Chapter Text
Billy Batson returned home, a tangled mess of exhaustion. He dropped onto the couch and rubbed at his throbbing temples. Captain Marvel had just come off an absurdly busy week—as if every natural disaster, supervillain, and evil organization had decided to sprint for year-end quotas.
Monday was a tsunami in Indonesia, Tuesday an earthquake in Japan, Wednesday monsoons in Beijing, and as if Billy wasn’t busy enough—Captain Nazi also swung by Fawcett City to stir up trouble; Thursday through Friday, several members of the League—including Captain Marvel—teamed up with the Titans to raid one of the Bedlam Syndicate’s bases, freeing dozens of metahuman teens caught up in an illegal trafficking ring.
The World’s Mightiest Mortal is never defeated, but when the magic bell tolls and he turns back into ordinary old Billy, he could feel the ache welling up in his body.
Billy was very sleepy, and very hungry.
All he wanted was to lie on his creaky bed, burrito himself in the blanket, and sleep for a few hours. But no—The Daily Planet had just written back. He’d done well in two rounds of interviews, but before tomorrow Billy needed to turn in two articles and an audio sample so the paper could make a final decision. He needed this internship: Metropolis’s cost of living dwarfed Fawcett City’s, rendering his usual odd jobs insufficient against the monthly bills—and obviously he couldn’t keep working remotely for WHIZ Radio. On top of that, the Daily Planet was one of the top three papers in the country, famed in the industry; an internship at a respected paper was a precious chance for a senior journalism major like him.
So he dragged himself to the computer and pulled up his files. He’d converted a narrow desk beside his bedroom into a makeshift recording nook: he had put sound-absorbing foam on the walls and side panels, and drawn a heavy curtain behind. Nowhere near a professional booth, but good enough for basic podcasts. Billy sat down, finished the half-written script, drank a glass of water, and started recording.
Two hours later, he eyed the saved, rough-cut audio and opened his email:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: B. Batson Internship Trial – Supplemental Materials
Hello,
Please find attached my two articles and audio recording for your review.
Best regards,
Billy Batson
Attachments:
2018-11-20_MetU_FacultyStrike_Analysis_BBatson.docx
2019-10-08_JL_vs_Bedlam_MetahumanTrafficking_Backgrounder_BBatson.docx
2019-10-08_JL_Bedlam_Background_PodcastSample_BBatson.wav
He took a quick shower, dried his hair with a towel, walked back to the iron bed beside the recording desk, and collapsed on his back. He nudged the window open a little; the night was clear and crisp, a faint breeze drifting in. The white moon hung like a hook.
He sank into a sound sleep.
Saturday dawned peacefully; the world behaved itself, and Billy's phone was put, unsurprisingly, in Do Not Disturb mode. When he finally woke up, it was already nearly noon, and he could feel his stomach hurt with hunger. Sleep-puffed eyes half-closed, he got up, grabbed a slice of toast, a piece of ham, and an egg from the fridge, fried them, and made a quick sandwich. He ate breakfast and only then turned on his phone.
There were several unread notifications.
He blinked.
The Daily Planet had replied. He hadn’t expected to hear back so soon.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
cc: [email protected], [email protected]
Subject: Offer Letter – Daily Planet Investigations Intern (News Assistant)
Dear Mr. Batson,
Congratulations! After evaluation, we are pleased to offer you the position of News Assistant Intern with the Daily Planet’s Investigations desk. The internship term is six months. Please report to our headquarters (220 East 42nd Street) by 9:00 a.m. next Monday.
Your direct mentor will be Mr. Clark Kent. Mr. Kent will assist with your onboarding and subsequent guidance.
If you have any questions prior to your start date, feel free to contact me or Mr. Kent.
Welcome to the Daily Planet.
Best regards,
Jennifer Lee
Deputy HR Manager, Daily Planet
A warm, solid feeling slowly welled up in him. Sure, Billy wasn’t in the habit of belittling himself—he had WHIZ on his résumé, a 3.6 GPA, and a glowing recommendation from his thesis advisor calling him “a rare, deeply grounded, high-potential rising reporter of this generation.” He’d applied to the Daily Star, the Daily Planet, and the Metropolis Times, and already had an offer from the Star, but he had to admit he had a favorite. The Planet’s precision investigations and cutting editorials were exactly what he wanted. The Star paled by comparison, tabloid paper as it was.
He finished the sandwich in good spirits, opened his laptop, and started searching Clark Kent—his future mentor.
By one in the morning he lifted his head from an endless sea of articles, columns, 41% into Under the Yellow Sun, and was never more certain that he had found his literary first love.
Clark Kent wrote like a sheathed blade—sleek, restrained, cold. He hovered like a ghost outside the language itself, describing something close to absolute truth. Reading him, Billy felt a distance, and yet from that thin chill he could sense a surging emotion.
Wikipedia said he was currently a senior investigative reporter at the Daily Planet, also serving as deputy editor of the Investigations desk; he’d won two Pulitzers—one for a war-reporting collection on a Central African warlord co-bylined with Lois Lane, and another for a sweeping deep-dive into disappearances among marginalized communities across America, which also won a nonfiction literature prize. Under the Yellow Sun was his third book—half reportage, half fiction—compiling six stories from decades of a reporter’s life. The New York Times called it “the most soul-shaking work of semi-documentary literature of 2017.”
Strangely, there were no photos of him online; even the Planet’s staff page showed only a default avatar.
