Chapter 2: A New Player
Jonathan Kent ducked into one of the rarely used supply closets on the bustling basement level of the Daily Planet building. He spun at super-speed, trading his iconic Superman costume for a beige and navy blue short sleeved dress shirt and navy tie in the blink of an eye.
Straightening his glasses, he stepped back out into the dingy hallway, now the unassuming reporter Jonathan Kent once more. He made his way towards the stairs, offering a friendly nod to the custodian who gave him an odd look. Jonathan was used to getting strange glances every now and then—it came with the territory of leading a double life.
As he climbed up to the bullpen level, the familiar clacking of keyboards and murmur of reporters' voices washing over him, Jonathan felt himself relax slightly. This Daily Planet—this raucous hive of investigative journalism—had been his safe haven ever since becoming Metropolis' one and only Superman years ago.
He wove his way through the maze of desks towards his own cramped workspace, nodding greetings to colleagues as he passed. Sitting down, Jonathan began booting up his computer, the image of the young woman he'd saved during his lunch break still vivid in his mind. There had been something...off about her. The way she'd been clutching her head, crying out as if in agony. He made a mental note to check on her identity and welfare later, just in case.
"Jeez, Kent, you look like something the cat dragged in," came a jovial voice from beside him.
Jonathan glanced up to see Lewis Olsen, the Planet's youngest staff photographer, grinning at him with a teasing glint in his eye. Jonathan allowed a wry smile to tug at the corner of his mouth.
"You know how it is, Lewis. Never a dull moment in this city."
Lewis chuckled and shook his head. "That's for sure. Well hopefully you can squeeze in a little R before the inevitable evening crisis kicks off."
Jonathan's smile slipped slightly as the memory of the mysterious woman's anguished face flashed through his mind again. He had a nagging feeling that her seemingly innocuous brush with danger might be more than met the eye.
"Yeah...hopefully," he muttered, perhaps more to himself than Lewis.
Turning to his computer, he pushed thoughts of the near-accident aside for now. He still had a story to chase down about the recent upswing in LexCorp's unethical business practices. Jonathan had just begun typing when a familiar voice spoke up beside him.
"Hey, Jonathan...got a minute?"
He glanced up to see Leia Willis, one of the paper's most dogged investigative reporters. A small lopsided smile tugged at his lips—ever since Leia joined the paper last year, she had quickly become one of his favorite colleagues and drinking buddies.
"For you? Always," he replied easily. "What's on your mind?"
Leia moved a stray strand of her short, blonde hair out of her face. She seemed uncharacteristically flustered as she pulled up a chair beside his desk.
"I, uh...I wanted to let you know how the Wayne interview went," she said, not quite meeting his eye. "Since you had to duck out for some family stuff, right?"
Jonathan gave her a sympathetic wince. "Ah right, the Damian Wayne piece. I can't thank you enough for taking that off my hands, Leia. I really wanted to follow up after those quotes about the allegations but—family, you know what I mean?"
Her cheeks flushed ever-so-slightly pink. "Don't mention it. I was happy to cover for you."
"So? How'd it go?" Jonathan pressed.
Leia rolled her eyes, seeming to regain her usual unflappable confidence. "Well you weren't kidding about his personality. Damian tried every alpha male power move in the book—backhanded compliments, weird invasive questions, undressing me with his eyes."
She shuddered dramatically, though the spark of amusement in her eyes was unmistakable.
Jon felt a flicker of inexplicable annoyance at the mention of Damian openly flirting with Leia, but he had to remind himself that his old friend had an act to sell.
"That's Damian for you—acts like he was sent from the Stone Age sometimes," he said with a slight shake of his head. "But I'm glad you didn't let him rattle you too much."
"Me? Never," Leia scoffed lightly, though her cheeks went pink again.
There was an almost shy quality to her smile that Jonathan couldn't quite put his finger on. He watched curiously as she moved another loose strand of hair out of her face, eyes darting away from his.
"Well, I'll let you get back to whatever secret project you've got cooking," she said abruptly, pushing out of the chair.
Jonathan opened his mouth to protest that it wasn't a secret, but she had already started walking away, throwing a hasty "Later, Kent!" over her shoulder.
