The Daily Planet building was exactly what he'd always imagined and also somehow smaller.
He stood across the street from it for a moment, just looking.
The giant globe on top.
The architectural weight of a building that had been, in another world's stories, the backdrop for some of the most important journalism of a generation.
He was here because three weeks ago, through the Wayne Foundation's PR contact, he'd received a request.
The Planet's business desk wanted to profile young investors and entrepreneurs making significant moves in the northeast corridor. His name had come up. He'd said yes because turning down press coverage from a legitimate major paper when you were building a civilian identity was the wrong move, and because he was curious.
He crossed the street and went inside.
The newsroom was everything the movies had suggested and also completely its own thing.
Loud in a specific way, the kind of organized chaos that meant everyone in the room knew exactly what they were doing.
Phones.
Keyboards.
Someone arguing about a headline near the back wall. A television mounted high in the corner showing news footage with the sound off.
The receptionist directed him to the business desk.
The reporter assigned to his interview introduced himself as Henderson, mid-forties, the kind of journalist who'd covered enough stories that he'd stopped being impressed by most things and had started being interested in them instead, which was better.
He had a recorder on the table and a notepad he still actually used.
The interview lasted forty minutes. Henderson asked good questions. Not the softballs James had expected from a business profile.
He pressed on the Helix Genomics play, which was publicly documented, and on how someone with no formal finance background had developed the analytical approach that led to it.
James gave him the version he'd prepared. True in its bones, selective in its specifics. He talked about pattern recognition. About studying industry trends obsessively. About being willing to put everything on a single conviction when the data supported it.
Henderson wrote something down. "You don't sound like most of the young investors I talk to."
"Most of them are playing someone else's game. I figured out early that the only advantage I actually had was thinking about problems differently. So that's what I built on."
Henderson looked at him for a moment. "That's going in the piece."
James smiled. "Good."
Toward the end of the interview, Henderson's attention shifted briefly to something over James's shoulder. A small change, professional enough that most people wouldn't notice. James noticed.
He didn't turn around. Waited.
"Clark," Henderson said, "this is James Carter. Rising investor, Gotham-based. James, Clark Kent, one of our reporters. He covers, among other things, the superhero beat."
James stood and turned.
Clark Kent was taller than James had expected, which was irrational because he knew exactly how tall Clark Kent was, in both his identities.
But knowing something and experiencing it were different things. The man filling the doorway of Henderson's office had the particular quality of someone who was actively trying not to take up too much space in any given room and not entirely succeeding.
The glasses. The slightly rumpled suit. The posture that was doing a specific and practiced job.
James extended his hand. "Clark Kent. I've read your work."
Clark shook it. His grip was perfectly calibrated, which James found quietly remarkable. "Mr. Carter. Henderson mentioned he had a Gotham interview today. You're working with Drake Shipping?"
"Investment side. Just closed a deal with Harmon & Associates this morning, actually."
"Congratulations." Clark's expression was warm and genuinely interested in the way that was either a reporter's trained skill or something more natural.
With Clark Kent, James suspected it was both.
"What brings you to the Planet for a profile? Most investors I talk to prefer financial trade publications."
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