Chapter Text
(Chapter One: Flyers in Hell’s Gate)
The late afternoon sun slanted low over Metropolis, turning the grime on the Hell’s Gate storefronts into something almost golden. Jimmy Olsen cut through the neighborhood on foot, camera bag slung over one shoulder, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. He’d just come from a nothing assignment some ribbon-cutting at a new community center uptown and his editor had waved him off early with a “go find something interesting, Olsen.”
Hell’s Gate usually delivered on “interesting.”
He was weaving past a shuttered pawn shop when he spotted her.
Silver hair caught the light first like polished steel under the fading sun. She was balanced on the tips of her combat boots, one arm stretched high to tape a black-and-white flyer to a lamppost. The paper fluttered in the breeze, fighting her. Her other hand clutched a thick stack of the same flyers against her chest, and every time the wind snatched one, she muttered something under her breath that sounded like a Dublin swear word wrapped in velvet.
Jimmy slowed without thinking.
The flyer showed a stark soundwave curling into the shape of a tear. Big block letters underneath: KEEN live at The Abyss, Friday night. No cover before 10.
She reached again, tape in teeth, and the whole stack started sliding. One flyer peeled free and tumbled down the sidewalk.
Jimmy lunged, snagging it before it hit a puddle of questionable origin.
“Got it!” he called, jogging over with the rescued paper held high like a trophy.
She turned, one brow arched, silver-gray eyes narrowing just enough to size him up. Pale skin, smoky makeup that made those eyes look even sharper, dark jeans ripped at one knee, fingerless gloves, and a sleeveless gray hooded jacket that looked like it had seen better days and probably better fights.
Up close, the silver in her hair wasn’t dye. It was too perfect, too metallic, catching light like it had depth.
“Thanks,” she said, Dublin accent soft but unmistakable. She took the flyer from him, careful not to brush his fingers. “Wind’s a bastard today.”
“Happy to help,” Jimmy said, grinning the grin that had talked him out of (and occasionally into) trouble since he was twelve. “I’m Jimmy.”
She hesitated half a second, then nodded. “Siobhan.”
“Cool name. Matches the hair.” He gestured at the flyer still in her hand. “KEEN, huh? You in the band?”
“Lead singer,” she said, turning back to the lamppost. She pressed the tape down hard, smoothing it with her thumb. “We’re playing Friday. Trying to get the word out before the venue forgets we exist.”
Jimmy glanced up and down the block. Half the posts already had competing flyers layered over older ones—missing cats, open mic nights, some guy selling “genuine Kryptonian crystals” (definitely not genuine).
“Mind if I…?” He held out his hand for the stack.
Siobhan looked at him again, longer this time. Suspicion flickered, but something in his face the open, earnest, zero agenda expression that was pure Jimmy Olsen seemed to pass whatever test she was running.
She handed him half the flyers and the roll of tape. “Knock yourself out.”
They worked in companionable silence for a minute. Jimmy taped one to a newspaper box, another to the side of a bodega window (after asking the owner, who shrugged approval). Siobhan moved efficiently, no wasted motion, but he noticed she kept her sleeves tugged down even though the evening was warm.
“So what’s the sound like?” he asked, taping a flyer at eye level on a telephone pole. “The poster’s giving me serious post-punk vibes, but I’ve been wrong before.”
“Alternative rock, mostly,” she said. “Bit of darkness, bit of atmosphere. Lyrics that don’t lie.”
Jimmy paused, reading the poster again. “KEEN. Like the mourning thing?”
Her hand stilled on the next flyer. For a second he thought he’d overstepped.
“Yeah,” she said finally, voice quieter. “Like that.”
He didn’t push. Instead he grinned again. “Well, I’m a sucker for bands with good names. And I’ve got a camera.” He patted the bag. “I shoot gigs sometimes for the Planet’s culture section. If you don’t mind a few photos floating around.”
Siobhan studied him really studied him this time. Like she was looking for the catch and not finding it.
“You’d come to The Abyss on a Friday night just to take pictures of an unknown band?”
“I mean, I was gonna eat cold pizza alone in my apartment anyway,” Jimmy said. “This sounds better.”
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Barely there, but real.
“Bring friends if you want,” she said. “We need bodies more than anything.”
“Deal.” He stuck the last flyer from his stack onto a brick wall, then stepped back to admire their work. A trail of tear shaped soundwaves now marched down the block.
Siobhan gathered the empty tape roll and the leftover flyers. “Thanks, Jimmy. Seriously.”
“Anytime.” He fished a business card from his wallet Daily Planet, James Olsen, Staff Photographer and held it out. “In case you need an extra hand with setup or whatever. Or, y’know, if the wind gets vicious again.”
She took the card, turning it over in her gloved fingers.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said.
And for the first time since she’d turned around on that lamppost, her voice sounded almost warm.
Jimmy watched her head down the sidewalk, silver hair catching the last of the sun, hooded jacket swaying with her stride. He didn’t know why, but something told him Friday night at The Abyss was going to be worth showing up for.
He snapped one quick photo with his phone—just the row of fresh flyers glowing in the dusk then pocketed it with a grin.
Metropolis never ran out of stories.
This one felt like it might be a good one.