused. "—then he might not be human at all."
The host frowned. "So he might be something else entirely. If hes not a mutant then what? Some kind of new super soldier or could he be just… someone trying to do good in a world that doesn't trust good anymore."
The studio fell silent for a long moment before the host cleared his throat and moved the discussion on.
---
High above the city, Superman stood at the edge of a glass-and-steel spire, the night wind tugging at his cape until it rippled like a living flame. Below, New York glimmered a thousand lives moving in rhythm, each heartbeat a faint echo in his mind. He didn't need to look down to know where everyone was; he could hear it all.
The laughter from a rooftop party. The argument between two cab drivers. The restless hum of television screens as anchors debated his existence.
"He's an inspiration."
"He's a mutant a crime against nature."
"Where did he come from?"
The voices layered over one another, a storm of praise and fear and curiosity that swept through the city like static. Clark closed his eyes and exhaled, letting the noise wash over him.
The world was always loud he'd learned that much since putting on the suit. But lately, the sound carried something heavier than before. Doubt. Division. Expectation. He could feel it all pressing against his shoulders, invisible but undeniable.
For now, he could bear it. For now, it was only a whisper of the burden he knew would grow as his legend did.
He opened his eyes again, gaze tracing the horizon where the city lights met the stars. "One step at a time," he murmured, his breath barely stirring the air. "Do the right thing. That's enough."
Then, faint and distant, he heard it the screech of tires, the sharp crunch of metal on metal, the shattering of glass followed by a single scream.
Without hesitation, he stepped off the ledge.
The wind caught him, rushing past in a roar as he dove toward the source of chaos below. The city's glow streaked around him reds, golds, and blues blurring into light.
Whatever the world thought of him, however heavy the judgment became, Clark knew this much would never change.
If someone needed help… he'd be there.
Always.