Cross of Steel 3 (Patreon)

The S-Man had taken the world by storm. Someone had called him Superman and, since it fell off the tongue better than S-Man and it seemed like there would be no shortage of discussion centering on him, the name caught on. There’d been superheroes before, but nothing like this. And less proved more, because he hadn’t been seen since stopping the hurricane, so speculation ran rampant. What was he? Who was he? What did he want and what would he do next?

Darcy Lewis wondered how people hadn’t caught wise to this stuff yet. He was a mutant or from Atlantis or an alien; so what? And he wanted to help people out with his superpowers because what else were you going to do with superpowers? Rob a bank? That just got your ass kicked. The real money was in merchandising. She was sure Spider-Man got a dollar from every Spidey T-shirt that got sold.

She moved through the bullpen of the Daily Bugle, hoping a little moving around on her crystal-embellished René Caovilla sandals would help her come up with something juicy for her gossip column. Mostly she reported the facts—wrapped up in several layers of misdirection and innuendo—but a little outright fabrication was great at filling inches. And if someone fervently denied it or called her up asking how she could possibly know, well…

She came to the elevator, deciding a trip down to the lobby and a latte from the coffee stand would help her come up with some rumor that was just plausible enough to get past her editor, who would never admit he didn’t have his finger on the pulse of everything from Gen Z to other, less sexy generations.

The new guy, Clark Kent, was already waiting at the elevator. He was a tall guy and reasonably built, but he had no idea how to dress himself. Shame, since the jawline and the long hair had potential. But he couldn’t think of anything to do with them except grow a light beard and tuck his hair back in a ponytail. He had on a flannel shirt, tucked into his jeans, and a twill utility jacket like he was about to do a satellite uplink from Baghdad. Square-rimmed glasses sat on his face, adding to the geometry of it. He really did have a square jaw; probably look amazing clean-shaven.

Darcy wore a gray off-the-shoulder crop top over olive ripped skinny jeans, Stan Smiths, and a tan wide-brim hat. It was a little showy for the office, but people already thought she didn’t belong there just because she was a gossip columnist. They had to know that she was bringing style to the table that no one else could manage.

Boarding the elevator, Clark snuck a look at her, then fixed his attention on his own reflection in the elevator doors. Darcy didn’t blame him. He was a good-looking guy, plaid aside. Still, she’d’ve thought he’d rather look at her. But Clark was like that. Quiet. Mild-mannered.

Exactly the sort of person who could buy lunch for her now that Peter had rediscovered financial planning or whatever.

“So, your first week at the Bugle,” Darcy shot at him. “What do you think about Jameson?”

“He’s… very old school. Doesn’t mince words.”

“He certainly doesn’t.” Darcy looked him over again. He really towered over her. And she wasn’t a short woman. Well, not that short. She wondered how grateful he would be if she showed him how to accessorize a little. Informed him of the invention of contacts. “Where’d you say you were from again? Short Town?”

“Smallville.”

“Haven’t heard of it.”

“It’s in Kansas.”

“That I’ve heard of.” The furthest Darcy had been from the Big Apple was Jersey. “How’s New York treating you?”

“It’s a lot. When you’re used to Smallville.”

“What, they don’t have skyscrapers in Kansas?” Darcy teased.

Clark shook his head. “Not really. But New York has its charms.”

“Yeah, it does. I’ve lived here all my life.”

Clark turned to look at her, about to ask if she was one of the charms. They were in an exterior elevator, the glass cab traveling down a similarly glass tube. When the webline hit the outside glass, quick-drying to it like liquid cement, Darcy’s first thought was that it was a bird bumbling into the clear glass. Then she saw that it was Spider-Man, using the anchor point to instantaneously change his momentum from north to west. As they watched, Spider-Man fired off another webline with a thwip and let that take his weight, now that he’d orbited around the elevator shaft as far as he could.

Clark watched it happen with awe. Darcy kept watching until Spider-Man was lost to view, but her hands were already fumbling for the phone in her purse to see if she’d gotten any e-mails.

“He’s really just… swinging around the city all the time, isn’t he?” Clark commented in astonishment.

Darcy nodded. “Yeah, sometimes he stops at this sandwich place I know to eat. Waits in line, too. He’s pretty cool that way.”