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The heavy, reinforced doors of the S.H.I.E.L.D. director's office hissed open with quiet finality as Agent Phil Coulson stepped inside. His dark suit was crisp, his expression composed, but his eyes betrayed curiosity. He didn't often get summoned without warning.
Inside, Director Nick Fury stood behind his desk his single eye sharp and unreadable. Beside him stood Deputy Director Maria Hill, all discipline and precision. Off to the side, in relaxed but ready stances, were Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff aka Hawkeye and Black Widow.
The door slid shut behind Coulson, and with a faint click, locked itself. The overhead lights dimmed, leaving only shadows and tension.
A soft whir echoed in the room as a 3D holographic projector rose from the center of Fury's desk. It flickered to life, casting pale-blue light across the space.
Video and images began to cycle in slow, deliberate succession.
CCTV footage of Superman lifting a car.
News reports shouting headlines like:
"Who is the Flying Man in Blue?"
"Superhuman Stops Midtown Robbery!"
Photos of glowing red and blue blur the vuege outline of a man could be seen.
Police reports, annotated and highlighted.
Audio snippets of witness statements.
"He flew! I swear, he flew—like a missile!" "He didn't even breathe hard…"
Coulson looked up as the visuals looped again.
"Alright," Fury said, arms crossed. "What do we see?"
There was silence for a moment.
Maria Hill took a single step forward. Her eyes flicked over the information like a sniper sizing up targets, her voice calm and precise.
"Unknown enhanced individual. Possibly a mutant—though that remains unconfirmed. Powers exhibited include flight, super strength, enhanced speed… possibly invulnerability. His own statement to police suggests enhanced hearing at the very least. No mask. No known affiliations. No clear agenda. Yet."
Natasha Romanoff nodded slightly, arms folded.
"He could've killed those robbers. Instead, he neutralized them with minimal force. No civilian casualties, no property damage outside the store. He prioritized protection. That tells us something."
Clint Barton snorted, leaning slightly forward to look at an image of Superman helping an old woman down from a fire escape—cat cradled in one arm.
"A real Boy Scout," he said, smirking. "Next he'll be helping kids cross the street and baking pies."
Coulson remained quiet for a second longer, watching the footage before speaking.
"He's powerful. Very powerful. But he doesn't act like someone with something to prove. If anything… he reminds me of the captin."
He glanced at Fury.
A low hum filled the room as the projector continued its loop.
"So what's the call?" Coulson asked. "Are we bringing him in, or just keeping eyes on him?"
Fury's gaze never left the image of Superman hovering midair above the jewelry store, cape fluttering, eyes calm.
"We monitor," he said. "Observe. Collect everything. Background, behavior, psychology—hell, even flight paths."
He turned to Maria.
"Move Satellite 17 into low Earth orbit over New York. I want his pattern tracked. If he sneezes in Manhattan, I want to know about it."
He looked to Coulson.
"Find out who he is. Civilian identity. Where he sleeps. Who he talks to. What he wants. And if he's working alone."
Fury's voice lowered just slightly—enough to carry weight.
"We don't know what he is yet. Until we do… assume nothing."
The room fell silent again, save for the soft buzz of the holograms.
And the image of Superman, arms outstretched, flying above the streets and traffic he seemed determined to protect.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
POV: Clark Kent
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
It had been a few weeks since I first put on the suit, and the city was still buzzing about "the Superman." Some called me a hero, others called me a threat. And I was just trying to keep my normal life separate from my heroic one though it was hard at times to not give away the fact that I could hear someone's phone vibrating three apartments over.
Peter, Ned, and I were camped out in Ned's living room, controllers in hand, half-focused on the game, half-distracted by the Peter watching the news on his phone.
"…billionaire industrialist Tony Stark is still missing, now officially presumed dead after being captured somewhere in the Middle East during a weapons demonstration…" the news anchor said.
The footage cut to a clip of Stark in a suit at some event, smiling for cameras, before switching to grainy satellite shots of desert terrain.
Peter glanced up. "Man… Tony Stark. Can you imagine? Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist—just gone. Bet if he were around, he'd be building something crazy right now."
I leaned back, pretending to be just as surprised as they were. Truth was, I'd been keeping tabs on Stark ever since I landed in this world. And was wondering when he would get those shards of metal in his chest.
Could I have saved him maybe...probably but should I that was a big fat no.
"So Peter how does it feel being part of the V.I.P field trip" Ned asked and I nodded along knowing the birth of another superhero was coming soon.
Peter turned away from his phone and smiled wide "Im excited a field trip to Oscorp. You know, the Oscorp. I've been trying to get in there for years!" He said excitement radiating off him.
