Clark Kent was always different. For as long as he could remember, he could do things that no one else could do, see the world in ways that no one else could see. While his mother and father always did their best to make sure he was accepted and loved, he never exactly had what could be called a ‘normal’ childhood in Smallville. Whether it was the time he flipped a tractor over as a toddler to find a lost toy, the time in fourth grade when he thought his classmates had all turned into skeletons because he could see through their skin, or the time on his fifteenth birthday when his feet lost touch with the ground and he fell up into the empty sky, Clark was always reminded that even though he was surrounded by people who cared for him, he wasn’t one of them.

Things came to a head when he was eighteen, and one of the largest tornados in Kansas’s recorded history blew through the state, threatening to obliterate Smallville and everyone in it. In what some journalists called a ‘meteorological miracle,’ the tornado stopped dead in its tracks, and then dispersed like it had been blown apart from the inside. While the story everyone gets told is that the weather just changed inexplicably, the town has kept the truth a secret for years: that night, Clark Kent fought the forces of nature itself, and by the accounts of everyone who saw it, he won.

After a long conversation with his parents, Clark left Smallville soon after, partly to protect the people there from out-of-towners asking too many questions, and partly to look for more answers about who and what he really was. For seven years, he’s traveled the world, helping people where he’s needed, and looking for anything to lead him to the truth. Along the way, his drive for truth and passion for justice has developed into a knack for journalism, eventually growing into a budding career as a freelance reporter. Unfortunately, he also developed a tail, as for the last three years, his activities as a “paranormal rescuer” (he’s still working on the name for it) have caught the attention of a rival reporter named Lois Lane. Just recently, Clark has returned to the US, to the bustling mega-city of Metropolis, for an interview at the Daily Planet. The only problem being that once again, Lois Lane is hot on his trail, and there’s only one spot open on the Planet’s staff.

I plan on playing Clark himself (as well as most of the principle cast) fairly close to what you’d expect, but with the expectation that all the pieces aren’t quite in place yet. This will eventually become the Superman we’re all familiar with, but not on day one. He doesn’t know about Krypton yet, he and Lois are rivals, he’s going to screw up and make bad calls and learn and grow into the \S/ before he’s really ready for it. Along the way, I’m hoping to lean into the manic energy of Metropolis, the fun will-they-won’t-they between Clark and his various paramours, and have some high-octane action with some fun disaster scenarios and some (hopefully) fresh takes on his rogues gallery.

A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed interactions and stories.

MB, you know who I am, dammit.

Your suffering is dementia. Your aberrations are a fashion statement no one is listening to. Other people in the world are suffering more than you. Your identity is a conspiracy theory. Your truth is just a psy-op. Your pain isn’t real. You don’t exist. Jean’s suffering was like that of so many mutants: quashed and belittled to the point that most believe it to be the stuff of fiction and fantasy. Gaslit out of her own childhood, how could Jean Gray know otherwise? Drugged out on sedatives constantly so that her mind didn’t split Beacon, New York apart. Kept away from others as much as possible so that she didn’t cast her elementary school into flames. But while puberty is where many come to fight their bodies, that was where Jean’s finally caught up to her mind, not that she was allowed to know. As far as she was aware, she’d been ‘cured’ of her childhood insanity through prayer, her well meaning parents insisting that her ‘powers’ were mere hallucinations. They loved her, so how could they be wrong?

Her middle and high school years allowed her a semblance of happiness, but her powers were always a part of her. Her bursts of emotion led to odd flares she would never be able to easily explain away. But what she needed was not prayer, time, or even assistance and guidance. She’d needed a drive to master it, and someone to join her on her journey to accepting herself. She acquired a crush on Scott Summers even before an accidental probe into his mind allowed her to uncover his mutant powers, one bad fall away from vaporizing a city block. They lived on their own precipices, one bad day away from losing everything they loved. Just knowing about him and his struggle would help her: to know someone close was fighting their own fight. And to know her own feelings she had to come to terms with everything that was her just to make that short step of asking him out. Jean would one day extend a hand to help him. Years later they would be living out of a cheap apartment in Baltimore, struggling to raise their son in a chaotic world that was about to become so much more chaotic.

Inspired from the recent X-Men ‘97, I intend to write a story that strips Jean of her relationship with Charles, the X-Men, and (though I’m drawing from the name, unless plans change) the Phoenix, telling the story we start to see in ‘97 from the reverse. Not a Jean trying to settle down from being a hero to start a family, but a Jean with a family choosing to follow a path that allows her to use her powers for good in a new age, to give a much needed social justice to a peoples reduced to hearsay. All the while she deals with her own family circumstances as her intentions place more burden on her husband, and her battles put more strain on herself and risk the uncovering of her childhood traumas left buried for so long.

“I’m glad your dog is dead!”

“Shawn! Take that back!” Juniper broke down as recent wounds were made fresh again. The class erupted into a mixture of laughs and shouts. Jean stood, her red hair flowing behind her as she took Juniper by the hand and moved through the desks of 4th graders. They went silent as their teacher towered over them all, but as she reached Shawn’s desk, she crouched down, taking his dark hand in her free one. His expression fell to one mixed of annoyance and embarrassment. He tried to maneuver his hand away but Jean kept a gentle hold of it.

