Lex Luthor's POV

I don't follow the pop media very much, but I do like to be aware of trends, events, and people who might be turned to my advantage, or amuse me. I employ a number of people to keep their eyes open for such things, and report to me. So why is it that I had to stumble on the... I suppose I'd best call it a phenomenon, by myself?

I can see that I have a great deal of firing to do.

I might not have known about it at all if it weren't for several small things. For one, while I was dining out, the waiter asked if I would like anything from the bar. Instead of waiting for my decision like a good peon, he recommended that I try one of the fashionable new cocktails. What is or is not fashionable with the masses seldom concerns me, but I was bored. I'm often bored these days. He suggested something called a 'Bahama Mama'.

As you might imagine, I was dubious. But as I said before, I was bored, so I succumbed to his blandishments and tried it. It was a pleasant surprise: tasty and highly alcoholic. I thought the tiny paper umbrella was totally unnecessary, but rather a nice touch. As I'd never encountered such a concoction, I asked him to pass my compliments along to the bartender, whom I assumed had invented it. He corrected me (luckily for him in a deferential manner), saying that it had been introduced at a local club by someone named Scribe.

Peculiar name. But then there have been some unwise enough to say the same about my own. The second indication was when I noticed that several of the secretaries and receptionists in my holdings had within days of each other received similar haircuts. Suddenly I was surrounded by women with very short, very curly hair. This entailed getting permanents for some of them. One of them, who had been rather a nice honey blonde had also dyed her hair dark brown, with red highlights. It was aesthetically pleasing, but I couldn't fathom the reason behind it. Then I overheard two of them discussing their new 'Scribe 'dos."

There was that odd name again.

When I passed someone on the street who was wearing something other than a uniform that had writing on it, I paused to look. 'Scribe's Tribe'.

It was becoming clear that something was going on, and that my information gathering forces were falling down on the job. I knew it for a fact when I spotted the weeks old magazine that had been left for supplicants foolish enough to show up without an appointment.

What caught my eye first was the haircut, obviously what my employees had been discussing. But somehow it looked different on this woman. It looked... right. I picked up the issue, took it to my private office, and had one of the peons call the idiot in charge of my media monitoring.

When he arrived, the magazine was placed squarely in the center of my otherwise bare desk. I tapped it with one finger, and raised my eyebrows in silent inquiry. He looked at it, and proved my assessment of his intelligence, or lack thereof, by misinterpreting my meaning. "I'll have the new issue up right away. It just hit the stands about six hours ago..."

"Is there an article," I tapped the magazine again, "on this woman in it?"

"Yes, I believe there's always something about her in it these days."

I picked up the magazine and examined the cover again. "If I'm not mistaken, this is a well known, widely distributed publication."

"Yes, multinational."

"Circulation in the millions?"

"Uh... I don't have the figures at my fingertips, but several million, yes."

"Then would it be safe to assume that they are not alone in their interest in this particular individual?"

He was starting to sweat, beginning to realize what I meant. I am told that I am at my most intimidating when I am calm. I was very calm at that point. "No. There's been a great deal of interest. She's been featured in... I suppose hundreds of articles."

"I see." I looked at the cover photo again. "And this was not brought to my attention because...?"

He's fidgeting now. "Well, sir, she's nothing but a sort of pop culture freak, as far as I can tell. The only thing really unique about her is the fact that she managed to accidentally shift from one dimension to the other, and..."

"Excuse me. I thought you just said that she was from another dimension."

His smile is almost sick. "Yeah, but she has no knowledge that could benefit you or your enterprises, sir. We have kept tabs on her, and she has no industrial, medical, scientific, economic, or financial knowledge that could be in any way superior to..."

"Then why exactly is the woman famous? To everyone but me, it seems. What does she do?" He waved his hands helplessly. "She... she... she just... Well, she sings."

"I do occasionally listen to the radio. I don't recall hearing any of her works."

"Not professionally. She sings armature at a bar. The one where that photo was taken."

"Ah. And?"

"She's introduced a lot of new alcoholic drinks, usually with... um... off color names. And she cut her hair."

I tapped a finger on the desk. "Sings. In a bar. Invents cocktails. Cut her hair. Yes, these things would seem to deserve fame."

At least he catches my sarcasm. He flushes. "It's hard to explain. She's... she's just... more."

"More what?"

"More everything, pretty much. It's hard to explain."

"Would studying all material related to her help one to understand?"

"Oh, absolutely. If you read all the articles..." He trailed off, and the blood drained out of his face as he realized that he was the reason I hadn't read the articles.

I picked up the magazine again. "You may go now. Stop at accounting for your final check. Security will see you out." He knew better than to argue, and went to the door. "And send in my secretary."

He left, and a moment later my secretary entered, notebook in hand. Ready to take orders, admirably efficient. Pity that the 'Scribe do' didn't flatter her in the least. "He is no longer employed. Put out the word that it would displease me greatly if he found employment anywhere in the forty-eight contiguous states. Also fire then entire media monitoring staff and replace them. I need all available, and I mean all, on this woman." I showed her the photo.

She wrote, but her eyebrows were climbing. "Do you have a comment?"

"Not really, sir. It's just... Well, you're the only person I know who doesn't know about her."

"That is what I am trying to remedy. Go on about your work."

She left, and I settled back in my chair more comfortably. I studied the picture carefully. It looked almost like a candid photo. The more I looked, the more convinced I was that it had not been staged.

"Wild Child". Well... My eyes lingered on the gentle swell that rose above the two undone buttons of the flannel shirt. Not physically, no. But there was, indeed, something childlike in the total unconscious abandon of the pose, the sparkle in the eyes.

The masculine attire was at odds with the femininity of the face and body. It was an peculiarly... stimulating effect. "EXOTIQUE. Yes, I suppose so." With one fingertip I traced the curve of the smiling lips, then down to where the shadow of cleavage ended. Then I opened the magazine and began to read.