He stared after her retreating form, perplexed. Shaking his head, he turned back to his computer with a bemused smirk. Leia Willis, he mused to himself, was definitely an odd one sometimes.
Jonathan was so absorbed in his notes thoughts that he barely noticed the quiet knock at his desk.
He glanced up with a start to see his mother, Lois Lane, standing there with her hands on her hips.
"You're burning the midnight oil already, Jonno?" the current Editor-in-Chief of the Daily Planet remarked with a wry smile. "It's not even 3 o'clock yet."
Jonathan gave a sheepish grin, running a hand through his tousled dark hair. "You know me, Mom. Always working on the next big scoop."
Lois's smile turned slightly more serious. "Well, speaking of...I may have a doozy of a story for you to chase down."
She jerked her head towards her corner office. "Walk with me."
Intrigued, Jonathan rose and fell into step beside his mother, the two maneuvering through the organized chaos of the bullpen. Once inside the sanctuary of her office, Lois closed the door and turned to face her son, all business.
"Word from reliable sources is there's some sort of metahuman vigilante operating out of Hob's Bay," she began without preamble.
Jonathan's eyebrows rose sharply. "A new player? Any other details?"
"Not many," Lois admitted with a frustrated purse of her lips. "But they're calling this guy the 'Demon of Suicide Slum.' Says he's been cleaning up the streets, taking out gang activity left and right."
She fixed Jonathan with a level look, one he recognized well—his mother was onto a major story, and she wanted him on it.
"I need you to head down there, start digging around," she told him frankly. "This could be the next big thing for the paper. But it also..." She paused delicately. "Well, it might require a look from a...higher perspective."
Jonathan gave a subtle nod of understanding. A tight line creased his brow as he considered the implications.
"A new metahuman, taking justice into their own hands?" he murmured, mostly thinking aloud. "That's the last thing Hob's Bay needs right now."
"Exactly," Lois said grimly. "That's why I need you on this yesterday, Jon. Get a scope on the situation before it gets any more out of hand."
Her expression softened slightly as she reached out to grasp her son's arm.
"I know I can count on you for this. You're the best reporter in this city, since I'm out of that side of the game."
Jonathan couldn't help but smile at the last part of his mother's sentence. Even in her older years, that trademark Lois Lane confidence hadn't dissipated one bit.
"You've got it, Mom. I'm on the Suicide Slum demon."
Lois smiled, patting his cheek in a rare show of maternal affection. "That's my by-line baby."
She pulled back, and a teasing glint appeared in her eye.
"Oh, and one more thing—have you picked up your contribution for Kariah's birthday party this weekend?"
Jonathan's face morphed into an expression of momentary panic before he caught himself and forced an innocent look.
"Uh...yeah, no, totally. All taken care of."
Lois simply arched an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Uh-huh. You better not be late with your cousin's gift, Jonathan Samuel Kent."
"Yes ma'am," Jonathan replied dutifully, grateful when his mother didn't press further.
She shook her head in fond exasperation, waving him off. "Now get going, you've got work to do. I want the first draft of this Suicide Slum story on my desk by tomorrow morning!"
Nodding, Jonathan headed for the door, his mind already whirling a mile a minute as he formulated a plan of attack.
As the sun dipped below Metropolis's gleaming skyline, Aoibheann trudged up the stairs to her modest apartment. The events of the day—from her mysterious blackout to the near-death experience with Superman—had left her feeling drained and on edge. She fumbled with her keys, finally managing to unlock the door and stumble inside. With a heavy sigh, she kicked off her work boots and collapsed onto the worn couch in her small living room.
"Just need to relax," she muttered to herself, grabbing the remote and flicking on the TV. Some mindless sitcom blared to life, canned laughter filling the room.
For a moment, Aoibheann felt herself start to unwind. But then, like an insidious whisper, the voice in her head began to creep back in. At first, it was barely noticeable—just a faint murmur beneath the TV's dialogue. But steadily, it grew louder, drowning out the actors' voices. Aoibheann gritted her teeth, turning up the volume on the TV. The sitcom's laughter grew to an almost painful level, but still the voice persisted, now a cacophony of unintelligible shrieks and wails.
Desperate, she leapt to her feet and rushed to the kitchen. She cranked the faucet on full blast, the rush of water joining the noise emanating from the TV. It wasn't enough. Nothing was enough to drown out the maddening chorus in her mind.
