Marcus paced the length of the apartment, his hands clasped behind his back. The energy coursing through him made him restless, preventing him from staying still. The impersonal luxury surrounding him suddenly felt suffocating. This was Jean Moreau's gilded cage, not the headquarters of what he was meant to become.
I need to change my identity, he thought, the logic imposing itself on him. But Batman, with a computer, could easily uncover it. Even a new identity wouldn't hold up long against him.
He stopped short, facing the large window, contemplating the heroic city. An idea, as bold as it was simple, sprouted in his mind.
But if I ask him directly, it will be simpler.
The principle was sound: frankness and honesty, values he understood intimately. Presenting himself as a potential ally, a problem to be solved, or a resource to be managed. Yet, a significant obstacle stood in his way.
But how do I become friends with him? He's too paranoid. He'll see a threat, a trap. It's his nature.
Approaching the Dark Knight first was a strategic error. He needed an intermediary. A bridge to the Justice League.
Ask someone from the League who would be more accessible.
His mind analyzed the options with newfound clarity. Wonder Woman? Too much of a warrior, too wary of men. The Flash? Too mischievous, perhaps not taken seriously at first. Green Lantern? Too much procedure.
One option stood out.
Superman. Maybe he could put me in touch with him.
Kal-El. Hope. If anyone could see the intention behind the power, it was him. To reveal himself to Superman, to disclose his nature—or at least part of it—and ask for guidance, or even a form of asylum. It was a risk, but a calculated one. Better to face the judgment of the strongest than to live as a hidden target.
The plan was vague, but it had a direction. To do this, he had to go out. He had to act.
Marcus took a deep breath, gathering his courage, and headed to the walk-in closet. He changed, pulling on a simple pair of jeans and a t-shirt that, despite their plainness, hugged his newly sculpted body like a second skin. Passing the full-length mirror, he stopped, unable to look away.
The physical perfection was disconcerting. Every muscle was defined, not like a bodybuilder's, but like that of an idealized Greek statue, blending pure aesthetics with a palpable, raw power. It was the vessel for his strength, the casing for his power. A wave of admiration, deep and almost foreign, rose within him.
Damn it, stop. I'm not a narcissist, he scolded himself internally, shaking his head as if to dispel the thought. It wasn't vanity, he insisted. It was assessment. The recognition of a tool. A tool he needed to learn to master before he could claim to be anything.
His goal was clear: find Superman. Introduce himself. And begin, at last, his true service. The life of Jean Moreau, with its menial jobs and compromises, was over. A new occupation was calling, far more demanding: that of a hero.