Chapter Text
The first day of senior year at Metropolis High.
Jane Nakamura stood near the main entrance, clutching a clipboard covered in bold lettering: "JOIN THE MEDIA DEPARTMENT – BE THE VOICE OF METROPOLIS HIGH."
Her pink hair caught the morning light like a beacon, but despite her efforts, most students passed by without a second glance.
She didn’t blame them; teenagers weren’t exactly known for caring about truth or storytelling.
But Jane cared. She always had.
Gossamer wasn’t just a name she used online for her underground journalism site The Truth.
It was who she really was—fearless, unyielding, and ready to expose corruption at every level.
“Media’s not glamorous,” Jane called out, waving her clipboard at a group of freshmen who hurried past. “But someone’s gotta tell the real stories!”
No response.
Jane sighed, scanning the crowd.
Then she noticed him.
A guy with a peculiar hairstyle, almost windswept even though the air was still. He wore dark sunglasses like he was trying to blend in but failing miserably.
He paused at her table and gave a crooked smile. “You’re recruiting?”
Jane raised an eyebrow. “Someone who actually wants to sign up? This is my lucky day.”
He took the pen and scribbled his name onto the sheet.
Jane glanced down and read it aloud, smiling. “Welcome aboard, Finn.”
“Happy to be here,” he replied, his voice warm, almost too calm—like he’d practiced sounding normal.
Jane opened her mouth to say something else when—
BANG! BANG!
The sharp crack of gunfire tore through the morning.
Screams erupted as students scattered, backpacks dropping to the pavement like discarded shields.
Jane's breath hitched.
A few yards away, a guy named Kyle—someone she vaguely remembered from last year’s Math class—stood on the steps, holding a gun, his face twisted with something unrecognizable.
“Nobody move!” Kyle shouted, firing another shot into the air.
Chaos swept across the courtyard.
Jane ducked instinctively, shielding her head, her mind racing. Journalism training meant she wanted to record every detail—the way the sunlight glinted off the barrel, the raw terror in everyone’s eyes—but survival instinct won.
Then something strange happened.
“Stay down,” Finn said, his voice calm but firm.
Before Jane could reply, Finn stepped forward, placing himself between Kyle and the scattering students.
He moved with impossible speed, yanking off his sunglasses—
—and in that moment, Jane's heart skipped a beat.
It wasn’t Finn. It was him.
The stories, the photos, the rumors—all true.
Superboy.
In the blink of an eye, the bullets that Kyle fired simply… stopped. Hovering midair. As if time itself had bent around this strange, powerful boy.
Jane could only stare, her clipboard falling from her hands.
“Finn… you’re—” she whispered, the words caught in her throat.
The school courtyard was electric.
Students who had just been screaming in terror now surrounded Superboy with grateful cheers, their fear melting into awe.
Phones were raised, cameras flashing, every angle capturing the boy of steel standing tall amidst the chaos.
Superboy gave them a faint, polite smile, but Jane could see something in his eyes—an unease, a need to get away from the spotlight.
He didn’t bask in the attention the way some people might.
Instead, he looked like someone who’d just been unmasked.
And Jane knew exactly why.
“Finn?” she called out, jogging after him as he tried to slip past the crowd. Her hand shot out, holding up the blonde wig he’d used as part of his cover. “I think you lost this.”
Superboy glanced back over his shoulder, his lips twitching in a half-smile. “Yeah,” he said simply, the word more of a sigh than an answer.
Without missing a step, he continued walking, leaving Jane with the limp wig dangling from her fingers.
Jane's gaze lingered on him, her curiosity sparking like flint.
All around, students were still buzzing.
A pair of juniors whispered excitedly, “He just caught the bullets. Did you see that?!”
Another kid shouted, “Superboy! I love you!”
Then, with an ease that took everyone’s breath away, Superboy approached a parked car.
Without breaking stride, he hooked one hand beneath the chassis and lifted it effortlessly above his head—as if it weighed no more than a backpack.
Gasps and cheers erupted.
And then, without a single word, he crouched, leapt, and shot into the sky, the wind whipping around him like a ribbon of power.
Jane stood frozen, her eyes following the trail he left behind against the bright blue expanse. The wig felt strangely heavy now, resting in her hand like some kind of clue to a much bigger story.