She pressed her palms against her ears, squeezing her eyes shut. "Stop it!" she shouted. "Just stop!"
Then, as suddenly as it started, the voice fell silent. The abrupt quiet was almost as jarring as the noise had been.
In that moment of blessed silence, her cell phone rang, making her jump. With shaking hands, she answered it.
"H-hello?"
"Hey there, love!" Her uncle Tommy's cheerful voice came through. "Just checking in - we're still on for Ace O'Clubs tonight, right?"
Aoibheann's eyes widened in shock. Their weekly meetup - she'd completely forgotten!
"Uh, yeah! Of course," she stammered, glancing at the clock. It was already 7:30 PM. "I'll be there soon, just... running a bit late."
"No worries, take your time," Tommy replied easily. "I'll grab us a table. See you soon!"
As the call ended, Aoibheann stood frozen for a moment, her mind reeling. Then she snapped into action, rushing to her bedroom to change.
"Damn it, damn it, damn it," she muttered, pulling on a clean shirt and running a brush through her tangled hair.
As she hurried to get ready, a small part of her felt relieved. An evening with her uncle - that slice of normalcy might be exactly what she needed to ground herself after the day's bizarre events.
With one last glance in the mirror, Aoibheann grabbed her jacket and keys, and headed out the door. The voice in her head remained mercifully quiet, but she couldn't shake the feeling that this reprieve was only temporary.
The familiar, smoky atmosphere of Ace O'Clubs enveloped Aoibheann as she pushed through the weathered wooden doors. The din of conversation, clinking glasses, and the faint strains of an old country song on the jukebox washed over her, a comforting cacophony that momentarily drowned out the lingering echo of the voices in her head.
Her eyes scanned the dimly lit room, quickly spotting her uncle Tommy's familiar shock of graying red hair at a corner booth. He waved enthusiastically as she made her way over.
"There's my girl!" Tommy exclaimed, rising to give her a warm hug. "Was starting to think you'd stood me up."
Aoibheann managed a weak smile as she slid into the booth across from him. "Sorry, Uncle Tommy. It's been... a long day."
Tommy's brow furrowed with concern. "Everything alright, love?"
Before she could respond, their usual waitress, Maggie, sauntered up to the table. "Well, if it ain't my favorite Irish pair! The usual for you two?"
"You know us too well, Mags," Tommy grinned. "Two Gotham Brewery IPAs and a plate of those famous wings, if you please."
As Maggie walked away, Tommy turned his attention back to Aoibheann. "Now, what's got you looking so frazzled?"
Aoibheann sighed, absently tracing patterns in the condensation on the table. "It's nothing, really. Just work stress, I guess."
Tommy raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. "Come on now, I've known you since you were in diapers. I can tell when something's eating at you."
She opened her mouth, ready to brush off his concern again, when suddenly the voice in her head flared to life. It was a cacophony of whispers, all speaking at once, drowning out her thoughts.
Aoibheann winced, pressing a hand to her temple. Tommy leaned forward, his face etched with worry. "Aoibheann? What's wrong?"
"I... I don't know," she managed to choke out. "I've been hearing... things. It's probably nothing, just stress..."
Tommy reached across the table, grasping her free hand. "Hey, hey. Look at me. Whatever this is, we'll figure it out together, okay? Just like we always have."
As quickly as it had come, the voice subsided, leaving Aoibheann feeling drained but oddly comforted by her uncle's presence.
Maggie returned with their beers and wings, breaking the tense moment. "Here you go, folks. Enjoy!"
Tommy shot Aoibheann a look that clearly said 'we're not done talking about this,' but he lifted his glass with a forced cheerfulness. "To family?"
Aoibheann managed a small, grateful smile, clinking her glass against his. "To family."
As they dug into their meal, the familiar banter between them slowly resumed. Aoibheann found herself relaxing, the warmth of the pub and her uncle's unwavering support pushing back the shadows that had been haunting her. For now, at least, she could pretend everything was normal. But as the night wore on, she couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had changed—and that her life was about to get a lot more complicated.
Jonathan Kent pushed open the door to F. Fleishman's Pawnbroker. A bell jangled discordantly, announcing his arrival. The shop was a cluttered maze of shelves and display cases, packed with an eclectic array of items ranging from tarnished silverware to outdated electronics. At the counter stood Funky Flashman, his once-flamboyant appearance now weathered by age, but his eyes still sharp with cunning.
