As a general rule Mathafew wasn’t altogether fond of large cities. He remembered when there wasn’t any more than a small house or two that dotted the land where high rises stood. The press of people overwhelmed him physically and mentally, their thoughts all clamoring for attention in his mind.
But cities were prime hunting areas for the sort of monsters that had a taste for humans, especially one in particular. It wasn’t Superman that drew the hunter in, it was the vampire. Finding that his ‘uncle’ as Mathafew sarcastically referred to the vampire, was associating with the most well-known hero in the world was more than a minor curiosity to him.
He wasn’t at all subtle, following Kent about the city after that. Mathafew tended to stand out, dressed for the outdoors, concealed weapons on him, the dark wrap around sport glasses that concealed his red eyes. He trailed the reporter, listened to the surface thoughts of his mind - surprised to find that it wasn’t as easy to get into as most other people, and waiting to be confronted.
Some work days found Clark tied to his desk at The Daily Planet, others found him out in the city running errands. While his day began like the former, with a couple of his coworkers calling out due to a stomach bug, it quickly morphed into the latter.
Stepping out from beyond the main doors of The Planet, a quick scan of his surroundings lead him to spot a rather conspicuous person watching him behind wrap-around sports glasses. The person was quite a distance away, so Clark’s own instinctual reaction was to not linger his focus, adjust his glasses, and continue his day, business as usual.
. . . After finishing his on-the-field assignments, the man (of steel) decided to take a quick break by visiting one of Metropolis’s many mobile coffee trucks. The last time he scanned his surroundings, the same man from earlier had closed the distance, now separated from Clark with only one innocent customer between them.
He knew he had to make contact, but until he really figured out who he was dealing with, Clark Kent’s clumsiness would have to suffice as an introduction.
Ice coffee and churro in hand, Clark turned around. . . and his left foot caught on a pice of loose sidewalk, sending his uncapped drink out of his grip and onto his unfortunate follower.
A gasp left his throat as his eyes opened like saucers in horror.
“Oh, oh my goodness! I’m so sorry! Here—” he paused, handing over several napkins from the nearby dispenser. “— I dunno what happened. Are you okay?”