She smirked, tilting her head as she muttered, “Wonder how much this thing would go for online? 'Authentic Superboy Wig.' Limited edition.”
The thought made her laugh softly to herself, but the humor faded quickly. She wasn’t someone who stayed on the surface of a story. No, she dug deep, deeper than anyone dared.
Jane's eyes narrowed as she looked up at the empty sky where Superboy had vanished. “So, fate finally brought us together, huh, Superboy?” Her voice was quiet, but resolute.
There was a flicker of something in her chest—part curiosity, part determination, and something she didn’t dare name.
Whatever this boy’s story was, she was going to find it.
And maybe… she’d make sure he knew hers, too.
The sun dipped low, painting Metropolis in warm amber hues as Jane pushed open the door to her small apartment.
It was nothing fancy—two rooms stacked with mismatched furniture, old protest posters curling on the walls, and stacks of papers that looked like they’d been rescued from a newsroom.
On the wall above her desk hung a cracked photo frame: a younger Jane on Gamorra, laughing in her mother’s arms while campaign banners rippled behind them—Sara Nakamura, the reformist president who’d promised transparency and a free press.
That promise died when Henry Bendix seized the next election. Sara vanished. Regime channels called it “transition.” Dissident feeds screamed “abduction.”
Jane was taken soon after—absorbed into one of Bendix’s black-site “post-human” programs—and she didn’t escape unchanged.
Sometimes, when fear spiked, her body blurred and slipped out of phase with the world; bullets, blows, restraints—none of it could quite catch her anymore.
She made it to the States, undocumented at first, then processed through refugee channels with a paper trail thin enough to fold in a pocket.
That was when she built The Truth—an encrypted, crowd-sourced journalism node for whistleblowers, refugees, and anyone Bendix (or any government) wanted silenced.
Online she was Gossamer: untouchable, untraceable, and very hard to shut down.
Jane touched the edge of the photo softly. The world had taken so much from her home country. Greedy politicians. Corrupt corporations. Even freedom.
Now, in this foreign city, she had sworn to fight back with the only weapon she could wield—truth.
Jane sat at her battered laptop and slipped on her signature neon-pink headphones. A password prompt appeared on the screen, followed by an encrypted terminal.
“Welcome back, GOSSAMER,” the screen blinked, as if greeting an old friend.
Jane cracked her knuckles and dove into her routine. Posts for her anonymous journalism site, The Truth, were queued in drafts:
“Metropolis Mayor’s Office Diverting Funds?”
“Is the Gamorran Regime Buying American Media Silence?”
Each post was tagged with sources, leaks, and careful cross-checking.
Jane wasn’t reckless; she didn’t have the luxury to be. One wrong move, and not only her story—but her life—could be over.
Still, tonight, something else was clawing at her mind.
She opened a new tab, typed SUPERBOY, and hit enter. The search results were a mix of shaky phone videos and headlines like:
“Superman’s Son? The New Boy of Steel?”
“Superboy Saves Smallville from Chemical Fire.”
“Who Is He Really?”
Jane leaned closer to the screen, rewinding footage from earlier that day—students’ cell phone recordings of Superboy catching bullets mid-air.
Her lips curved into a thoughtful grin. “Finn, huh? That’s cute,” she said aloud, almost amused by how easily his disguise had fallen apart under pressure.
She pulled out a notebook from under the desk, scrawling notes:
Fast reflexes = Kryptonian?
Acts like he’s trying to blend in.
Doesn’t like attention (interesting).
For a moment, she caught herself staring at the freeze-frame of him on the screen—his determined gaze, the way he looked both fearless and strangely vulnerable.
She shook her head, pushing the thought away. “Focus, Jane. He’s a story, not a crush.”
Before she could dive deeper, her laptop pinged with a red notification—one of her contacts from Gamorra had sent an urgent message.
[URGENT: A boatload of asylum seekers had escaped Gamorra, braving violent seas and heading straight for Metropolis.]
Jay’s breath caught. Her fingers froze above the keyboard.
This wasn’t just a story anymore—this was survival.
She already had the sense that Superboy—would be pulled into this storm.
And now, it seemed, the time had come.
Jay sprang into action. She fired up her stream, her voice steady but urgent.
“This is what's been hidden from you today,” she said aloud, her eyes locked on the camera.
“This is what we've uncovered. You're watching THE TRUTH.”