"Well, well," Funky drawled, stroking his graying mustache. "If it isn't the Daily Planet's golden boy. What brings you to my humble establishment, Mr. Kent?"
Jonathan approached the counter, notepad in hand. "I'm here about the Demon of Suicide Slum. Word is you might have some information."
Funky's eyes narrowed. "Information, eh? Well, information is a valuable commodity these days. I don't give it away for free, you understand."
"What did you have in mind?" Jonathan asked cautiously.
Funky's grin widened. "Simple. You want to talk? You buy something. Quid pro quo, as they say."
Jonathan sighed but nodded. "Alright, what have you got?"
Funky's eyes lit up as he reached under the counter, producing a small velvet box. He opened it to reveal a dull blue ring. "How about this beauty? A genuine Blue Lantern Corps ring. Depowered, of course, but still quite the collector's item."
Jonathan's eyebrows rose in surprise. He'd heard stories of the Blue Lanterns from his father, but had never seen one of their rings up close. "How much?"
After some haggling, Jonathan found himself the owner of a depowered Blue Lantern ring and Funky was finally ready to talk.
"So, this Demon," Jonathan began, pen poised over his notepad. "What can you tell me about him?"
Funky leaned in conspiratorially. "He's something else, I'll tell you that. Moves like a shadow, always sticking to the rooftops. But when he strikes?" Funky made a sizzling sound. "It's like Zeus himself is hurling thunderbolts."
"Electric powers?" Jonathan asked, scribbling furiously.
Funky nodded. "Reminds some folks of Black Lightning, but let me tell you, this Demon? He's a whole different animal. More vicious, more... raw."
Jonathan's brow furrowed. "How so?"
"Black Lightning was a hero, through and through," Funky explained, his voice lowering. "This Demon? He leaves a trail of broken bones and burnt flesh. The gangs are terrified of him. Some say he doesn't just take down the criminals—he hunts them."
A chill ran down Jonathan's spine. This was worse than he'd imagined. "Has anyone gotten a good look at him?"
Funky shook his head. "Nah, he's too quick. Just glimpses here and there. A flash of electricity, a dark silhouette against the night sky. But the results of his handiwork? That's plain as day."
As Jonathan finished jotting down notes, Funky leaned back, a sly smile on his face. "That enough for your story, Mr. Kent? Or should I start charging by the word?"
Jonathan pocketed his notepad and the ring box. "That's plenty, Mr. Flashman. Thank you for your time."
As he left the pawn shop, Jonathan's mind was racing. This Demon sounded dangerous, possibly unhinged. It was definitely a job for Superman. But first, he had a story to write.
As Tommy and Aoibheann continued their meal at Ace O'Clubs, the ambient noise of the bar seemed to grow louder in Aoibheann's ears. She blinked hard, trying to focus on her uncle's words, but her vision began to blur slightly.
"You alright there, love?" Tommy asked, concern etching his features.
Aoibheann nodded, though she felt a wave of dizziness wash over her. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just... need to use the restroom. Excuse me for a moment."
She stood up, swaying slightly, and made her way towards the back of the bar.
As Aoibheann disappeared around the corner, the door to Ace O'Clubs swung open, and Jonathan Kent stepped inside. His eyes scanned the room briefly before he headed straight for the bar counter where Bibbo Bibbowski was wiping down glasses.
"Well, if it ain't little Jon Kent!" Bibbo's gruff voice boomed as he spotted Jonathan. "Though I guess you ain't so little anymore."
Jonathan grinned, sliding onto a barstool. "Good to see you too, Bibbo. How's business?"
"Can't complain," Bibbo shrugged. "What brings you down to this neck of the woods? Ain't often we see fancy Planet reporters 'round here."
"Actually," Jonathan leaned in, lowering his voice slightly, "I was hoping to ask you about something. Have you heard anything about this 'Demon of Suicide Slum'?"
Bibbo's expression darkened slightly. He glanced around before responding in a hushed tone. "That troublemaker? Yeah, I've heard things."
"Care to elaborate?" Jonathan asked, pulling out his notepad.
