Chapter Text
Honestly, Billy had no idea how the quick decision to take care of Connor had led him to this point.
Sure, he could keep getting gifts and things for the boy through donations or just create them with his magic, but the uneasy feeling in his chest wouldn’t go away.
The young clone had so few possessions that it felt unfair to give him second-hand stuff. So Billy had decided to get a real job. But how exactly do you get a job when you’re barely a pre-teen? Being a hero was easy—all he had to do was shout “Shazam!” and bam! a clearly adult magical superhero appeared, not a obviously kid magically disguised. But getting a job? For that you had to exist in the system, be real, pay taxes.
Billy barely even had a proper home in his true form just an abandoned apartment.
Yet the need to see Connor smile, young Connor, who just a few months ago didn’t even have a real name young Connor, who had no family because one refused to accept him as kin and the other was a supervillain, was too strong but so lonely for a kid.
The teenager (or rather, the child) who lived alone in the Justice Mountain, constantly monitored in case he turned out to be a spy or a real threat to the young heroes and their mentors. The boy who probably didn’t even realice how incredibly small he looked, despite his height, curled up in the corner of the meeting room—isolated—while his teammates got checked over by their mentors and then sent home to their families. While he had to stay behind, alone in that huge mountain.
It just wasn’t fair.
So Billy Batson, superhero of Fawcett City, had decided to look for work.
But not in Fawcett. It was too risky to job hunt where you lived when your entire plan was to turn into an adult and hope someone took pity on you.
His best shot was traveling to Metropolis and handing out his small, completely made-up resume. He even had a backstory ready for this second (or was it third?) identity.
William Watson: a widower who had decided to look for work in Metropolis because Fawcett carried too many painful memories for him and his son.
His son—who didn’t live with him because the boy had chosen to stay in the home where the memories of his mother still lingered. Yes, the trips back and forth were tiring, but William just wanted a break from his grief and from all the changes his small family was going through right now.
The little fabricated story was believable enough that people didn’t ask too many questions… but not quite believable enough for anyone to actually offer him a job.
So here was Billy Batson, disguised as William Watson, sitting on a park bench in Metropolis with his very last cv in hand, feeling more and more like being an adult was just way too hard.
“Rough day?” a deep but friendly voice interrupted his gloomy thoughts.
Billy looked up.
The man was tall, with messy black hair that looked like a bird’s nest, thick glasses perched on a rectangular face, and a sympathetic, warm expression that made him seem instantly trustworthy—like the kind of person even an adult could lean on.
“Is it okay if I sit here with you?” the stranger asked gently.
Billy didn’t say anything he just scooted over a little to make room.
The man sat down with a small, tired sigh, stretching his long legs out in front of him. He glanced sideways at the single sheet of paper in Billy’s hand and offered a knowing half-smile.
“Yeah… job hunting can be brutal,” he said. “I’ve been there more times than I’d like to admit.”
Billy gave a small, defeated shrug. “I only got here a few days ago. Thought it would be easier in a big city like this. So far, no luck. At this rate, I’m starting to think I’d have better chances in Gotham.”
The man let out a low, surprised chuckle. “Gotham? That bad, uh? Most people run the other way when they hear that name.” He adjusted his glasses and studied Billy’s face for a second—carefully, not intrusively. “You don’t strike me as the type who gives up easy, though. What kind of work are you looking for?”
Billy hesitated, he couldn’t exactly say “anything that lets me take care of a teenage boy who’s doesn’t know I looking for a job so I can give things that no one’s give and that doesn’t ask for my social security number.” So he went with the safest version of the truth.
“Anything, really, delivery, warehouse stuff, office work if they don’t mind someone starting from scratch. Just… something steady. For my kid.”
The man nodded slowly, like he understood more than Billy had actually said.
“Family makes it different, doesn’t it?” he murmured almost lost in though . “Everything feels heavier when it’s not just for you.” He paused, then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small business card. “Here. I work at the Daily Planet—not exactly hiring every day, but we always need reliable people for odd jobs, archiving, running errands. Sometimes those turn into something more permanent. Tell them Clark sent you, worst case, they’ll at least give you a fair interview.”
Billy took the card, blinking down at the name: Clark Kent, Reporter.
For the first time that day, the knot in his chest loosened just a fraction.
“…Thanks,” he said quietly, meaning it. “I mean it. Most people just walk past.”
Clark gave him that same gentle, lopsided smile. “Most people don’t know what it’s like to feel like the whole world’s paperwork is stacked against them. Hang in there, you’ll find something.”
As Clark stood to leave, he added almost casually over his shoulder, “And if you ever need someone to talk to—about jobs, kids, or just… life—coffee’s on me next time.”
Billy watched him walk away, tall and slightly awkward in his rumpled suit, disappearing into the Metropolis crowd.
He looked down at the card again.
Maybe being an adult wasn’t completely impossible after all.
The next morning was a crazy start but at least his crazy plan finally had legs to go.
Billy stood outside the towering glass-and-steel building, craning his neck to take in the iconic golden globe spinning slowly at the top.
The Daily Planet
Even from the street, it felt alive—people rushing in and out, taxis honking, the faint buzz of typewriters and phones leaking through the revolving doors. His palms were sweaty around the folded business card. Clark sent you. Simple words, but they felt like a lifeline.