"Dosen't Harry Osborn go to our school why not ask him for a tour?" I asked only to get Peter to turn from practically vibrating in excitement to downcast.
Noticing Peter's sudden bad mood I open my mouth to ask if somethings wrong only to feel Ned jap an elbow into my side and shacks his head.
---
The city looked different at night. From up here, I could see the hum of life, the endless flickering of lights, the soft movement of cars crawling like veins pumping through concrete.
The city that never sleeps indeed I thought as I hovered above the rooftops, senses open, stretching myself thin across every cry, every argument, every heartbeat.
But my mind… wasn't where it needed to be.
I kept thinking about Peter. The kid's bright smile, his endless curiosity—his mind found question that seemed to pile up only for him to answer them faster than I could.
But just the mention of Harry Osborn had caused that light in him to dim.
Later Ned told me that Harry and Peter used to be childhood friends, but once high-school hit Harry had chosen a diffrent crowd and had new friends leaving Peter to the wolves as Ned put it.
A sharp, piercing scream cut through my thoughts like a blade.
I didn't hesitate.
Sound guided me, narrowing like a spotlight until I zoomed in, my vision focusing past the alleys and side streets. A woman was being pulled, her heels dragging against the asphalt, hands clawing against the grip of two men in masks. They forced her toward a dark warehouse at the edge of the docks.
I dove.
The closed steel doors meant nothing. Metal screamed as I barreled through, twisting it off its hinges, slamming it against the floor like thunder. I hovered there, cape settling behind me.
The woman gasped, stumbling back toward a corner. Relief crossed her face for half a heartbeat—before every single shadow in the room shifted.
Guns.
A dozen men, maybe more, encircled me. Weapons already raised, safeties off, muzzles with red lasers turned on and all shined onto me.
I froze. My stomach sank as the realization hit me.
This was a setup A trap and I had flown right into it.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The sound echoed through the warehouse like the slow beat of a drum. A man stepped out of the shadows, each step deliberate, the metallic shine of his shoes catching the dim light above.
He was dressed to the nines—a tailored suit worth more than most cars, a gold-and-diamond encrusted watch gleaming on his wrist, and rings adorning nearly every finger. But none of that mattered. Not compared to his face. His head was broad, square, almost block-like, his jaw sharp and brutal. He carried himself with the casual confidence of someone who owned the ground he walked on.
The man stopped in the center of the floor, puffing a thick cloud of smoke from a cigar wedged between his teeth. His voice, when he finally spoke, was deep and gravelly, like a landslide rolling down a mountain.
"So you're the flyboy that's got the whole city talking." His eyes locked onto me—not in awe, not in fear, but with the cold detachment of someone appraising merchandise.
"Let the woman go," I said, my voice firm. "She's innocent. You want me—you've got me."
He didn't even glance her way. Instead, he tilted his head slightly. A side door creaked open, and one of his men jerked his chin toward the exit. The woman bolted, disappearing into the night.
"That innocent woman," the man drawled, blowing another lazy puff of smoke, "was nothing but bait. We paid her a hundred bucks to scream and cry on cue." His stare never wavered, never blinked. "But she served her purpose. Now we know for sure—you've got ears sharper than a bloodhound."
He leaned forward slightly, his gold rings glinting in the faint light.
"So do me a favor, flyboy… use those ears. Listen real close to what I'm about to tell you."
I stood my body tense as my eyes scaned the warehouse every gun leveled at me.
The man in charge stood like a statue almost unblinking, his cigar glowing faintly in the dim light. He took another slow puff before tapping the ash onto the floor, the burned gray ends falling like tiny embers.
"See, flyboy, you got some of our best men put away. And now, you're going to get them out," he said, as if the very idea of me refusing was laughable.
"And if I refuse?" I asked, letting my gaze drift over the warehouse—counting men, weapons, potential threats. All I saw were guns. Big guns, sure, but just guns.
He blew out smoke, his smirk never fading. "Refuse, and we tear that mask off your face. Then we send your body back to your family in pieces… wrapped in your bloody cape."
The casual way he said it actually made me pause. I looked again, sharper this time. But I saw nothing. No hidden tech. Or a hidden second trap. Just men with weapons that couldn't touch me.
"Okay," I said slowly, lowering my eyes back to him. "But how about I just put you all in the same cell with your friends instead?" I shifted my stance, ready.
The mans face didn't change,as he tossed his cigar to the ground, and ground it beneath his heel. With one smooth motion, he put on a pair of heavy goggles over his eyes.
"Wrong answer, flyboy."
Then lights exploded to life, the darkness vanishing in a blinding flash of light and my vision turned white.
Then came the thunder of gunfire.