Bibbo snorted. "Not much to elaborate on. Guy's causin' a ruckus, that's for sure. But a hero? Nah."
Jonathan's eyebrows rose. "No? Some people seem to think he's cleaning up the streets."
"Cleanin' up?" Bibbo scoffed. "More like tearin' 'em apart. Sure, he's roughin' up some bad guys, but he's leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. Broken windows, scorched buildings, folks caught in the crossfire. That ain't heroism in my book."
Jonathan nodded, scribbling notes. "So you don't think he's helping?"
Bibbo shook his head firmly. "He ain't no Superman, that's for damn sure. Supes, he always made sure civilians were safe first. This Demon? He don't seem to care who gets hurt as long as he takes down his target."
As Jonathan continued his interview with Bibbo, neither of them noticed Tommy at his booth, growing increasingly worried as the minutes ticked by.
Aoibheann stumbled into the dingy restroom of Ace O'Clubs, her head spinning. She gripped the edges of the sink, turning on the faucet with shaking hands. The cool water felt soothing as she splashed it across her face, trying to clear her muddled thoughts.
Taking a deep breath, she looked up into the cracked mirror above the sink. For a moment, her reflection seemed normal, if a bit pale and disheveled. But then, over her shoulder, a figure appeared.
Aoibheann's breath caught in her throat. The apparition was unmistakably feminine, clothed in tattered black garments that seemed to wisp and fade at the edges like smoke. But it was the face that sent a chill down her spine - a stark black and white skull, with glowing blue eyes that pierced right through her.
The figure's hair was an exact mirror of her own asymmetrical style, half of the head shaved. But where Aoibheann's hair was jet black, this spectral being's locks were a startling snow white.
Heart pounding, Aoibheann whirled around, ready to confront the ghostly intruder. But the restroom was empty. She was alone.
"What the hell?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
Suddenly, the fluorescent lights above began to flicker erratically, casting eerie shadows across the tiled walls. Panic rising in her chest, Aoibheann lunged for the door.
Her hand closed around the knob, twisting desperately. It wouldn't budge. She pulled harder, throwing her weight against the door, but it remained stubbornly shut, as if welded in place.
"Help!" she shouted, pounding on the door with her fists. "Someone help me!"
The lights flickered more violently now, buzzing and crackling. In the brief moments of illumination, Aoibheann could have sworn she saw that skull-faced figure reflected in every surface, watching her with those haunting blue eyes.
With a final, ear-splitting buzz, the lights went out completely. Aoibheann found herself plunged into total darkness, the kind that seemed to press against her eyeballs, suffocating in its intensity.
And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. The lights flickered back to life, revealing an empty, ordinary restroom. The door swung open easily under Aoibheann's touch.
Aoibheann emerged from the restroom, her steps steady and purposeful. The fear and confusion that had gripped her moments ago seemed to have evaporated, replaced by an almost electric sense of clarity and confidence.
She strode back to the booth where Tommy sat, his face etched with worry. As she approached, his expression shifted to one of surprise at her sudden change in demeanor.
"There you are! I was about to send a search party," Tommy joked, though the concern in his voice was evident. "Everything okay?"
Aoibheann smiled, a new light dancing in her eyes. "Actually, Uncle Tommy, I'm feeling great. But I need to head out."
Tommy's eyebrows shot up. "Already? We've barely finished eating."
"I know, I'm sorry," Aoibheann said, reaching for her wallet. "Something's come up. Let me just pay for my half—"
Tommy waved her off. "Don't be daft, love. It's my turn to pay, remember?"
Aoibheann paused, a flicker of confusion crossing her face before she caught herself. "Oh, right. I forgot. Thanks, Uncle Tommy."
She leaned down and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. Tommy studied her face, still puzzled by her abrupt change.
"You sure you're feeling alright?" he pressed. "You seemed pretty out of sorts earlier."
Aoibheann's smile widened, an almost otherworldly confidence radiating from her. "I've never felt better, actually. Everything's... clear now."
Before Tommy could question her further, Aoibheann was already moving towards the exit. "I'll call you tomorrow, okay? Love you!"
And with that, she was gone, leaving Tommy staring after her in bewilderment. He couldn't shake the feeling that something significant had just happened, though he couldn't quite put his finger on what.