He’d transformed again that morning—Shazam turned backward in a quiet alley—into William Watson: mid-30s, neatly combed hair (a little too neat, maybe), sensible button-down, slacks that were clean but clearly off-the-rack. He’d practiced the backstory in his head a dozen times on the bus ride over. Widower. Son back in Fawcett. Looking for steady work. Nothing flashy.
Inside, the lobby was even more intimidating. Marble floors, high ceilings, a massive reception desk manned by a no-nonsense woman who eyed him like she could smell desperation.
“Hi. I’m… Bi-William Watson. Clark—uh, Mr. Kent—gave me this.” He slid the card across the counter.
She raised an eyebrow, then picked up the phone. “HR? Got a walk-in. Says Clark Kent referred him… Yeah, for general openings.” A pause. “Okay, send him up to floor 8. Perry’s assistant will handle it.”
Floor 8. Billy rode the elevator trying not to fidget. When the doors opened, he stepped into controlled pandemonium: the famous newsroom. Desks crammed together, reporters shouting across the room, screens glowing with half-written stories, the air thick with coffee and printer ink. A young guy with a camera around his neck nearly collided with him while yelling, “Jimmy Olsen, on deadline move!”
Billy sidestepped, heart hammering.
A brisk woman in her forties—glasses on a chain, clipboard in hand—spotted him. “You the Kent referral? Watson?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Follow me. Chief’s in a mood, but he’s always in a mood. Name’s Alice executive assistant. We’re short-staffed on support roles. Mailroom, archiving, copy runner, occasional research grunt work. Nothing glamorous, pays decent, benefits after ninety days. You got any experience?”
Billy swallowed. “Not… office experience, no. But I’m a quick learner. Reliable. I’ve done odd jobs, deliveries, heavy lifting. Whatever’s needed.”
Alice gave him a once-over. “We’ll see. Wait here.”
She disappeared behind a frosted-glass door labeled Perry White – Editor-in-Chief. Billy could hear muffled yelling inside—something about “front-page space” and “not another puff piece on Luthor’s latest charity gala!”
A minute later, the door banged open.
Perry White stormed out, red-faced, sleeves rolled up, cigar (unlit, probably for effect) clamped between his teeth. He looked Billy up and down like he was sizing up a suspect.
“Watson, right? Kent says you need a break. Says you’ve got a kid waiting on you. That true?”
Billy nodded, throat tight. “Yes, sir. My boy… he’s counting on me getting something steady.”
Perry grunted. “Family man. Good. Hate sob stories, but I respect the hustle.” He jerked his thumb toward a side office. “In here. Five minutes. Don’t waste my time.”
Billy followed him into a cluttered office: awards on the walls, stacks of newspapers, a view of Metropolis that made Billy dizzy just looking at it.
Perry dropped into his chair, motioned for Billy to sit. “Talk. Why the Daily Planet? Why Metropolis? And don’t give me the ‘fresh start’ line unless it’s got teeth.”
Billy took a breath. He stuck close to the script, but let a little real feeling bleed through.
“Fawcett… it’s home, but it’s full of ghosts. My wife—she passed a couple years back. My son stayed behind because he can’t bear to leave her things, tge memories. I needed distance. A place big enough to start over, but not so big I’d get lost. Metropolis feels… hopeful. And the Planet’s the best paper around. Honest. I want to be part of that. Even if it’s just carrying the mail or filing clippings. I’ll work hard. I promise.”
Perry studied him for a long beat. Billy felt exposed—like those wise eyes could see right through the magic disguise to the scared kid underneath.
Finally, Perry leaned back. “We got an opening in the basement archives. Dusty, boring, pays $18 an hour to start. Long hours, especially when deadlines hit and everyone needs something yesterday. You show up on time, don’t complain, don’t steal paper clips, and you might move up. Copy desk needs runners sometimes. Think you can handle it?”
Billy’s chest flooded with relief so sharp it almost hurt. “Yes, sir. I can handle it. Thank you.”
Perry waved a hand. “Don’t thank me yet. Thank Kent—he’s the one who vouched abd if you screw up, I’ll know. I always know.” He stood, extended a hand. “Welcome to the Daily Planet, Watson. Don’t make me regret it.”
Billy shook it careful not to squeeze too hard, even in adult form. “I won’t, Chief.”
As he left the office, Alice was waiting with paperwork. “Fill these out. Background check’s light for entry-level—we’re desperate. Start Monday, 7 a.m. sharp.”
Billy nodded numbly, clutching the forms like they were gold.
He stepped out of the building into the bright Metropolis afternoon, the globe overhead catching the sun. For the first time since deciding to care for Connor, the weight on his shoulders felt… lighter. Not gone. But lighter.
He could picture it already: bringing real money enough for buying Connor new clothes that actually fit, maybe even a video game console so the kid didn’t have to stare at the Justice Mountain walls all night. A real paycheck. A real step.
And somewhere in the crowd, a tall reporter with messy hair and thick glasses was probably watching from a window, smiling that quiet, knowing smile.
Billy whispered to himself, “Okay, William Watson. Let’s do this.”