“Shawn, I know you’re going through a lot right now. I think all of you are, all of us always are. The world’s hard right now. It’s nothing like when I was a kid. But I think it’s because the world is scary we should try to be kind.” She gauged his reaction, his desire to not be here right now. To have kids so full of creativity and energy be bottled up in a classroom was torture of the worst kind, and global pandemic would leave scars none would ever be able to guess at the depth of. It had taken weeks for her to be able to convince them not to be engaged with the constant stimulus of their phones, their safe retreat where so many of their parents didn’t have the time to spend with them from long hours worked. “Do you want to try and apologize?”

Shawn remained pensive, guilt plain. Then he cracked a smile, but not from anything Jean had done or said. A fart resounded through the class, all tension unwinding as the kids burst into laughter. Jean lurched, trying to hold onto her balanced as she failed to contain herself. Many things changed, but some things never would. Jean was trying her hardest to leave an impression on these kids, but it seemed sometimes a deep speech full of optimism was less than a fart, and maybe for now that was alright. When the class calmed down, Shawn did apologize for making fun of Juniper’s recently deceased dog, a sad story she wanted to share with the class. Giving the class an opportunity to come clean on their feelings and let themselves be vulnerable in a safe space wasn’t an idea she thought was bad, but perhaps ‘private one on one teacher talk’ would have been a better move. Baby steps.

A short while later she sat at her desk, eyes mindlessly wandering across the water damage spots on the ceiling of the far too old ‘temporary’ classroom while she slurped at her beef flavored Cup Noodles, decadently garnished with about 3 cents worth of grated ginger, who’s flavor and health benefits was no doubt buried in preservatives and MSG. She dripped some broth onto her yellow blouse, and didn’t even care. Lunch break felt like her one solace in life, where she was able to turn her mind off. _{Turn off the safety.} And not have to worry about her finances, her underfunded classroom, her husband and child back home. _{Load a bullet in the chamber.} But dammit it was so worth it, she told herself every night as she tried to sleep in between Nathan’s wails. It was for the ki-

And then they’ll see me. Then they’ll hear me.

Jean’s mind, never quite shut, was drowned constantly in noise. The darkest thoughts, the most pleasant dreams, the inanely mundane babble. Like static from a TV or the rumble of an air conditioner, she tended to shut it out. Even the loudest most passionate thoughts would only be brief interruptions, like that of a car exhaust or firework. Easily mistaken for a gunshot, momentarily annoying, and quickly ignored.

But sometimes it was a gunshot.

Jean leapt from her seat, pittance of a lunch splattering on the floor. Her mind probed outwards as she spilled into the hall, hurling by a passing teacher and student. “Bathroom!” she yelled as she passed right by the nearest one. She ran across the fields, well away from the kids still in the cafeteria area, a few stragglers enjoying the playground before it became a carnival. Passing by a few bushes filled with webs and spiders, she found the back area where the fence divided school with the minuscule backyard of low end housing. A form dropped from the top of the fence, scrambling up and pointing a handgun right at Jean. He wore a heavy coat and beanie despite the higher than temperate weather, and she immediately noticed why. Green skin, no nose, big yellow eyes, fingers almost too large to even fit into the trigger guard. Her breath went cold. No amount of mental preparation could ready you for your first time staring down the barrel of a gun. But her mind contained a vast imagination. She imagined the 12 bullets in that pistol, yet to reach the chamber, flying through the air at her students. Her own breath went hot, and her eyes went yellow, for they were of the same breed.

She plumbed into his mind, and she saw. She saw him skulking through the midday on his way to this school. She saw him stealing the gun from a gang banger in the middle of the night, running from retaliating fire. She saw him leering at the bright world outside he wasn’t allowed into, a hate festering that Jean could only claim she couldn’t understand if she felt like lying to herself. She saw him, small, no older than anyone in her own class, retreating as stones were cast his way. She saw him tucked away in his parents basement until he was so hungry he had to escape, only to find his parents had left him. She saw him born a once normal boy. For a time, he could be happy in a world where no one knew what he truly was.


It was not a word spoken, a suggestion offered. It was a command implanted, because Jean didn’t know what else to do. She knew it wasn’t a solution, but she couldn’t think of anything else. She couldn’t alleviate his pain, she couldn’t take him in when she was struggling so much as it was. There was no place in this world for he who didn’t ask to be born a monster. He left the gun and crawled back over the fence like nothing was wrong. She waited for him to go before lifting the gun with her mind, drawing out the bullets and dumping them down a drain pipe, before drawing on her pyrokenesis and telekenesis as one, melting and crushing down the gun into a ball and letting it cool before hiding it in a bush.

The rest of the school day seemed to drift by. Her body felt numb as she went through her classes, her post-school meetings, her bus ride home. She packed it all down and away. Leftovers to dig into later. Going up the 8 floors to her apartment, she steeled herself and put on a smile as she reached the door. It opened before she even reached it. Head full of auburn hair, eyes blocked by the red lenses of his sunglasses, a light coat over a security guard uniform, he began, “Hey! I gotta go but Nate’s asleep right now and I made enchiladas! They’re in the fridge and I’ve already got the oven prehea- Jean?”

Scott was suddenly buffeted as Jean rushed into his chest, shaking with sobs. He wiped the surprise off his face as he sank to his knees with Jean, who couldn’t support her own weight any more. He put his arms around her without hesitation. I’m right here for you. I’m right here. And I’ll always be here. He repeated in his head. He wouldn’t find out the details in this moment, but through her sobs he would be able to make out the phrase that would define the coming years of their life.

“Something has to change.”