As Jonathan finished up his conversation with Bibbo, he noticed Tommy sitting alone in a booth, looking perplexed. Sensing an opportunity for another perspective, he made his way over.
"Excuse me, sir. I'm Jonathan Kent from the Daily Planet. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about—"
Tommy looked up, a spark of recognition in his eyes. "It's almost impossible not to know who you are in this town. Your mother's quite the force of nature." He chuckled and gestured for Jon to sit down. "And isn't your grandfather President Lane? What's a guy with connections like that doing pounding the pavement as a reporter?"
Jonathan slid into the booth, a wry smile on his face. "It doesn't matter who my grandfather is, sir. I'm just trying to do my job and keep Metropolis honest."
Tommy nodded approvingly. "Fair enough. So, what brings you to this neck of the woods?"
"I'm working on a story about the Demon of Suicide Slum," Jonathan explained. "I was hoping to get some local perspectives."
At this, Tommy scoffed. "Demon? Yeah, right. Our 'Demon' is just the new Black Lightning with a worse PR team."
Jonathan's eyebrows rose. "You think it's Black Lightning?"
"Not the original, obviously," Tommy clarified. "But someone new, carrying on the mantle. People just don't want to admit it because this one's got a harsher touch than the Black Lightning they remember."
As Jonathan was about to press further, his super-hearing picked up a distant cry for help. He recognized Funky Flashman's voice, tinged with fear.
"I'm sorry, I just remembered an urgent appointment," Jonathan said hurriedly, standing up. "Thank you for your insight, Mr...?"
"McDougal, Tommy McDougal," Tommy supplied.
Jonathan nodded gratefully. "Mr. Monaghan. Your perspective has been very helpful. If you don't mind, I might reach out for a follow-up interview later."
"That's fine, Bibbo's got my—"
Before he could finish, Jonathan was already out of Ace O'Clubs, leaving Tommy to watch him with amusement and curiosity.
"Number…" trailing off, Tommy gave a slight shrug of the shoulders and turned back to his drink. It had certainly been an interesting evening at Ace O'Clubs.
The door to F. Fleishman's Pawnbroker lay in splinters, the night air rushing into the cluttered shop. Amidst the chaos of scattered trinkets and shattered glass cases stood a white-haired figure that seemed to flicker between solid and spectral—her skull-like face contorted in fury.
Funky Flashman cowered behind his counter, his once-flamboyant demeanor replaced by abject terror. "I swear, I don't have it!" he pleaded, his voice cracking. "I've never even seen a Celtic book!"
The woman's eyes flared and eerie blue. When she spoke, it was with a voice that echoed as if from beyond the grave. "You're lying, Flashman. I can smell your deceit."
She reached for him, her fingers crackling with otherworldly energy. Suddenly, a whoosh of air announced a new arrival.
Superman descended through the broken doorway, his cape billowing behind him. "That's enough," he said firmly. "Whatever you're after, this isn't the way to get it."
The woman paused, turning to fix her glowing eyes on the Man of Steel. Upon seeing her face, Jon couldn't help but to be reminded of the Silver Banshee, a woman he'd seen his father face on numerous occasions.
Superman held up his hands in a placating gesture. "I don't know what's driven you to this, but maybe I can help," he offered, his voice calm and reassuring. "There's always another way, one that doesn't involve hurting people."
For a moment, she seemed to consider his words. Her form solidified slightly, and a flicker of uncertainty passed across her skeletal features.
Superman took a cautious step forward. "That's it. Let's talk about this. Whatever you need—"
But his words were cut short as the moment of hesitation passed. With lightning speed, she opened her mouth and unleashed a devastating sonic scream.
The sound was unlike anything Superman had ever experienced—a bone-rattling howl that seemed to tear at the very fabric of reality. The force of it sent him flying backwards, out of the shop and into a parked car across the street. The vehicle crumpled under the impact, its alarm blaring in the night.
Inside the shop, Funky Flashman covered his ears, his eyes wide with shock. The woman turned back to him, her voice a menacing whisper that cut through the ringing silence left in the wake of her scream.
"Now, where were we?"
Outside, Superman pushed himself up from the wreckage of the car, shaking his head to clear the disorientation from the sonic attack. This woman—this new Silver Banshee, was going to be more challenging than he'd anticipated.