The next morning, Billy biked twenty minutes to the Metropolis Public Library to borrow what Kent had written, plus his one essay collection. That night he reached the end of Under the Yellow Sun, exhaling slowly as the reporter smuggled the manuscript out of a war zone.
Truth is the most beautiful thing—it cannot be twisted, cannot be embellished. Authority may suppress it temporarily, but it is the child of time, and time will grant it justice. It is perhaps the only eternal thing in the world. I live for it, and I may also die for it. Walking on the road, my hands were slightly sweaty, clutching the worn, bullet-riddled notebook in my pocket. A roaring train passed nearby. On the horizon ahead, a yellow sun was rising.
He turned the page.
Dedicated to my colleagues Edward, Joanna, and Jane. May their souls rest in peace.
When he headed up to the Watchtower for a shift that evening, Captain Marvel brought another book—this one in a completely different vein, a detective novel called The Triple Trial.
It was sometimes necessary for him to while away the time during shift. The Justice League had been around for over a decade; Earth’s contact with the universe had deepened; the League was larger; the risk early-warning systems were solid. Compared to the old days, shifts seldom involved sudden crises. He only had to pull one or two a month now, with only occasional call-outs or dispatching others to local emergencies. For him, most shifts felt less like monitoring and more like a private session of introspection. Tonight was no different. He linked the monitors to the Rock of Eternity’s system, sat down, opened the book, and was quickly absorbed.
That was when Superman flew in.
“A word, if you please, Captain,” the president of the league said politely. His eyes flicked, almost imperceptibly, over the book in Billy’s hand; his brow quirked.
“Of course, Superman.”
Billy stood up, placing the book face down on the console. The two heroes moved one after the other, silent as breath, toward the observation deck off the monitor room. The vast galaxy unfurled before them. Superman hovered, arms folded; his deep-blue suit reflected in the glass like a small pool beside a milky river.
He turned, his expression serious as he looked at Billy.
“Captain,” he began, “the League has confirmed the joint establishment of the Meta-Human Youth Community Center with STAR Labs next month, located in Taos, New Mexico. I've proposed Black Canary and you serve as Center Advisors, responsible for providing counseling and power control guidance to meta-human youths. What are your thoughts?”
He paused; his gaze gentled.
“I remember you told me, years ago, when you acted as the supervisor of the Young Justice, that you enjoyed working with kids.”
That was true. Eight or nine years back, Billy had served as an instructor of sort for the newly formed Young Justice. He’d still been a kid himself, giddy with excitement at the chance to work with peers (some even slightly older). It had led to some laughable misunderstandings too—like the young heroes not really wanting supervision from who they saw as an adult hero, something he only realized later.
“That’s wonderful. I’m really happy for those kids,” Billy said. “I did say that—and you remembered.”
“I don’t forget much.” Superman said with a smile.
“I’d be glad to take the post,” Billy smiled back. “What should I do? If Dinah’s in charge of counseling, do I handle power control training?”
“I’ll leave that to the two of you,” Superman said. “I have full confidence in you and Black Canary's abilities.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Good.” Superman nodded. “Once the opening date is set, I’ll let you know so you can attend. I won’t keep you from your shift further then, Captain.”
He turned slightly in the air, but halfway through the motion, he stopped, tilted his head, and glanced back, his expression suddenly a little odd.
“Uh, the book you were reading—” He hesitated. “How did you find that one?”
Billy blinked.
“You know this book?” He brightened, swooping lightly back to the console to grab it; when he turned, Superman was already behind him. “I just borrowed it from the library yesterday. It’s a terrific novel—a perfect blend of thriller and mystery, a bestseller. Have you read it too?”
“Well, it was a bestseller,” Superman said, the corner of his mouth quirking—and for some reason the smile looked…strange. “It’s on ninety-percent markdown now.”
“The fate of serious literature,” Billy said, his speech speeding up a little. “Fewer and fewer people can appreciate good writing. I have to say—” He gave the book a gentle shake. The italic gold-stamped title flashed under the overhead light. “—it’s one of the best I’ve read in years. I really like the author. Clark Kent. He’s a well-known reporter. Do you know him?” He's also going to be my internship mentor. Billy added silently in his heart. But that felt a bit beyond the scope of a casual chat between Captain Marvel and Superman. “Yesterday I finished another of his books, Under the Yellow Sun—that one’s great too, really great. Everyone should read it.”
“Mm-hmm.” Superman tilted his head, gaze drifting for a beat into the starfield, seemingly distracted. “Uh, I know of him. He writes about me a lot.”
Oh. Right. Billy finally remembered why the name sounded familiar. He’d certainly written League briefs as well.
“I kind of like him,” Billy said. “Do you read in your free time? If so, you should give these books a chance, Superman. He’s gifted. He has a way with language.”
He leaned back in the chair, head cocked, thinking. That article about the League's founding from his non-fiction writing class—wasn't the byline Kent's too? Well, there were probably a few exemplar articles he’d forgotten.
He turned and found Superman studying him, intent. Oddly, his face was a little red. A rare sight. Superman didn’t blush, if he ever did at all.
“You know, it just occurred to me—I should go give Black Canary the heads-up,” he said, and for a second Billy could almost swear he sounded flustered. “See you, Captain. Enjoy your read.”
Billy watched him dip and fly out of the monitor room, the heavy red cape folding and shifting behind him. He was flying faster than usual.
Billy shook his head.
Weird.
He settled back into the chair, let out a small, comfortable groan, and opened The Triple Trial, immersing himself again in the pages.
TBC